Harry's Justice

by Andy Wiseman

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Izzy, holding out her empty glass and grinning.’

  Steve topped up her glass, ensured it was on its coaster, and then continued. ‘I then sprinkle on freshly chopped mint and parsley, season, and then bake in the oven. I usually serve it with either rice, couscous, or maybe orzo pasta, along with a green leaf salad of some kind.’

  ‘Wow, that is amazing!’ said Izzy. ‘Handsome and talented. Would you marry me?’

  Steve’s head snapped up, to look at Izzy in what she could only describe as shock-horror. ‘Joking!’ she said, quickly.

  ‘Oh... Of course... Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Are you a vegetarian?’ asked Izzy. Steve just nodded. ‘Me too. And I adore red peppers.’

  ‘Well... there’s enough for two...’ said Steve, finally.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I often do enough to have the following night, or to freeze,’ he told her.

  With that, Steve put the food in the oven, cleared away the mess he’d made, produced plates and cutlery in preparation of eating at the island, and then decided this was one of those “occasions”: he was feeling emotionally fragile.

  Steve studied Izzy as he sipped a glass of chilled Chardonnay - Izzy had polished off the Chablis - while she told him about some of her favourite vegetarian restaurants. He wondered at the reason behind her surprise visit. She had been the last person he had expected to see when he’d opened his front door - hence his momentary confusion at not recognising her - until he then remembered he hadn’t returned her telephone calls. He also recalled, from previous conversations, that she was headstrong and impetuous, so he assumed her visit to his home was exactly that. She would no doubt, he thought, eventually work her way around to the reason she was there.

  After twenty five minutes, Izzy had moved onto the morality of slaughtering animals for their meat - a topic on which she held firm views - and Steve was on his second glass of wine - a rarity for him. It was only when Izzy mentioned a story she had recently written, that Steve took the opportunity to politely, but firmly, interject, and ask her what story she was presently working on.

  ‘It’s a historical piece. Have you heard of St Aidan’s Church, in Camden?’ she asked him. ‘I know it sounds boring, but it’s not, honestly. It’s a little stone church nestled just off the High Street. Most people wouldn’t even know it was there, but it’s rich in history, and it’s really, really old. It’s even mentioned in the Doomsday book.’

  ‘Is the gentleman who was admitted to Willesden’s A&E last night linked to the piece?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘This morning, at the hospital. You were enquiring after a man called Wayne Salter, also known as Cutter. I was just wondering if he was linked to your church story?’

  ‘Err...’

  CHAPTER 35

  The steel lid to Harry’s prison was unlocked and then thrown open. Harry lay bound and motionless within. A booted foot slammed into the side of the box, creating a deafening boom of reverberating metal, while slightly shifting it on its base.

  Harry was still motionless. His panic attack had left his mind and body paralysed and close to unconsciousness. Two pairs of strong hands reached in and dragged him from the box, their owners cursing violently when they realised Harry’s bladder had emptied.

  Harry’s temporary prison was a large lockable tool storage box, designed for use on construction sites. Next to the box were its original contents: an untidy heap of power tools and painting equipment.

  The construction site was the gentlemen’s club’s swimming pool, which was in a building to the rear of the property, and was partway through refurbishment. Around the poolside, scaffolding had been erected to give access for the re-painting of the walls. The swimming pool itself was a twenty five metre pool which had been drained of water. Only one of the powerful ceiling lights was switched on, highlighting a tiled area of the poolside, and leaving the rest of the room in eerie shadow.

  The two young men who had pulled Harry from the box - though they had the build and the physique - were not construction workers. Both were shaven headed, and dressed casually in jeans, shirts, and black leather jackets; they were almost clones of each other. Their only distinguishing features were that one wore an eye patch, and the other had both his ears pierced with small diamond stud earrings. These young men were hired help of a different kind; they were hard, they were ruthless, and they were Russian.

  Removing the tape from around Harry’s ankles, they then half carried, half dragged him across to where a third man waited under the light. This man was in his sixties, smartly dressed in a suit jacket and trousers, open necked shirt, and highly shined black leather shoes. He stood with feet slightly splayed, shoulders squared. One hand held a cigarette, the other was behind his back: confident, calm and strong. He was also Russian.

  The two young Russians, ‘Eyepatch’ and ‘Earring’, tried to position Harry on his knees in front of the older man, but, due to Harry’s weakened state, he kept slumping to the floor. In his native tongue, the older Russian barked an order. Earring hurried off, to then return with a green plastic garden chair and a length of rope he’d found amongst the building contractor’s equipment.

  They dragged Harry onto the chair, wrapped the rope around him and the chair, before then removing the cloth hood, and roughly ripping the adhesive tape from his face - an action that would normally cause any other person some considerable pain. If the Russians had been hoping for a response from Harry, they were to be disappointed: Harry was oblivious.

  The older Russian stepped forward and stared down at Harry, studying him. He reached out a hand and lifted Harry’s chin. Harry’s vacant eyes stared back at him. From behind his back, the Russian produced a stick-like object, about half a metre in length. He twisted its handle to adjust its setting. It made a faint clicking sound. A ratchet-like sound. He then checked it by holding it mid-air, and pressing a button on the handle, to hear it make a crackling noise, before reaching out to briefly place the tip against Harry’s bare chest.

  Five hundred thousand volts of electricity shot through Harry’s body, making him convulse and writhe.

  The Russian checked his watch and waited patiently, as Harry gasped and groaned his way back to full consciousness. ‘Good of you to join us,’ said the Russian, to Harry, in heavily accented English. ‘Now, tell me. Who are you, and what are you doing sneaking around my club?’

  Harry stared up at the man standing in front of him, then at Eyepatch and Earring either side, before letting his gaze take in his surroundings, trying to take stock of his situation. He brought his gaze back to the older Russian. Harry wasn’t fooled by the calm and placid demeanour; he only had to look into the man’s eyes to see that he was cruel and sadistic.

  ‘Are you a thief?’ asked the Russian. ‘Did you come here to steal from me?’

  Harry didn’t answer.

  The Russian turned to his younger comrades and asked a question in Russian. Eyepatch responded by handing to him Harry’s mobile phone, house keys, a car key, and a handful of cash in notes and coins. The Russian looked enquiringly at Eyepatch, who merely shrugged his massive shoulders. The older man put the cash into his pocket, inspected the car key, and then - muttering something in Russian - tossed it back to the younger man, who turned and left.

  ‘You travel light,’ said the Russian. ‘No identification. Nothing to indicate who you are.’

  Harry stared back.

  ‘How about you tell me your name? It would be easier for all of us. Quicker. Less... messy.’

  Harry stared back.

  Still getting no response, the Russian powered up Harry’s mobile phone, with the intention of searching through his contact numbers list, only to discover it was empty. The Russian shook his head. ‘Either you are a very careful man, or a very unpopular man. No friends?’

  Harry stared back.

  The Russian then scrolled through the phone’s call register, looking at the recent histo
ry of missed, dialled, and received calls. Spotting a regular missed call, he read out the number, which Harry recognised. ‘Who is this person that you do not want to speak to?’ he asked, as he pressed the dial button and placed the phone to his ear.

  Harry’s eyes flicked around, searching for a weapon, a means of escape, anything. He saw the open steel box with the power tools piled next to it. His prison he assumed, with a shudder, until his attention was drawn back to the Russian as he realised the telephone call had been answered. He saw the Russian’s face register mild surprise, before he finally ended the call without having spoken a word. ‘A feisty lady with an expressive vocabulary. Wife? Girlfriend... Harry?’ The Russian smiled. ‘My name is Victor, Harry. Now that we are on first name terms, why don’t you tell me why you are here, huh?’ Victor held Harry’s gaze, waiting.

  Harry stared back. Silent.

  Victor lifted the cigarette to his lips, then drew hard, making the tip glow bright red. He inhaled deeply before tilting his head and blowing a stream of smoke upwards. The eyes of Harry and the remaining younger Russian, Earring - who was now standing behind Harry - automatically lifted to follow the mesmerising stream of swirling blue smoke as it curled up towards the overhead light. As they did so, Victor raised and touched the stick to Harry’s chest. Again, Harry’s body was wracked with convulsions, twisting and jerking, fighting against the ropes that bound him to the chair.

  Earring - whose hand was resting on Harry’s shoulder - yelped in pain as he received a secondary charge. This brought a smile to Victor’s face, as he appreciatively admired the stun-gun. ‘Soviet military surplus. Glasnost was good for business,’ he said, before instructing Earring to find another chair.

  On Earring’s return, Victor placed the chair opposite Harry, to then sit astride it, forearms resting across the backrest, cigarette loosely held in one hand, stun-gun dangling from the other. He studied Harry for a moment, before then dropping his cigarette stub onto the floor and casually grinding it out with the heel of his shoe, only to then take a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and immediately light another. He offered Harry a cigarette. Harry shook his head. ‘Sure?’ asked Victor. ‘It could be your last,’ he then added, with a wry smile. Again, Harry shook his head. The Russian shrugged his shoulders as if to say it was Harry’s loss.

  Victor drew deeply on his cigarette, and then exhaled a plume of smoke. As he did so, both Harry and the younger Russian automatically flinched. ‘My business dealings have made me a very rich man, Harry. I have to protect that business, that wealth. And I do. I protect it with a ruthless efficiency. I take whatever steps are necessary. It’s not like the ‘old days’ anymore,’ he said. ‘Times have changed. So we’ve had to move with the times. We’ve had to adapt.’

  Victor took a moment to study the tip of the cigarette, and to savour its smoke. ‘I do still prefer the old methods, though,’ he said, smiling at Harry.

  Harry stared back. Watching. Waiting.

  Victor then gave Harry an example of how he’d dealt with a recent problem, using the “old methods”. He told Harry how he’d discovered one of his men had been stealing money from him: quite a lot, as it turned out. ‘He was taken to a derelict warehouse that I own... I own quite a lot of property,’ he told Harry, going off on a tangent. ‘My accountant advised me it was a good way to invest my ‘profits’ - and he was right, playing to his strengths. But I digress. My man denied he had stolen from me. He said I was mistaken. I told him I don’t make mistakes,’ said Victor, with a short bark of a laugh. ‘So, he was stripped naked and chained down to the concrete floor, where we left him overnight. When we went back the next morning, we were expecting him to be dead from hypothermia - it was the middle of February - but he was still alive, though in a bad way. Ironically, the cold weather had probably prevented him from bleeding to death - the warehouse was infested with rats and they were hungry, you see. Overnight, they had feasted on the ‘softer’ parts of his body - he certainly wouldn’t be fathering any more children...’ Victor momentarily paused, a faraway look in his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, before he resumed. ‘He told me where my money was. He begged me for forgiveness. And to be taken to a hospital. We left him to the rats, who slowly ate their way through his stomach to feast on his entrails, his screams for mercy echoing off the walls of the warehouse. Nobody heard him. It took him three days to die -’

  Victor’s attention was drawn by the return of the other young Russian, who approached Victor, whispered into his ear, and then held out a black leather bag. Mollie’s bag. Which Harry had left in the glove compartment of Mollie’s car. Victor took the bag, handing over the stun-gun in exchange.

  After a few minutes of examining the bag’s contents, Victor looked up at Harry, his face hard. ‘Where did you get the car that you are driving?’ Harry just glared back, refusing to answer. Victor shook his head in annoyance. ‘Why are you driving Mollie Dolan’s car?’ he asked, his anger evident.

  Harry continued to stare back. Eyes hard. Defiant.

  Enraged by Harry’s lack of cooperation, Victor abruptly stood, knocking over the plastic chair as he did so, to then hurl the leather bag at Harry, which sailed harmlessly over his head.

  Victor looked across to Eyepatch, who was still holding the stun-gun, and gave him a nod of the head. The young Russian touched the stun-gun to Harry’s shoulder, holding it there, grinning as he did so.

  Victor looked on, and waited. Impatiently.

  When Harry had ceased to writhe, Victor got up close, and in Harry’s face. ‘Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?’ he demanded to know.

  Harry’s body was slumped forward, only the rope prevented him from falling. He slowly and agonisingly raised his head, attempting to focus on Victor’s face. Saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to speak. ‘Fuck you!’ he managed to say, before his head slumped forward again, drained with the effort.

  In a rage, Victor kicked out at the upended plastic chair, which bounced off the knees and shins of a barely conscious Harry, before then throwing his arms up in the air in frustration and striding-off, dragging his own mobile phone from his pocket, to then rapidly scroll through his contact numbers, while Eyepatch took the opportunity to give Harry another quick jolt from the stun-gun.

  Harry was a mess. He was a physical and mental wreck. And he knew it. He also knew he was in trouble. Deep trouble. His captors were serious players. Harry was no Boy Scout, that was true, but he’d always believed there were ways and means of doing things: the proper way. But these guys had no fear of the law, and no respect for human life, and that made them truly dangerous.

  Victor could be seen moving in the shadows at the far end of the room, pacing back and forth, animated in his body language as he continued his telephone call. While Harry and the two young Russians were unable to hear what Victor was saying, it was clear he was having an argument, for the duration of which Eyepatch would give the occasional tap to Harry’s shoulder, to send intermittent charges through his body, only stopping when Victor’s brisk footsteps and voice grew louder as he approached.

  ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’ Victor said into his mobile. He walked past Harry, drawing deeply on his cigarette, to then briefly lean-in and study Harry’s naked back, before returning to his mobile phone. ‘Yes, he does,’ he said. A moment passed as he listened, before he again erupted in anger. ‘Fuck!’ In one swift movement, he disconnected the call, and then violently stubbed out his cigarette on Harry’s shoulder blade. ‘Put him back in the box,’ he ordered the young Russians.

  Harry vainly struggled against his captors, wishing himself an early death rather than face going into the box again, until Eyepatch ended Harry’s valiant efforts by delivering a charge to the back of his head.

  CHAPTER 36

  Izzy, for once in her young life, was at a loss for words. How did he know I was at the hospital this morning, she asked herself. Anyone would think he was a detective.


  She was saved by the sound of her mobile phone ringing. She hopped off the bar stool, retrieved her shoulder bag from the corner of the room, rummaged around in it frantically, before finally locating the ringing mobile.

  She looked at the screen and saw Harry’s name. Turning to Steve, she said, ‘Can I use your bathroom?’

  ‘It’s upstairs,’ replied Steve. ‘If you need to take the call in private, you can use the lounge, you know.’

  ‘Thank you. But I also need to ‘pay-a-call’,’ she said, rushing past him, heading for the stairs. ‘‘Two birds with one stone,’’ she said over her shoulder.

  Steve shook his head in amazement. Surely she isn’t going to have a telephone conversation while using the toilet, is she? She was probably taking the call upstairs so there was no possibility of him overhearing her conversation, he told himself, as he turned his attention to the food. Reporters!

  With the bathroom door firmly shut, Izzy dumped her bag on the floor, and then pressed the button on her phone. ‘Harry! Where are you?’ she asked, in a hushed tone. ‘Harry? Hello? Are you there, Harry?’ Izzy listened intently. She thought she could hear faint movement in the background. Other than that, only silence. ‘Harry, you shit-head, talk to me!’

  The phone went dead. Silence.

  ‘What...’ said Izzy, removing the phone for her ear to glare at screen. ‘He’s done it again. He’s cut me off,’ she said, immediately calling him back. ‘How bloody rude,’ she added, as it went straight to answerphone. Harry had switched his phone off. ‘HARRY WINDSOR, YOU ARE AN ARSE!’ she shouted down the phone. God, she was so pissed off with Harry - and, not for the first time, did she wonder why he didn’t find her attractive.

  Izzy checked herself in the large bathroom mirror. The lipstick she was wearing was a very feminine pale pink colour. She decided it wasn’t up to the job. ‘Time to go to work, Isobelle,’ she told herself, as she rummaged through her bag for an alternative lipstick. She wiped off the pale pink, and replaced it with a vampish blood-red colour.