Savage Games

by Peter Boland

  “We’ll see what happens, eh?” said Tannaz. “Right now I’d be praying that I get in, otherwise you’ll lose your thumbs.”

  Ten minutes later Tannaz punched the air repeatedly. “I’m in!”

  “What!” Wellington struggled against his bindings, unable to contain himself. “That’s impossible. Impossible. The encryption is like nothing you’ve seen before. I made sure of it. No one can get into it without my authorisation! No one!”

  “Well, I’m in your phone and, oh, guess what? I’m on your little network now. This is where the fun starts. All your secret millionaire gamblers across the world are going to be treated to one hell of a show.”

  “What are you doing? Tell me!” Wellington’s rage swept over him like a dose of fever. He managed a wriggling sort of shuffle, attempting to get over to the opposite side of the van where Tannaz had his phone. She planted a boot on his chest and shoved him back, winding him against the side of the van.

  “Do that again and I’ll pull all your fingernails out,” Tannaz said with such ferocity it even made Savage wince.

  Wellington remained silent for the rest of the journey. A simmering, brooding anger bubbling under the surface. As they reached the outskirts of Southampton, Tannaz replaced the gag around his mouth.

  Ten minutes later, Savage pulled on the handbrake and killed the engine. “Well, here we are, your final destination. We were going to take you to Dead Maids but we thought it would be more poetic to come full circle, back to where it all began. That humble little B&B in Shirley, which you later used to torture and murder people just so you could gamble.”

  Thrashing around in the back, Wellington’s muffled moans filled the van. Savage pulled out the gun and pointed it at him. “Don’t make me use this. Now shut up.”

  Wellington quieted down at the sight of the Baikal with its Frankenstein silencer.

  The road outside was dark, deserted and cold, everyone at home hunkered down in front of the TV or online. Savage backed the van up onto the paved front garden, only feet from the front door, then snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves. Tannaz did the same. No one saw the briefest glimpse of a man in a suit dragged out of the back of the van and shoved into the house. Savage had been there earlier and unlocked the security shutter, leaving it open to allow them quick access.

  Closing the door behind them, Savage held Wellington by the scruff of his jacket and guided him to the secret door under the stairs. He stumbled his way down into the basement where Savage hauled him into the little cement room with its strong metal door.

  When he saw what waited for him there, Wellington trembled, tried breaking free of Savage’s grip. Savage was too strong for him.

  In the middle of the little room, bolted to the concrete floor, was a plain metal cage, measuring one and a half metres cubed.

  “Sorry it’s not as fancy as the one you had here before,” said Savage. “This is just a bog-standard one we got off the Internet, but it’ll do.”

  Wellington’s gagged mouth chomped up and down, eager speak. Savage removed it.

  “What is this?” he demanded. “What are you going to do? Do you know who I am? You’ll be dead within a week. My men will find you and execute you. They’ve seen your faces, know who you are, you stupid amateurs.”

  “Yeah, they probably would. Except Tannaz has been in your payroll software and I’m afraid there’s been a glitch.”

  “What have you done?”

  Tannaz bent down and opened the cage door. “Let’s just say, they won’t be getting their wages this week, or the next, or the week after that. Actually, I think all the money allocated for your wages bill for the next few months, which is quite a hefty one—you must employ a lot of assholes—has wound up in the accounts of several homeless charities. So generous of you, Mr Wellington.”

  “See, even the most committed, loyal men lose interest when you don’t pay them,” Savage added.

  Wellington’s shoulders dropped in defeat, all fight had gone out of him. “Okay,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “Want?” asked Savage. “What I want, you can’t give us. I want my friend Dave back.”

  “I told you, I didn’t kill him. He committed suicide of his own free will.”

  “And what about Dave’s son, Luke?” Tannaz held Wellington by the lapels of his finely tailored suit and pushed him against the wall. “You killed him, then you killed Sylvia Sanchez just so you could kick-start your stupid betting game at Dead Maids. Not to mention killing Jenny Hopkins and your own daughter. And the hundreds of others you’ve murdered for sport.”

  Wellington’s back slid down the wall until he slumped to the floor. He looked a sorry mess of a man. Defeated and remorseful, Savage assumed he was about to admit his guilt and apologise for what he’d done. For all the lives he’d ruined. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “I’m never going to see my wonderful game come to life, am I?” he said forlornly. “That was going to be my Sistine Chapel. Create a mecca for suicide, a betting game like no other. It was an ambitious idea. Inspired and unique. Without equal. And you’ve ruined it!”

  Tannaz swore and kicked him in the ribs. “You’re encouraging people to hang themselves so you can bet on them, and that’s what you’re worried about?”

  Wellington smiled sadistically. “Well, the game may not continue but my legacy will. People will keep killing themselves there because of what I did, what I created.”

  Tannaz went to kick him again. Savage held her back.

  “Come on, Tannaz,” he said. “We’ve got our own game to play, remember.”

  Tannaz’s anger simmered down.

  Together they heaved Wellington across the floor and into the cage, while he thrashed and struggled to break free. Before shoving him in, they cut his zip-tied hands and feet. After he was safely inside, Savage shut the door and secured it with a hefty padlock.

  “So that’s it,” said Wellington. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

  “Oh, no,” said Tannaz. “We wouldn’t do that. We’re not monsters. This is where our little game begins.” Having made certain their gloves could be used on a touch screen, Tannaz held up Wellington’s phone, and began filming him as he squatted in the metal cage. “Okay, fellow online gamblers. We have a very special bet for you today, involving our very own Simon Wellington.”

  “Help me!” shouted Wellington, rattling the bars of the cage. “I’ve been kidnapped. Help!”

  “That’s right,” said Tannaz. “Simon Wellington, the creator of your little betting ring has been kidnapped and is being held in the basement of twenty-seven Sutton Road, Shirley, Southampton. I’m posting the GPS co-ordinates right now.”

  Wellington’s mouth hinged open in shock as he tried to figure out what was going on. The idea of a kidnapping where the kidnappers gave away the location of the victim clearly had him baffled.

  Tannaz continued filming him. “So today we’re betting on whether anyone will come to Simon Wellington’s rescue. Just bet either yes or no. It’s that simple. If one of you comes to free him, then ‘yes’ wins, if no one comes then ‘no’ wins. You have three days, that’s usually how long a human being can last without water. Happy betting.” She clicked off the video. “Right, I’ll just upload that onto your network. Okay, that’s up there now.”

  Wellington cackled loudly. “What kind of dumb kidnappers are you? You’ve just given away my location. People will be here within the hour to free me. Honestly, you people. You’ve just signed your own death warrant. I’ll get out of here and then I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

  Savage squatted down next to the cage, his face level with Wellington’s. “See, here’s the thing. Are the guys on your network thinking, ‘Oh no, Wellington’s being held prisoner, I better send someone over there right away to rescue him.’ Or are they thinking, ‘Oh no, someone’s busted
into our highly secret and illegal betting network, where we murder and starve people for fun. I better delete everything so I can deny all knowledge of Simon Wellington.’ Which do you think is more likely?”

  “Someone will come for me,” Wellington said, gripping the bars. “Then you’ll be sorry.”

  Savage straightened up and stood beside Tannaz.

  “Don’t worry, Simon…” said Tannaz.

  “… It’s just good old-fashioned betting,” Savage added.

  They turned and headed towards the large metal door to the sound of Wellington shaking the cage bars and spouting all sorts of profanity. Just before Savage closed the door behind him, he turned to Wellington and said, “I’ll leave you with one of my favourite sayings about life—when one door closes… so do all the others.” Shutting the large metal door behind him, Savage secured it with another substantial padlock. They could still hear Wellington’s muffled protestations, threatening them one second, promising to give them everything the next. At the foot of the narrow stairs, Savage closed the second door, the one that was heavily soundproofed, completely drowning Wellington out.

  They made their way up the stairs, replacing the false wooden wall and screwing it back into place. Outside of the old abandoned B&B, Savage locked up the front door then closed and locked the security shutters. He joined Tannaz in the cab of the big white van, started the engine and backed out.

  “Did you actually manage to break the encryption on Wellington’s phone?” he asked.

  “No, no way,” Tannaz replied. “Like he said, the encryption was unbreakable. And if I’d tried it would’ve deleted everything. He was right about that, no one could have hacked it.”

  “So with our little pantomime back there he still thinks there’s a chance someone’s coming for him.”

  “Yep. It’ll give him false hope. Then he’ll start having doubts. He’ll think maybe no one’s coming. That they’ve all abandoned him to save their own skins. That will turn to bitterness. Eat him alive. All these scenarios playing out in his head will send him into a rage. With all that whisky he drinks, he’ll probably have a heart attack before he dies of dehydration.”

  Savage threaded the van through the streets of Shirley, not saying anything.

  “You’ve gone quiet, Savage. What’s up?” Tannaz asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Tannaz shifted in her seat. “I hope you’re not regretting what we just did, because that asshole deserved it.”

  “Yeah, I know, but…”

  “But nothing. We had no choice. No evidence to go to the police. And if we did, it could be years before it went to trial. More time for him to exploit and kill more innocent people. He’d probably get off anyway. Those kind of people always do.”

  Savage sucked in air through his teeth. “Yes, but leaving him in a cage to die. Isn’t that sinking to his level?” Savage wasn’t really worried about Wellington. He was more worried about himself. Was he becoming like Wellington? A sadistic killer? Especially as this wasn’t the first person Savage had locked up and left for dead. He cast his mind back to Minchie, the south London thug he’d sealed into an empty warehouse. Was Savage acquiring a taste for making bad guys suffer? “We could’ve just put a bullet in Wellington’s head. Ended it quick.”

  “Not good enough. Not by a long shot. Think of all the misery that guy has caused. A quick death is not justice. Makes a mockery of all the people he’s tortured and murdered. He needs to experience some of the suffering he’s created. Get a taste of his own medicine before his sordid little life ends. It’s not about being sadistic. It’s about making the punishment fit, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “Damn right I am,” said Tannaz. “I don’t want to hear any more about it. We’ve just done society a favour. I think what we did was far too good for him. So don’t start getting all touchy-feely on me.”

  Savage envied her surety and conviction. Things weren’t so simple for Savage. He carried a lot more mental baggage, acquired from a lifetime of killing. The conflict in his mind would only grow, not helped by Jeff Perkins who would remind him of his actions next time he had another PTSD episode. Jeff was bound to attack Savage’s warped moral compass, calling him a stinking hypocrite and a merciless vigilante. No better than the scumbags he hunted down.

  Savage pointed the van in the direction of the motorway, and prepared for the long drive back home.

  Chapter 53

  A reticent sun failed to make an appearance. Though the temperature had risen and the evenings were stretching out into summer, sunshine was still in short supply.

  Tannaz and Savage pulled up outside Tivoli Gardens. A Tivoli Gardens that bore no resemblance to the one Savage had stayed in several months ago. Gone were the dilapidated windows that didn’t shut properly. They had been replaced by smart, energy-efficient plastic ones. The roof, once covered in shoddy tiles like badly shuffled playing cards, proudly showed off its new, smart slate covering.

  “Wow,” said Savage stepping out of his little VW van. “That’s an improvement.”

  “Almost looks habitable,” Tannaz added.

  Last time they were here, the front of the house had been a barren wasteland of discarded bicycles, a rotten sofa, dirt and dirty needles. Now it was a vast expanse of elegant block paving.

  The front door swung open before they even reached it. That too was new.

  Slimmer and with trimmed hair and clean shaven, stood the friendly figure of Dink, sporting a bright, wide smile.

  He rushed out and clamped Savage in his two massive arms. Then he did the same to Tannaz.

  When Savage had regained his breath, he said, “Dink, it’s so good to see you.”

  “You look good,” said Tannaz.

  “I feel good,” he said. “I have a job now.”

  “That’s great. What are you doing?” asked Savage.

  “I’m a kitchen assistant. You know, it’s mostly cleaning but sometimes I get to make simple stuff, prepare food. I want to be a chef. The restaurant said they’d help me train, as an apprentice.”

  “I’m really pleased for you.”

  “Come in, come in,” Dink beckoned them eagerly.

  Inside it was the same story as outside. The urine stained hall carpet had been replaced by wood-effect laminate flooring, and the walls had been given a lick of paint.

  They followed Dink down into the basement kitchen, the smell of something wonderful wafting up the stairs.

  The kitchen was still a bit of a mess, an unavoidable fact of life in a shared house. Savage noticed a new, large fridge and the cooker had been replaced; still basic, budget white goods, nothing fancy, but a definite improvement on what was there before. And there was now a line of four stools and a high counter to sit at. A bubbling pot sat on one of the cooker’s rings, throwing whorls of steam into the air.

  “Take a seat,” said Dink.

  “Is that fresh bread I can smell?” asked Tannaz.

  “Yeah,” said Dink. “We’re having soup with it. I made the bread myself.”

  Dink put on a pair of oven gloves, opened the oven and slid out a steaming loaf. The aroma was heavenly. Lifting the pan off the stove with both hands, he then ladled the soup into three bowls. “It’s a Jamie Oliver recipe. Roast carrot and fennel.” He tore off a hunk of fresh bread and placed it beside each bowl with a spoon, then sat and joined them.

  Savage and Tannaz lifted a spoon of soup, blew on it and took a sip.

  Tannaz swore.

  Dink panicked. “What’s wrong? Is something wrong?”

  She shook her head rapidly. “This is by far the best thing I have tasted all year.”

  “Really?” Dink shook with delight.

  “Dink,” said Savage. “This is the kind of quality you’d get in a Michelin restaurant.”

  “Is
that one of those restaurants you get on the motorway?”

  Savage smiled warmly. “No, nothing like that at all.”

  “Michelin restaurants are the best,” said Tannaz, dunking her bread. “And where you’re going to end up working, if you keep making food this good.”

  Dink couldn’t contain his happiness, making him restless and fidgety. “Ever since you showed me how to make soup I’ve been obsessed with cooking. I make everything myself now, from scratch. I get a thrill out of it. I mean, I still eat crisps and chocolate…”

  “Who doesn’t?” said Tannaz.

  “My appetite is better now. Not so hungry all the time.”

  “That’s great news,” said Savage.

  “Have you heard anything of Archie?” Dink suddenly asked.

  “No, nothing,” Savage replied.

  “Strange. He disappeared after you moved out. All his stuff was left in his room. Nobody knows what happened to him.”

  “That’s weird,” said Savage and then quickly changed the subject. “I was going to say, this place is looking loads better.”

  “Yeah, totally changed when Ben Wellington took over. You know, after his father died.”

  Tannaz and Savage exchanged glances. The story had been all over the papers of how millionaire gangster landlord Simon Wellington had been found dead in a secret basement in one of his properties, locked in a cage. The press and social media went wild with sensational theories from a bizarre sex act that had gone wrong, to Russian gangsters taking their revenge. Whatever explanation people believed, the whole of Southampton breathed a huge collective sigh of relief. As a result of his death, the vast Wellington empire went straight into the hands of his son Ben, who’d taken a decidedly more human approach.

  Dink continued, “Ben put in new windows, new carpets, new roof. Ben’s been fixing things everywhere, not just here. And he’s looking into that stuff with my mum’s house, you know, how I signed it over to his father, he thinks he might be able to reverse it.”

  “That’s great to hear,” said Savage. “Sounds like Ben Wellington is a decent sort of guy.”