by Andy Wiseman
Before rejoining Steve downstairs, she took the opportunity to quickly check the upstairs rooms. She was impressed by what she saw. And it was so clean and tidy. For a fraction of a moment she was having a sense of déjà vu, until she walked into Steve’s en-suite bathroom to be impressed by the amount of beauty products in it. She liked a man who made the effort to look after himself.
Back in the kitchen, Steve was serving up the food. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked Izzy, as she entered.
‘Oh, yes. Fine.’
‘Only, I thought I heard you shouting.’
‘Oh, that. Sorry. It was my editor. We have a love-hate relationship thing,’ she said with a shrug, as she hopped back on to the bar stool.
Steve couldn’t help but stare at Izzy, still unsure, still uncertain. Then he saw her lipstick. Wasn’t it pale pink when she arrived? During Izzy’s absence, he’d been agonising as to whether or not he should have a third glass of wine. He could feel himself getting light headed, and he really shouldn’t be drinking while taking medication.
He topped up Izzy’s glass, and then refilled his own. To hell with it, he thought. And - in testament to his new found recklessness - he didn’t bother to use a coaster!
CHAPTER 37
Harry was back on the plastic chair, and again it was only the ropes that prevented his cold and weakened body from slumping to the floor. The tape had been removed from his mouth, allowing him to breathe-in fresh clean air, the exhaled vapour clear in the overhead light. After dragging him from his prison and tying him to the chair, the two young Russians had left. Harry was alone.
Or was he? Faint scratching noises could be heard coming from the shadows of the room.
Harry’s imprisonment had left him close to breaking point. During his confinement, his emotions had seesawed from rage to despair, and then to thoughts of death: to suicide. His morale could not be lower. In his weakened state, he’d been unable to control his bowels and bladder; he felt degraded. He realised, with horror, he was close to tears. A sob of anguish welled up in his throat. He fought it back. He couldn’t let his captors see him like this. This is what they wanted: to break him. He had to be strong. He had to hold it together, he repeatedly told himself.
He tried to take some comfort in how he’d coped while imprisoned. How he’d tried to focus on the positives - if you could call them that. How he’d channelled the pain from the cigarette burn, together with his fear, into anger and the need and desire for revenge.
Many times though, that focus had wavered, slipped, to be replaced with fear and nausea. He’d desperately fought the overwhelming urge to be sick, knowing the consequences would be to choke to death on his own vomit. Then, perversely - such was his state of mind - found himself wishing he hadn’t.
He’d also thought about family and friends and the fond memories he had of them, only to sadly realise that the recent ones were few and far between, forcing him to cast his mind further back than he’d anticipated.
He’d thought about Izzy. Her bright blue eyes, freckles, and her big smile, and then found himself wishing he hadn’t been so offhanded with her - considering.
He’d thought of the foster brother he hadn’t spoken to in recent years.
He’d then thought about his dear, sweet mother. He’d pictured her warm smile, and remembered her loving embrace. Lillian had been more spiritual than religious, believing that when a person died, the human soul lived on in the afterlife with other human souls. Harry was neither religious nor spiritual, but he’d said a prayer to her anyway.
The strange, shuffling, scratching noises again drew Harry’s attention. He peered into the gloom. He saw the outline of scaffolding, stepladders, and tins of paint. But nothing moved. At least nothing he could see. Yet, as faint as those sounds were, he was certain someone or something was out there in the shadows, and it was driving him to distraction. His fingertip grip on sanity was slipping, and slipping fast. He found himself wishing his captors would return, just to have company around him, no matter how low that company might be, or what they might do.
Harry then wondered if this was another of Victor’s tricks, to break his spirit even further. He thought back to the telephone call Victor had made earlier. He reflected on how angry the Russian had become. Harry felt sure it was Cutter he’d been talking to, which meant Victor now knew who Harry was and why he was there.
This was good news and bad news. The good news was that even if Mollie wasn’t at the club, then the Russians certainly knew where she was.
Harry tried to reassure himself Mollie would be okay, that she would survive; she looked like a fighter. The bad news, though, was Harry no longer had any doubt that his captors intended to kill him.
Strangely, that thought didn’t seem to bother Harry. In fact, it gave him some comfort. Harry had no idea as to how long he’d been held prisoner, it could have been hours, days, maybe even weeks. Either way, at least his time in captivity would not be for much longer. He found himself hoping... no, desperately wishing, that his mother’s belief in the spiritual world would be proved correct. That thought brought him a comfort warm enough for him to forget the cold that wracked his body. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his eyes slowly closed, his pain wracked body beginning to slip away into a deep, deep sleep: to be embraced.
But it wasn’t to be. Five hundred thousand volts prevented Harry checking-out before his due time.
‘Wondered when you’d be back to finish what you started,’ Harry eventually managed to gasp.
As Victor passed Harry, he paused to peer at the cigarette burn on Harry’s shoulder. ‘That might need a tetanus, Harry,’ he said, with the hint of a smile. Then, standing in front of Harry, ‘How are you feeling, my friend?’
‘What the fuck do you care!’ replied Harry.
Victor shrugged. ‘Just being polite, Harry.’ He extracted a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.
‘Those things will kill you, you know,’ said Harry. ‘And any time in the next ten minutes would do me fine.’
Ignoring Harry’s comment, Victor said, ‘So, Mr Harry Windsor, you’ve come for Mollie Dolan?’
He has been talking to Cutter!
‘Why? Is she a friend? Your lover?’ continued Victor.
Harry glared back.
Victor drew on his cigarette, and then exhaled, smirking as he did so. ‘You came here to rescue her, didn’t you Harry?’
Harry said nothing.
‘Are you the knight in shining armour, come to rescue the damsel in distress? For love?’
Still, Harry said nothing.
Victor started to laugh. ‘No, not love. Money! You’re doing this for money, Harry.’
Harry frowned. Something didn’t sit right. Had he told Cutter he was supposed to be getting paid for finding Mollie? He tried to recollect their conversation during their fight, but failed.
‘Mollie Dolan is here, Harry. I bought her father’s debt. She works here as a ‘Hostess’,’ said Victor. ‘She pays her taxes and National Insurance. It is legitimate. It is - how you would say - ‘above board’. And she has very nice room, here. She is very well looked after. She is not a prisoner, Harry. She can leave whenever she wants. But she won’t. Because she loves her father, she has agreed to work off his debt. But,’ he said, smiling and gesturing with cigarette in hand, ‘even though she is very attractive girl, very talented, and very popular, it will take her a while to repay the debt. A year, maybe two, maybe longer.’
‘What you really mean,’ said Harry, ‘is that she’s working here as a prostitute, and she’s too afraid to leave, because you’ve probably threatened to kill her father if she does.’
Victor shrugged his shoulders, noncommittally. ‘Semantics, Harry. Semantics.’
‘You Fucker!’ yelled Harry. ‘If I wasn’t tied to this chair, I’d rip you to pieces!’
‘Maybe. Though I think not,’ replied Victor, studying Harry. ‘You don’t even have the strength to control your
own bodily motions,’ he cruelly added, reminding Harry of his own physical state and feelings of humiliation. ‘Of course, if someone else were to pay the debt, then she could leave immediately...’ Victor held Harry’s gaze for a moment, before then saying, ‘Someone like you, Harry.’
Harry shook his head. ‘I haven’t got eighty grand.’
‘One hundred thousand,’ corrected Victor.
‘What? The debt is only eighty thousand!’ responded Harry, stunned.
‘Interest, Harry. Interest. Business is business. I hear you are resourceful man. I’m sure you could find the money, if you had to.’ When Harry didn’t respond, Victor continued, ‘Use some of your old contacts, maybe?’
Still, Harry said nothing. Just shook his head.
Victor looked on. Waited.
When it was apparent that Harry wasn’t going to say anything else, Victor looked up, deep into the shadows of the room. He gave a signal. At that, the remaining unlit overhead lighting blazed into life, its glare causing both Victor and Harry to squint until their vision had adjusted. The entire room was now bathed in bright white light, and Harry could now see where he was.
The swimming pool.
He could see the painting contractor’s scaffold, various stepladders, tools and dust sheets. As his eyes adjusted, he could see the difference where the new, clean, and pristine coat of paint stopped, and the old and grubby original continued. He saw Earring walking away from a bank of light switches, and back towards the swimming pool. He started to track Earring’s direction, only for his attention to be caught, and drawn ahead towards the empty swimming pool.
Only it wasn’t empty, and it wasn’t water that he was looking at.
The swimming pool walls and floor were tiled in a beautiful Mediterranean-blue mosaic. At each corner, shiny chrome handrailed steps led down into the pool. Harry was poolside of the shallow end, where a depth of one point two metres was picked out in black mosaic on the pool wall. As he looked along its length, he saw the floor gradually fall away to a depth of three metres at the far end; a low springboard diving board; and what had initially caught his attention: tied to the handrail of each set of steps, was a single rope leading down into the pool, and at the end of each of those ropes, was a dog.
Harry didn’t know much about dogs and their different breeds, but these two looked to be of the Pit Bull variety. What Harry did know - because it was plainly clear - was that they were strong and powerfully built dogs. And what Harry was almost certain of - judging by their scars - was that they were fighting dogs.
This is what had been making the noises, and now the lights were on and there was human activity, the dogs had suddenly become restless. They skittered about at the bottom of the pool, straining against the ropes that held them, their attention switching between the activity around the pool, and then to each other, and their instinct to fight. What Harry could not figure out, is why the Russians would want to stage a dogfight at this precise moment in time. Maybe torturing the ex-con wasn’t the main act, he thought. Maybe I’m just the warm-up gig, before they bring-on the dogs and the heavy wagering that’s sure to follow.
Harry was still trying to get his head around what was going on, when Eyepatch came into view, pulling on a length of rope. Harry’s gaze followed that length of rope, his brain telling him to expect to see a dog at the other end, only for his eyes to blink a number of times in disbelief, before his brain accepted that he was looking at Patrick Dolan, Mollie’s father. Patrick Dolan might not be a dog, but he was certainly being treated like one; the rope looped around his neck, acting as a leash, which Eyepatch took great delight in yanking on. Patrick’s hands, like Harry’s, were behind his back and bound with tape. And, also like Harry, Patrick was naked.
The big Irishman was now a shadow of the man Harry had first met - a week ago? A month? Harry had lost track of time since he’d been locked in the box. Patrick had clearly lost a considerable amount of weight, his face was florid and red with the physical effort required in keeping up with the young Russian, and there was also evidence of fresh bruising; and judging by his shambolic gait, Harry could also see that he was still hiding his demons in a bottle. It occurred to Harry that he and the man he’d looked upon with such disdain not so long ago had a lot in common.
As Eyepatch approached Victor, Harry said loudly, ‘What the fuck is it with you Russians?’ Both Victor and Eyepatch turned towards Harry. ‘I mean, have you got some kind of homo-erotica-bondage thing going on?’ The two Russians stared blankly back. Patrick Dolan just stared - blankly. ‘Naked men? Ropes?’ Both Russians continued to look blank. ‘What I’m saying is,’ continued Harry, ‘are you a bunch of fuckin’ queers?’ Harry knew he was being reckless by taunting, deliberately goading, but at that moment he had little or no concern for the outcome.
If the two Russians were not familiar with the term “homo-erotica-bondage”, they’d been in the UK long enough to be familiar with the term “queers”.
Eyepatch took a step forward, bristling with offended testosterone, nostrils flared, powerful shoulders squared.
Victor, on the other hand, wasn’t so easily riled. He offered up a placating hand towards Eyepatch, and a wry smile towards Harry. With a sharp twitch of the head, Victor indicated Eyepatch move away, but the young Russian was clearly pumped and looking for a fight. He took a step towards Harry.
‘Come on, you queer Russian wanker! You want some?’ shouted Harry, trying to provoke Eyepatch into action while struggling against his bonds.
After a second’s hesitation, and another glance at Victor, Eyepatch turned on his heel and strode off towards the edge of the pool, viciously yanking on the rope to drag Patrick along behind him, forcing him to stumble more than once.
Victor went through the motions of lighting yet another cigarette, and then watched intently as Eyepatch removed the rope from around Patrick’s neck. Patrick - unresisting, naked and with his hands still bound behind his back - stood by the edge of the swimming pool, shoulders slumped, head bowed: a broken man.
‘What are you planning on doing, Victor?’ asked Harry, with a sinking feeling in his heart that he already knew the answer.
Victor turned back to Harry, a mild look of surprise on his face, as though he had momentarily forgotten Harry was there. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Business,’ he said, simply. ‘Tying-up loose ends,’ he then added, as if for clarity, before turning his attention back to Patrick, and then Eyepatch, who was watching Victor, waiting.
When Victor finally gave a nod of the head, Eyepatch turned back to Patrick, put the flat of his big palm between the Irishman’s shoulder blades, and then gently pushed. Patrick automatically put a foot forward to steady himself, but only found empty space. He half fell, half jumped, into the empty swimming pool, to disappear from Harry’s view. He landed badly, going down on one knee, and crying out in pain.
Everybody watched and waited as Patrick struggled back to his feet.
Harry found himself holding his breath.
From his seated position, Harry could only see Patrick from the waist up, who was now standing in profile, and leaning against the side of the swimming pool, favouring his injured leg. Even side-on, Harry could see the pain and confusion etched upon the big man’s face. He was totally unaware of his plight, his predicament, or even his whereabouts, and he certainly had no idea what was about to happen next.
Harry watched Victor wave his arm at Earring, who was still waiting at the far end of the pool. He saw Earring untie the rope of the first dog, and then untie the rope that held the second. Struggling to hold the straining dogs, he looked back along the length of the pool, to Victor.
Victor drew on his cigarette, and then exhaled with a sigh, savouring the moment. Then, with a smile of anticipation, he pointed the cigarette towards Earring.
Harry watched in horror and dread, as the two dogs took off at a run along the length of the pool and towards Patrick. Harry saw Patrick’s head turn towards the advancing dogs. Had
he heard them or sensed them? Harry would never know.
They were on him within seconds. All Harry could see was Patrick’s upper body, spasmodically jerking and twitching as the dogs charged and leaped, their bodyweight pounding into him, their powerful jaws locking onto his lower limbs, worrying him like a rag doll, their snarling and growling loud in the cavernous room. Harry saw Patrick’s look of confusion change to abject fear. He watched as Patrick opened his mouth.
Harry had never heard anything like it; and he hoped he never would again. The sound that came out of Patrick’s mouth, the noise that erupted out from his throat, was an inhuman howl of terror and pain, and mixed with the sounds of savagery, was truly overwhelming.
‘For Christ’s sake, Victor, at least untie the man’s arms. Give him a fighting chance!’ Harry shouted.
Victor flicked a glance of annoyance in Harry’s direction, before returning his attention back to the swimming pool.
‘Patrick, you’ve got to stay on your feet! You’ve got to fight back!’ screamed Harry. ‘Use your feet, Patrick! Kick them! Kick them!’
Harry’s words must have gotten through to Patrick.
One of the dogs had its powerful jaws clamped around Patrick’s forearm, from where it now hung, it’s feet no longer on the ground; the other was locked onto his calf muscle.
Patrick kicked out wildly, at the dog ripping at his leg, for his foot to make a lucky connection with the side of the animal’s head, causing it to yelp and release its grip. As a consequence, momentum and loss of balance caused Patrick to stagger backwards, his body slamming against the side of the pool, his bodyweight crushing the dog that hung onto his arm. It fell to the floor, where it lay winded and stunned. Patrick staggered away towards the centre of the pool, all the while, lashing out with his feet at the remaining dog, warily snapping around his heels.
Harry was now able to see the full extent of Patrick’s wounds, and the amount of damage that two vicious and powerfully built dogs could do to a man: to human flesh. He stared with revulsion and a morbid fascination, in that such injury could be inflicted upon the human body in such a short space of time - and for that person to still be alive.
