by Andy Wiseman
The Boss assured him it would be okay. He asked the young man to walk with him.
They walked along quiet, antiseptic corridors, the long elegant fingers of the older man gently touching the elbow of the younger. Guiding him.
Outside the door to a private room, the young man hesitated, prepared to stand watch outside, until the Boss’s grip tightened, leaving no doubt.
In the bed lay a frail and wizened old woman, made more diminutive by the large hospital bed. A woman who was awake, yet the tired eyes that stared up at the ceiling seemed unaware of all around her.
A nurse sat by her bedside, keeping vigil.
A long hushed conversation between the Boss and the nurse followed. It did not appear favourable.
The young man stood to the rear of the room, and looked on.
The Boss turned to the woman in the bed. To his mother. He inquired after her health. She stared at the ceiling. He took her hand in his. She blinked, her head turned, a trickle of saliva ran from the corner of her mouth. Her son took a paper tissue and dabbed it away.
The Head of Security adjusted his tie, then his shirt cuffs. Nervous. Wanted to protest. Didn’t think he should be there. Didn’t feel comfortable. Again, wondered at the favouritism shown to him.
His employer called him over, introducing him to his mother as the young man he’d told her about, drawing a curious glance from the young man. The Head of Security shook woman’s bony hand, uncomfortable at being in a personal family situation.
Suddenly, the old woman seemed very much awake, and very much aware. Her grip was strong. Recognition gleamed in her eyes, wild and intense. The Head of Security stepped back, alarmed.
The Boss smiled, knowingly, before turning to soothe the old woman, and straighten her bed sheets.
The young man quietly stepped from the room. Breathing hard, he loosened his tie, wiped his sheen covered forehead with the back of his hand.
The Boss rested a hand on his employee’s shoulder, as he led him back through the long, yet empty corridors, and to the main entrance. He told the young man how his mother was not the woman she once was, but she seemed to like him, trusted him. He told the young man how you should be able to trust in family... despite what may have happened in the past. He emphasised the importance of family. How their set-up, the gang, were family.
The young man reflected on how the Boss had become a father figure. A man who had helped him, given him the break he needed. He didn’t mind. He felt good about it. He felt secure, finally happy, at ease with the matriarch and patriarch figures in his life.
They reached the main entrance to then step outside. The Head of Security was relieved to be outdoors. He offered the Boss a cigarette. The two men quietly smoked, alone with their own thoughts, until the Boss spoke. He asked his young Enforcer to do an important job for him, one which was vital to his future, his freedom. Therein the young man’s future.
A court case was pending, where the Boss was to be tried for a number of crimes. An informant in the police force had told him the whole case rested on the testimony of a key witness. A man who had turned Queen’s evidence. A man who had once been an employee, and a member of the gang. A Man who had been nicked, banged-to-rights, for the brutal murder of a male prostitute, but had then made a deal. Turned on his own kind, to save his own skin. Turned grass. Become the lowest of the low. A Snitch.
The young man watched his Boss getting angry. He’d never seen the Boss angry before. The Boss said the man had no honour! Had been disloyal! Had betrayed a trust! He said trust was hard to come by. People to trust were few. He looked at the young man, to then say he’d made mistakes in the past about trust.
The Boss made it clear the problem had to be dealt with. Had to go away. Didn’t matter how, just gone.
The young man, feeling loyalty, didn’t want to say no.
The Boss laid on the guilt, so the young man couldn’t say no.
The Boss passed his young Enforcer, an automatic handgun, telling him he might need it, and that he shouldn’t take the Snitch’s unusual sexual peccadilloes as a weakness.
The young man looked at the gun, unsure. Said he could take care of himself. The Boss did not doubt it, but the Snitch - who’d also been the young man’s predecessor - was not a man to play by the rules. The gun was for back up only.
Talking of which...
CHAPTER 10
Bang! bang! bang!
There was a pause, then the pounding noise continued.
Bang! bang! bang!
It pounded incessantly into Izzy’s brain, refusing to stop. She couldn’t work out where it was coming from; and everything was black, she couldn’t see anything.
She blinked rapidly. Nothing changed. She was blind!
She also felt uncomfortably hot, and was finding it difficult to breathe, as she became aware of a weight bearing down on her, leaving her feeling trapped; entombed.
The banging noise persisted. She started to panic. She threw up her arms in desperation, feeling the weight upon her, shift. A searing bright light hit her full in the face, forcing her to throw her hands up protectively. She gulped in fresh air as the banging noise suddenly doubled in volume.
As her eyes adjusted, she found herself looking through metal bars, at a familiar sight of tree tops and blue sky. For a few seconds her brain struggled to make the connection, while the banging noise continued to hammer away to such intensity, she thought she would scream.
Managing to wriggle out from under the overbearing weight of her duvet, she then shot out an arm to the bedside cabinet, to grab the mobile phone that was on the brink of pushing her into insanity. ‘Hello,’ she said, her voice unsteady.
‘Isobelle?’ came a voice.
Izzy opened her mouth, only for nothing but a rasping sound to come out.
‘Isobelle? Is that you?’ came the voice again, even louder.
She instinctively jerked her head away from the phone, but in doing so, caused a pain to shoot through her skull. She groaned aloud.
‘Isobelle!’ shouted her editor.
‘Stop shouting,’ said Izzy.
‘Shouting? What are you talking about?’ he replied. ‘How are you getting on with the church story?’
‘Church story?’ said Izzy, trying to massage some life back into her face.
‘Saint Aidens,’ replied her editor. ‘The one mentioned in the Doomsday book. The one you’re supposed to be writing a story about, for Christ’s sake! The one I want on my desk in time to go-to-press.’
Izzy groaned.
‘Please tell me you’ve made a start on it?’ screamed her editor. At least it seemed like screaming to Izzy. Then again, the drop of a pin would probably sound like a nuclear warhead going off. She came to the conclusion she had a hangover, but couldn’t recall how or where it came about.
‘Can’t Jerry do the story?’ she asked.
‘No. He’s covering the ‘drugs in schools’ story. You still need more experience in general reporting. You need to learn your trade, cut your teeth, before you cover the bigger stories. That’s how it was done in my day, and while I’m still the editor here, that’s how it will always be done.’ He then proceeded to tell Izzy, at length, how it had been done in the old days, stories she was already familiar with, almost word-for-word.
She laid the phone down, rested her forehead in the crook of her arm, and groaned yet again. God, she felt rough. She could feel a headache building, and worse yet, she was feeling queasy.
She breathed slowly and deeply, trying to quell the urge to throw-up. She needed a distraction from the thought of projectile vomiting across the room and over her new and recently laid bedroom carpet.
She picked up the phone. ‘Ed,’ she said, cutting him off in mid-flow.
‘What?’
‘I’m on it, okay. I’m meeting the vicar and his wife, later,’ she lied.
‘Oh, right,’ replied her editor, the wind taken out of his sails. ‘Well, remember you’ll be representing this p
aper, so be polite. And mind your Ps & Qs, no swearing,’ he added.
‘Don’t worry, Ed. I will justify the money my father spent on my privileged education, and your well placed faith in me as a cutting-edge reporter,’ she replied.
‘Are you being sarcastic?’ he asked.
‘Moi? Me? No, perish the thought.’
‘You sound funny. Odd,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’
Izzy caught sight of herself in the tall dressing mirror in the corner of the room, and what she saw was a shock of wild blonde hair and a pasty face peering out from under a duvet tent. Not a pretty sight.
‘Where are you? And what exactly are you doing?’
‘I’m undercover,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got a lead.’
When he started to ask more questions, Izzy cut him short, saying she’d just spotted someone and she had to go, disconnecting before he could reply.
A short while later found her sitting at her small kitchen table with a cup of fresh steaming coffee in her hands, gazing out of the second-floor window at her neighbours’ gardens below.It was a bright autumnal day. There were a few leaves left on the trees, but the majority were on the ground. She marvelled at the variety of rich colours. It looked like it had rained earlier. It was now almost midday.
As she sipped her coffee, she wondered what she’d done the previous evening. Had she gone out? Had she met anyone? Along with an empty bottle of white wine here on the kitchen table, there was also an empty bottle of red. Had she drunk both of them herself? She usually preferred white over red, but would drink it if there was nothing else. She couldn’t remember having had any red in the flat.
She checked the diary in her BlackBerry for last night. It said she was meeting Jonathan straight after work. Had she met him? She couldn’t remember doing so. Had Jonathan come round to her flat? She didn’t know. The flat door was locked, bolted and the chain was on, so if anyone had visited, she must have locked up afterwards.
Feeling restless, she wandered around the flat, eating dried toast. As she entered the lounge, she stopped dead in her tracks. What was that smell?
It was the smell of food. The smell of stale food. And not just any food. Meat!
On her coffee table was an open Styrofoam carton, the type you get from a fast-food take-away place, and in it was what looked like half an eaten kebab. With her hand over her mouth, she leaned in for a closer look. It was a Donner kebab. Fat laden minced lamb... with chilli sauce... and garlic sauce... and chopped gherkin... gross!
‘Oh, God,’ she said, aloud, ‘I think I’m going to throw-up.’
Izzy had been a vegetarian most of her adult life, and found the thought of eating meat - particularly red meat - repulsive. How in God’s name can anyone eat cooked flesh?
She backed away from the kebab. Who had been here? Who had left half a stinking kebab in her lounge? Had Jonathan come over, after all? Had she simply forgotten he’d been there? Maybe she was just trying to convince herself he had been there, because the alternative was too gross to contemplate: she had eaten the kebab. She had got drunk, and then gone out and bought a kebab. A Donner kebab at that. With both chilli and garlic sauce!
She instinctively started to run her tongue around her teeth, searching for particles of meat as evidence of her lapse, and then smacking her lips for any residual taste of kebab. She was wondering if the procedure to analyse stomach content was complex and lengthy, when her probing tongue found something between her molars. Alarm bells started to go off. The logical part of her brain told her it was probably a piece of toast. The emotional part of her brain told her it was a piece of rotting flesh. It was then, Izzy realised with horror, that if she did want to have the contents of her stomach analyzed, it wasn’t likely to be as lengthy or as complex as she’d first thought, because it was heading back up her gullet at a fast rate of knots.
Her eyes desperately searched the room.
A large ornate floor vase - which held artistically arranged dried grasses and twigs, only seconds before - had now become an emergency receptacle for what turned out to be coffee and undigested toast. No kebab.
In the bathroom, she vigorously brushed her teeth, to remove all and any trace of foodstuff - fresh or regurgitated. While doing so, she viewed herself in the mirror, taking in the bloodshot eyes, the smudged makeup, and a hairstyle probably last seen in a low-budget zombie horror movie. She pondered on how low she’d fallen.
Turning the shower on to a high temperature, she then stripped off and stepped in, under the powerful jet of hot water, gasping at the heat and force as it beat against her fragile body. She endured it for a few masochistic minutes, before reducing the temperature and reaching for the shampoo. As she showered, she desperately tried to recollect the events of the previous evening. She didn’t like not knowing, not being in control. It made her feel vulnerable.
She was having maddeningly fleeting images which seemed to hover between her conscious and subconscious mind, just out of reach. Were they were actual memories or dreams? She couldn’t be sure. But slave traders seemed to have some relevance... or was it bondage? Yes, that was it, it was bondage! She’d had a dream about a tall dark stranger - and whose face she couldn’t quite make out - who’d stripped her naked, tied her up, and, despite her begging and pleading with him not to, was about to ravish and roughly take her against her will, when... what? What had happened next? Damn, her mind had gone blank. Who was the tall dark stranger? She tried to search out the scrap of memory so badly, it increased her headache, overriding the painkillers she’d taken earlier.
Then, all of a sudden, the elusive scrap broke free from her subconscious to her conscious. The face of the man - who’d been about to defile her, to do unspeakable things to her, things she couldn’t comprehend, didn’t want to comprehend - loomed towards her in a maddening rush, his identity about to be revealed. It was... it was... Oh-me-God... Harry! It was Harry and he was about to take her against her will!
Before she had chance to come to terms with that thought, another scrap of memory was released. ‘OH-ME-GOD!’ she said, yet again.
Harry had been here last night.
Here, in her flat.
Was it Harry who’d eaten the kebab?
A new thought occurred to her. What if she hadn’t been dreaming, and that she had had sex; and with Harry? She might have done, she thought. Could have done, considering the amount of wine she appeared to have drunk - though she couldn’t recall seeing any rope lying around the flat. She then found herself idly wondering that if they had had sex, had it been any good? Had she been any good?
Izzy’s vivid imagination was beginning to run away with her, until - realising she was soaping her breasts in a caressing manner - she turned the water temperature to icy cold, dampening her sexual urges, and gasping at the sudden change in temperature.
CHAPTER 11
Harry exited Mollie’s building to the cacophony that was London traffic: car horns blaring, engines revving, brakes squealing. The sky was blue and the sun was shining brightly. Other than a few small puddles and a damp patch between his shoulder blades, the recent rain shower was a distant memory. Harry was heading for the nearest Tube station. On the way, he took in the various local cultures, represented by the wonderful smells coming from the variety of cafes and restaurants, the shops and the wares they sold, and the street vendors. This is what he loved about Old London Town: its diversity.
Along the way, he would periodically go into a shop, show Mollie’s photograph, and ask if she’d been seen recently. Most didn’t recognise Mollie. A few said she looked familiar, but couldn’t be sure. Some simply weren’t interested. London was a big city full of strangers.
Harry reached the Tube station without finding anyone who’d recognised Mollie, and could say for certain they’d seen her recently. Next door to the station was an open-all-hours convenience store. He watched a flood of people exit the Tube station from a recently arrived train, and then head-off in all directions for their indi
vidual destinations, with a large number of them going into the convenience store. Harry followed. It was obviously a popular stop-off store for people using the station; particularly the homeward-bound rush-hour commuters, who didn’t have the time or energy to go out of their way to any of the big supermarkets. He figured this was probably a store that Mollie might have used while travelling to and from her flat, maybe for cigarettes.
An elderly Asian couple - probably husband and wife - operated the two cash registers with ease, used to the wave-after-wave of demanding commuters. Harry waited for a lull at the counter, before approaching and showing them Mollie’s photo. The couple viewed Harry with suspicion, asking him if he was the police, and was the girl in trouble. He’d already been asked this question previously, and at first, hadn’t replied in a manner that had put the questioner at ease. Harry had never been much of a talker; he was the original Mr Monosyllabic - and because of that, it’d made them wary of answering. But, by this point, he had an answer on the tip of his tongue, should he need it. He told the Asian couple a part truth, that Mollie had had a slight disagreement with her parents, hadn’t contacted them recently, and they were worried. This seemed to placate the couple. They studied the photograph and debated in their native tongue. They didn’t seem sure. He then asked them if the girl had ever bought cigarettes. This seemed to prompt a memory. The man confirmed Mollie had bought Marlboro. He emphasized this by taking a packet from the shelf behind him, and waving it in the air. Then, still grinning, he plucked a king size packet of cigarette papers from the shelf, and waved that too, giving Harry a knowing wink of the eye. Unfortunately, that was all they were able to tell him. They hadn’t seen Mollie for a week or more, and had no idea of her whereabouts.
Harry’s next stop was to be the art college Mollie attended. Question was, how to get there? If he took the Tube, it was only a few stops, and straight through. If he took the bus, he would have to change. After a moment’s hesitation, he headed towards the Tube entrance, telling himself it would be quicker, and that everything would be all right.
