Gatecrasher

by Robert Young

After initially playing dumb Campbell had been roughed up by the two of them in a manner that seemed designed as much to intimidate as hurt him but had comfortably achieved both. His fear of what may or may not happen if he did tell them everything he knew was greater though than if he didn't and for some time he remained silent but for the involuntary sounds of pain as they punched and hit him.

  At first they had simply fired questions at him quickly from either side, starting one before he could answer the last. Then they were softer and more relaxed, his friend, trying to coax the information from him. And then the violence returned and the threats, the aggression.

  Then, as suddenly as it had started it stopped. Slater had re-tied the ropes on his wrists and replaced the blindfold and then gagged him firmly too, both men in silence as Campbell struggled to breathe through a bloodied nose. He had then heard them walk briskly across the floor, slam the door and shoot the bolt.

  Campbell had seen only the inside of the place, the tiny, creaking window revealing only a dark night outside. It was a typical untidy lock-up. Oil stains on the floor, a battered old workbench covered with various detritus of long use; old newspapers, rags, tools, a can of paint. It could have been anywhere at all. Now he was tied up again and not dressed for the cold.

  He ached all over and felt dazed and very frightened. He began to shiver. The minutes piled up like a snowdrift. An hour. Two hours. He gave up trying to count them. He began to wonder how, or even if, he would get out of this. How far would these men go for their answers? Did they even know as much as he did? Certainly they didn't seem the types that he had expected to be mixed up in what he had discovered. And more worryingly for Campbell, and the thought that sustained him throughout, was what would they do with him if he did tell them? He was only of any use if he still had something they wanted.

  Another thought had occurred to him too; even if he gave them what they wanted, did what he was told, he would still know about them, about the situation. He would still be a witness.

  He would still be a threat.

  He tried to tell himself that his fear and paranoia were getting out of hand, that he was conjuring monsters from the shadows. But tied and blindfolded and beaten in a filthy, empty outbuilding in god only knew where, his nightmarish visions didn't seem quite so far fetched anymore. They were becoming a cold, dark reality.

  Eventually, even in the uncomfortable position he was in, he began to doze off, exhausted both mentally and physically but was quickly awake again. He had heard something, though through his sleep-haze he did not know what. He began to hear things around him in the dark, scurrying and scratching. A voice. A footstep.

  And then after a time that may have been an hour or may have been three, he heard them again. A distant engine sound, he thought but maybe not. Maybe tires. Probably footsteps. Certainly the door.

  'Daniel.' George was back.

  He said nothing.

  'Daniel.' His voice was soft and calm but there was an edge of malice in it all the same.

  Outside he heard water running and the squeak of an old tap.

  'You awake there son?'

  Campbell nodded but kept his head bowed. He felt hands on his head and the blindfold was taken off and fell into his lap, the gag followed. Then the ropes were drawn from his wrists. Pulling them instinctively into his chest he saw how much more raw they now were. He hadn't even realised he had been struggling against them. Still he did not look up.

  'We've been back to your house for another look. A bit more time and privacy this time. Very nice place son. Doing alright for yourself. It would be a shame to let that all go to waste.'

  He wanted to swear at the other man, to scream his rage into his face and his thoughts raced and raced as he tried desperately to see a way out.

  Slater's looming shadow swept across the space and Campbell saw a bucket of water set at his feet.

  He began to panic again and his breathing quickened. What were they going to do to him now? How much more could he take? He could feel his spirits crashing as he knew that he had reached the end. Surely he could not cope with whatever terrible thing they had in mind.

  'We couldn't find what we were looking for. Shame,' George said and then Slater handed him something but it was only a movement in the periphery of Campbell's vision.

  He had read of a torture technique where the victim had a towel thrown over his head which was then doused with cold water. The shock of the cold water would make the victim breath in sharply and the towel, now heavy, wet and clinging, would be sucked hard over the mouth and nostrils.

  Slater placed a hand on top of his head and pulled it back until he was looking up at George. In his hand he held a familiar object but it was not a towel. The relief was short-lived. A dark green leather-bound book that he ha been given as a gift by his mother one Christmas. It had a single word embossed in gold across the front.

  Addresses.

  Campbell didn't need to ask what they meant.

  They didn't just know where he lived. They now knew where all of his friends and his family lived.

  Campbell closed his eyes and dropped his head. 'OK,' he whispered.

  31

  Thursday. 6.30 am.

  He didn't recognise anything but got his bearings by the postcodes on the street signs. It was early enough for the traffic to be fairly light and for few people to be around but it was getting light now and it had still been dark when they had left.

  Slater exuded menace in the driving seat next to him and Campbell felt almost as if his presence alone were making his ribs ache more. Swinging the car around a corner the seatbelt cut into him and he winced but tried to remain silent and deny the big man any further satisfaction.

  Neither spoke a word as they moved through the early morning traffic. Slater still seemed to be full of anger at him although Campbell was not exactly sure why. He felt as if the other man might, at any moment, begin smashing those ham-fists into him again.

  His ribs burned with each and every breath and his eye was half closed and swelling. In the mirror he could see it colouring red already and soon it would be much darker and angrier. There was a dark cut on the very top of the swelling and his now-plump bottom lip wore a black line across it where Gresham had slapped him open-handed and split it open. A dark gash was darkening on his cheekbone as it dried. George had told him to clean himself up with the bucket of cold water and that had actually felt very good against his raw skin and he had dunked his forearms in up to the elbow.

  Pulling his car right up behind the tall red shape of a bus Slater revved the engine of his car impatiently and swore through his teeth, clenching the steering wheel tighter. Campbell watched with his head half turned, scared to stare at him directly but unable to look away. He could not help but think about what awaited him when he did hand over the USB stick. Would Slater leave, satisfied that he had done the job he had set out to do, content with his prize? Watching the man's barely controlled fury twitching through the muscles of his tense body, Campbell doubted it.

  The bus in front was still stationary. Slater suddenly shifted in his seat, wound down the window and leaned half out, propping himself on an elbow, impatient to see what was happening up in front.

  His eyes fixed, utterly intent on Slater, Campbell's hands began to move slowly, almost independent of his will and his rigid fear. His right dropped smoothly and silently to the seat belt clasp and began squeezing it oh-so-gently.

  Slater leaned further out of the window.

  Campbell didn't even blink. His hand squeezed a little more, a little more.

  Click!

  He thought his heart would burst right in his chest but Slater didn't flinch, fixed on the motionless traffic ahead of him.

  Campbell's left arm moved quickly to the door handle now and he curled his fingers inside the latch. He felt as if he might pull it open just by the shaking in his hand. It was too far to turn back. Too late to change his mind.

  'OOYYY!!!' bellowed Slater but
he was shouting at the cars ahead of him.

  In one fluid movement Campbell yanked the door handle and straightening his legs up from the floor thrust himself against it, bursting out and through and rolling into the road. His battered ribs exploded in pain as he rolled across the tarmac and he felt stiffness and tightness in his muscles the like of which he'd never known.

  He heard Slater shout again as he realised what was happening but Campbell was up in an instant and sprinting away though the gaps in the cars. Without looking back to see how quickly Slater had disentangled himself from the car and started after him Campbell raced for a gap in the buildings which he had recognised as an entrance to Spitalfields Market. It would be quiet at this hour but there was activity nonetheless and most people stopped to look up as Campbell dashed across the open space for the other side. Past halfway he heard a shout behind him that filled him with terror and the adrenaline surged and boiled through his veins.

  Campbell flew. He barely slowed pace as he went out through the exit at the far side and began running along the road beyond. Pain like fire roared through his chest and flared through his arms and legs as he ran. Either side of him were the tastefully restored and redeveloped brick buildings and warehouses and further ahead at the end of the road was the glass and steel of the City. It was a stark and swift transition between the old and the new, barely a few streets between the shiny office blocks of investment banks on one side and the urban rot of Whitechapel on the other but he knew it well enough. Round the next corner would be Liverpool Street Station. That was where he was heading.

  His vision tunnelled and he could hardly see the people and buildings flashing past him. As his lungs worked harder he tried not to notice the pain in his ribs or any tiredness as his feet kept pounding the road beneath him.

  Campbell, wearing training shoes and with more than a decade on Slater, began to put some distance between them and as he dashed round the corner and onto Bishopsgate he deftly side-stepped a woman coming the other way without breaking stride. He looked around him urgently as cars passed on either side of the road, none of them cabs, no buses nearby.

  He risked a look back over his shoulder and saw Slater come barrelling round the corner and collide heavily with a group of suited young men.

  Campbell turned right sharply, still running and looked each way along the road. It was busy but not fast moving and a little further along he saw people gathered at a crossing, the traffic light still red. Behind him he could hear raised voices as the suits protested with Slater, shouted and swore in surprise and pain.

  Before the light changed he skipped into the road, judging the gap in traffic as sufficient. He could make it. And if he couldn't then they could probably stop in time.

  Up the steps and through a small flow of commuters coming the other way Campbell swept through the entrance, galloped down the escalator two at a time and out into the cavernous space of the station. His shoes squealed on the polished floor and he made his way toward the huge blue arrivals board, dodging in and out of the people with an agility he had not known since his younger sporting days. Even at this hour he was surprised at the number of people there were.

  Looking back again he saw movement at the escalators which seemed now far behind him. Slater was barging his way angrily through the crowd, like a bowling ball through skittles. In moments Campbell was in the underground ticket hall, fumbling for the wallet that he still had stuffed in the pocket of his jeans. He ducked rudely in front of two women at the ticket barrier who protested noisily but he slapped his Oyster card to the reader and was through and away before they could make any more of a fuss and then he was dropping swiftly down the next escalator toward the platform below.

  He slowed to a trot as he hit the platform but there was no train and the dot matrix sign was too far away for him to see when the next was due. He kept moving along the platform, looking back to the entrance to see if Slater would appear. But there was more than one tunnel to choose from after the ticket barriers as well as this one. Surely Slater had been too far behind to see which one he had chosen.

  Walking now, his breath came hard and heavy. He noticed the roaring pain in his chest again, riding with every breath but never falling. He felt his legs burn and his arms cramp and his head began to spin. He winced and pulled his arms around his chest.

  Behind him came the clank and the rush of a train pulling through the tunnel and then the whole platform was filled with noise as it rolled to a stop and the doors hissed open. Still just halfway along the platform, Campbell strode a few paces the other way, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and Slater as he could.

  And then he appeared.

  Stumbling onto the platform in his haste he almost ran straight into the side of the train and then he looked up and straight at Campbell, almost as if he knew where he would be. Campbell turned and ran again, keeping close to the train but his energy was gone. The long sprint from the car and through the streets having drained his final reserves.

  He was running out of platform now and all he had was the exit on one side and the train on the other.

  He chose the train.

  Turning and stepping through the other door he finally stopped and looked back. He could see nothing from where he stood and he clung to the bar and willed the driver to shut the doors and go.

  Nothing. Seconds passed. Campbell inched a little toward the door to see if Slater was still coming. Perhaps he had jumped on a carriage further down and would make his way through the doors between the cars toward Campbell as the train moved through the tunnel. He noticed that his was the front carriage of the train and there was nowhere for him to go. When the doors closed he would be trapped. If Slater was even on here.

  With a loud thud, Keith Slater planted both heavy feet down on the carriage floor, appearing in the space between the next set of doors along from where Campbell stood. The smattering of people seated in the carriage looked up at them both curious, Campbell's bruised and swollen face, Slater's look of wild rage.

  Campbell froze, fixed in Slater's hateful glare. They stood like that for only a moment and then the doors began to beep and Slater took two strides along the aisle towards him.

  Motionless for another second Campbell waited until he heard the hiss and saw the first movement of the doors and then, in one step, leapt through the gap, stumbling and sprawling across the platform, landing heavily on his elbow and damaged ribs.

  The doors closed behind him and Slater, stranded halfway between the two sets of doors, stared open mouthed at Campbell lying on the floor looking back at him.

  Scrambling to his feet and bolting for the exit from the platform Campbell did not see Slater slam his hand against the glass of the train door. Nor did he see the look on Slater's face as he roared his fury at him but he heard it all the way back up the escalator, fading in the reassuring sound of the train pulling away.

  32

  Thursday. 7am.

  Matthew Drennan slapped at the alarm clock and shut the radio off. It was early and his body felt like it was telling him it wanted several more hours sleep. He stretched and curled up again, burying his face in the soft cool cotton of his pillow.

  This was not how it was supposed to be. Not what he'd imagined. When he'd signed up for this it was the culmination of a long held ambition. Working for the security service was not going to be mundane or everyday. No nine to five grind for him in this life; that he would leave to the plebs. All those guys at school and university who had worked so diligently, drank so often, slept around so freely and then had fallen into such mediocrity, such stultifyingly pointless middle-management cul de sacs could keep it. Drennan was on a different path. There would be excitement and danger and bad guys to take on.

  There would be intrigue and subterfuge, undercover work and infiltration. He would smash drug rings, prostitution rackets, catch people traffickers, counterfeiters. He would do something, be someone, go somewhere.

  But there
was drudgery after all. There was boredom. Paperwork and procedure and politics at every turn. Eight years in the job and he'd barely seen any danger, barely taken any more risks than when he crossed the road or caught the night bus home late at night. As much as he'd insisted to his friends and family that he knew what he was going into, that he was realistic about what to expect, Matthew Drennan had come to realise that he had not become James Bond.

  In fact, he had not become anything close to what he had expected, nor even liked. He was bored and frustrated at first but he could cope with that. He was eager to get on, to achieve. Of course he would be frustrated. But time kept passing uneventfully and with the dawning realisation that he was merely a cog, a small part of a much bigger system, Drennan felt that frustration and boredom turning into bitterness and resentment.

  Sure enough there were plaudits and praise when a job was done well, when the team did what they were supposed to do. But where was the glory? The action? When did this get interesting?

  Pats on the back and a moderate pay-packet he could pick up working in insurance. If he was going to be bored and unfulfilled he might at least have chosen a career that made him rich in the meantime. He could have gone into finance, worked in the City. He had the character and the personality for that sort of environment certainly. Cold and ruthless and hardworking when necessary.

  It hadn't always been so. At the start he'd been young and idealistic. There were principles to uphold, ideals to protect. But that had all gone now, soured through the years of disappointment.

  The radio alarm blared again and he sat up and hit the snooze button, and then slumped back into the soft bedding.

  It was depressing, he reflected, how easy it had been to fall into corruption, to find the men who would value and pay for his services and his position.

  Principles could be expensive to buy, but when a man had abandoned them, had discovered that they were a sham, his conscience was far more easily acquired.

  Of course the circles he moved in, the contacts he had made on both sides of the law, at both ends of the criminal spectrum, had made opportunities easier to spot and much harder to ignore.