Bone Breakers (A Stanton brothers thriller)

by Martin Stanley

  Mark leaned back against the wall, still biting his nails. “Great! Now whadda we do?”

  Eric looked at his watch. “Now we wait. He has five minutes, exactly five fuckin’ minutes. He’s got nowhere to go and he knows it. And I’d prefer to do this the easy way. But if he doesn’t, we’re splintering that fuckin’ door.”

  13.

  The man thrust his body forward, twisting against the ropes that bound him to the table. As he struggled, the coarse fibres cut into his wrists and ankles. He tried to use the blood as lubricant to wriggle his right hand free, but every movement sent splinters of pain running down his forearm. He stopped moving, just to relieve the agony, but the sharp slice of freshly torn skin was replaced by a dull stinging throb that was almost as excruciating. He thought about shouting for a second but knew that it was pointless; his captors weren’t stupid enough to pull a stunt like this in a crowded place. Besides, he wasn’t alone.

  A tall, swarthy, bearded man with thick hair the colour of salt and pepper watched him from the corner of the room. He was smiling, though his eyes were as expressionless as a doll’s. A clothes iron on its highest setting crackled on the counter beside him. He touched the surface with the tip of his finger and immediately drew it back with a hiss. Sucking his fingertip, he reached over and unplugged the device. He approached the table and set the iron down on the surface, close to his captive’s legs.

  “Have anything to share, Gerald?”

  “It’s Gerry.”

  The man fixed him with his dead-eyed gaze. “Not here, it isn’t.”

  Gerry shook his head. “Can’t tell you what I dunno.”

  The man leaned in close and whispered in Gerry’s ear, “Alternatively, you won’t tell me what you do know, but you’re just masking your lie with ignorance.”

  “Not fuckin’ lying, like.”

  The man stood upright again, his bushy eyebrows lowered in a frown. “Why are you swearing, Gerald? Do you hear me swearing?”

  Gerry tried to swallow but his tongue was dry and swollen. It felt like a dead slug being dessicated by a desert sun, and it took all his effort just to speak. “I’m not lying.”

  “We’ll see,” the man said, patting him on the cheek. “Do you like learning?”

  A frown made lines above Gerry’s nose.

  The man grinned at him. “It’s a simple question, my friend. No tricks.”

  Gerry ummed and ahhed over his answer. “Not really.”

  The smile slipped off the man’s face, and was replaced with a narrow-eyed look of anger. “You mean to say that you prefer travelling through life in a bubble of ignorance?”

  “I dunno whatcha talking about.”

  “Knowledge. It’s the cornerstone of our civilisation, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I… I guess so?”

  “I was being rhetorical.”

  “Ret… Ret?”

  “Rhetorical.”

  “Dunno what that means.”

  “Because you’re an idiot,” the man said, picking up the iron. “But even the basest simpleton can learn, given the right impetus.”

  “Impotence?”

  “Impetus.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You will be,” the man said with a chuckle. “Did you know that the sole of a human foot has over seven thousand nerve endings?”

  Gerry shook his head. The man held the iron close to his captive’s foot, so he could feel the heat. “I guarantee after tonight this is one fact you’ll never forget. The right impetus, you see.”

  Gerry struggled against the ropes, trying to pull his feet back, his pain now forgotten in the frenzy to get away from even greater agony. The man grabbed his foot, holding it steady, and brought the iron close, until it was a couple of inches away.

  Gerry screamed and thrashed, but the man wedged his body down on his leg so that he was unable to move it. “Forget it, my friend. You’re going nowhere. And I am going to teach you.”

  The fight went out of Gerry and he let his body go loose. Scalding hot piss streamed from him and oozed down the backs of his legs. Almost immediately it turned cold. Gasps and sobs caught in his throat and he waited for the man to brand him.

  The man didn’t pull away in disgust, despite the sour piss smell. Instead, he watched the yellow liquid pooling in the gap between his captive’s legs and smiled. “Are you ready to learn?”

  “No.”

  The iron was little more than an inch from Gerry’s flesh. “This is going to hurt a lot,” he said and paused for a second, closing his eyes and savouring the moment, the silence before the screams. Almost absentmindedly, he realised he had an erection.

  A loud Nokia ringtone knocked him out of his reverie.

  He opened his eyes and cast a glance into the corner of the room. A phone trembled along the counter top, moving towards the edge. Shaking his head, he walked over to the counter and picked up the mobile just as it dropped. There was no name on the display, only a number. His finger hovered over the end call button, but at the last second he sighed and answered.

  “Hello.”

  “John? It’s Terry.”

  “Terry who? Am I supposed to guess?”

  “Albright.”

  “Ah, Terence! Mr Construction himself. How are things?”

  “Painful.”

  John stared at Gerry. “Funny you should mention pain. You’re interrupting my work.”

  “Whatever it is drop it.”

  “My employer wouldn’t like that.”

  “Fuck Webber.”

  “How colourful. But Donald’s already paid me. He’d be disappointed if I didn’t follow through.”

  “How much?”

  “How much what?”

  “Money.”

  “Ah, money. My favourite word,” John said, smiling. “Well, Don paid me five grand for this.”

  “I’ll double it.”

  “That might compensate me for the job, but not for the loss of reputation. Donald won’t be happy.”

  Terry huffed. “Whaddaya want?”

  “Twenty grand or half of whatever it is you’re after.”

  A string of curses came down the line. John held the phone away from his ear.

  “Obviously this displeases you, so I’m going to hang up now. Goodbye, Terence.”

  “Wait.”

  “But you seem unhappy?”

  “It wasn’t you, it was the pain.”

  “Pain?” John said, his eyes narrowing.

  “My hand,” Terry answered. “I bashed it.”

  “I’ll let it slide just the once. So you agree to half?”

  “Fine. Twenty five large, but I need you there now.”

  John smiled. “Where?”

  “Dave Bellman’s.”

  “Who?”

  “Bell End.”

  “Oh, yes. The young man who looks like a rotund Eminem?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Can I finish off here?” he asked.

  “Not for that money, you can’t.”

  “Shame,” he said and glanced at the iron in his other hand. “I’ll send the boys round now and I’ll be on my way shortly. Who are we hitting?”

  “The Stantons.”

  John paused momentarily. “My boys have had a run in with the big lad a couple of times when they used to work the doors, but I’ve never had the pleasure.”

  “Well, you’re gonna get the pleasure now.”

  “Glad to hear it. Then I best be going.”

  John hung up and put the phone in his pocket, then he placed the iron on the counter top. He looked over at Gerry. “Why don’t you wait around a bit,” he said. “I’ll be back to conclude our business later.”

  Gerry tried grinning, but it didn’t take and the effort of holding it in place seemed like it was causing him physical pain. “No rush, like. Tek all the time you need. In fact, if you let us go, like, promise I’ll stay out of Don’s way for good.”

  John noticed the man’s discomfort and chu
ckled. “Oh, don’t concern yourself. Just wait around a while, and I’ll finish what we’ve started.”

  14.

  The big lad bounced off the door and landed on the ground in a heap. Grimacing, he sat up and rubbed his shoulder. A quick check told him that he’d probably done more damage to his shoulder than he’d done to the door.

  Eric offered him his hand. “Thought you said this’d be a piece of piss?”

  He glared at his brother, pushed the hand away, and wobbled slightly as he got to his feet. “Yeah, well, it looks like Bell End’s moved a bed or wardrobe in front of the door. That’s a problem.”

  “Damn right. It’s a problem,” Bellman shouted. “You’re. Not coming in. Here.”

  “We will,” Eric replied. “It’ll just take a bit longer, is all. And once we’re in there we’re gonna gonna give you a long fuckin’ beating, Dave. You’re racking up those fuckin’ minutes. But if you hand over the money now, we’ll forget that you tried to mess us around. All we want is the cash.”

  “Well. You can’t. Have it.”

  “Fine, have it your own way,” he said, pointing at his brother. “Hit it again.”

  Derek took a running start and threw himself at the door.

  ------

  The impact reverberated around the bedroom and shook the bed that Bellman lay on. He opened his eyes to make sure that the door was still there. When he saw that it was, he closed them again and tried to relax. It was difficult.

  Five minutes had passed since he’d pulled his bed so that it was wedged against the wardrobe and chest of drawers that he had thrown in front of the door, but he was still gasping for air, and every now and again a sharp pain in the chest made him flinch. Pain and numbness also worked its way up and down his left arm. Rubbing his bicep did nothing for the pain, and try as he might he was unable to catch his breath.

  His mobile started ringing. He lifted his head and looked at the display. It was a number he didn’t recognise. His thumb hovered over the reject call button, but then he thought about the tricky situation he was in and decided to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Dave?”

  “Yeah,” he said, sitting up. “That you Tel?” He winced and grabbed at his chest.

  “Yeah. How’s it up there with you? Don’t tell me those arseholes have been and gone?”

  “Still here. Barricaded. Myself in the bedroom. With the cash. Not sure. How long. The door’ll hold, though. What happened. With you?”

  “The Stantons got me.”

  “Fuck. Badly?”

  “As opposed to what? Yes, badly. Anyway, enough of that, what’s up with you? You sound weird?”

  “Think. Summat’s up. With me chest, like. Fuckin’ heart.”

  “Oh, fuck me… Look, can you hold on?”

  “Not sure. Getting weaker.”

  “Just hold out, mate. Cavalry’s on its way.”

  “Who?”

  “John Karagounis and his boys. The kids are on the way as we speak. Big Daddy’s gonna pop over shortly.”

  “Christ! Whyn’t you. Send Charles Manson and. Al-fuckin-Qaeda. While you’re at it.”

  “Quit complaining. I’m helping, aren’t I?”

  “That’s. Debatable. Why can’t. You come?”

  “’Cause the big fucker fried my hand. On my way to the hospital.”

  “Shit man. Sorry. Seriously though. Don’t send those. Psychos.”

  “Sorry Dave, it’s too late now. They’re already on their way.”

  15.

  Tommo opened his eyes slowly and let out a low groan. It felt like a dozen angry mules were kicking their way out of his skull. When he realised that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be he jerked left and right, trying to pinpoint his location. He was in the backseat of a car parked in a narrow cul-de-sac surrounded on three sides by a thick copse. Leafy branches formed a canopy over the cul-de-sac that blocked out the light, making it difficult to tell what time of day it was. Leaves rustled as a breeze passed by, shaking off the residue of the previous night’s rainfall, which spattered the windscreen and the roof of the car. Tommo had no idea where he was, so he focused his gaze on the front seat of the car.

  Mark was facing him, but had craned his head in the direction of the car radio. A local news report mentioned that a man was helping the police with their enquiries in response to a failed hit-and-run in the early hours of the morning. Several people had been badly injured in the incident when they tried to stop the driver from fleeing the scene. Mark let out a low, breathy chuckle.

  For a second Tommo thought about rushing him, but changed his mind when he saw the gun in his hand. He drew back into his seat slightly, as if he believed a few extra inches of space between him and his captor would make him safer.

  “Where are we?” Tommo asked.

  Mark gave him his full attention. “The arse-end of nowhere.”

  Tommo shuffled, then winced and rubbed at his backside, which felt sore. Mark smiled at this.

  “What the fuck happened last night?”

  “Some stuff.”

  “Talkative, aren’t we?”

  “Not really,” Mark replied.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “What girl? There was no girl there when I collected you earlier.”

  Tommo narrowed his eyes. “Swear down there was a girl. We were gonna fuck. Then… pffft, nowt, I wake up here on the business end of a gun.”

  “The only person I saw was a man. And you did fuck.”

  “A man,” Tommo said, then paused a beat. “What?”

  “You heard.”

  “A man?” Tommo said, scoffing. “I don’t do men.”

  “You did last night.”

  “Bollocks,” Tommo said, then took a closer look at Mark. “Here, haven’t I seen you somewheres?”

  “I do like a nice kofte.”

  Tommo’s face slackened as he realised he was talking with a customer. Mark could see that he was trying to work out what was going on, but judging by the puzzled expression on his face he was coming up short. A couple of attempts to speak broke down into wet clicks as his tongue bounced off the roof of his mouth. Eventually he stopped sounding like the world’s slowest Geiger counter and said, “What the fuck’s going on?”

  “This,” Mark replied, throwing a mobile phone in Tommo’s lap.

  He picked up the phone tentatively, then gazed at Mark for guidance.

  “You need to check the gallery. Photos and movies.”

  Tommo put his thumb against the screen and got to work. Initially he frowned, but as he flicked through the images his eyebrows rose until they were halfway up his forehead. Each time he tapped the screen his hands shook a little bit more. Gradually, the colour seeped from his complexion until the drinker’s veins stood out like a roadmap on paper. Mark heard the sound of flesh against flesh emanate from the tinny speaker, along with a lot of grunting. Tommo’s bottom lip trembled and he gagged again, this time raising a hand to his mouth. He touched the screen and the grunting stopped. Now the only noise was the sound of the wind as it rustled the trees around the car. Droplets from the leaves hit the windows and pitter-pattered on the roof as the wind dislodged them. Tommo pressed his forehead against the window and stared at the world, fogging the glass with his breath.

  “This didn’t happen,” he said, sounding uncertain.

  “But it did.”

  “I know what I am.”

  Mark leaned forward. “Do you?”

  “I know what I’m not.”

  “Does anybody?”

  “Swear down, this isn’t me. I know that much.”

  “But is anybody gonna believe you?”

  Tommo turned and looked at Mark, at his bearded, smirking face, and began to think about the situation. He’d long since stopped wondering where he was. Now he focused on why he was here in the middle of nowhere, watching video footage of him getting fucked. He tried to piece together the events of the night before but came up short every t
ime. He remembered the details of the living room; the scruffy interior, prepping coke on a dusty table, but after that there was nothing.

  None of this made any sense. Bad coke? Bad booze? Then he remembered the vodka; cheap shit, like unfiltered rocket fuel. Maybe it had been good vodka, but with a little something extra to put him down and keep him there. If that was the case, why was he here with this smirking prick?

  “Why am I here?” he asked.

  “I think you know,” Mark replied. “I’m pretty sure I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  Tommo shook his head.

  “In some quarters they call it blackmail.”

  16.

  At first, Mark wasn’t quite sure what he’d heard, because the brothers were arguing so loudly it was hard to hear anything. He thought it might have been his imagination, but then a momentary lull in the shouting proved he wasn’t going crazy. The Stantons were too angry to notice anything other than their argument, but as Mark approached the front door he heard the knocking clearly for the first time. He crouched down and looked at the narrow gap between the door and the floor and saw the dark outline of two pairs of feet. He backed away from the door slightly and turned towards the brothers.

  “Think you need to see this,” he hissed.

  They ignored him in favour of their argument about the merits of shooting off hinges as opposed to attacking them with a hammer and crowbar. When the knocking started again, louder this time, they finally turned their heads and looked at the door.

  Eric frowned. “What the fuck?”

  Mark pointed at the gap between door and floor and indicated two people with his right hand. “We have company,” he whispered.

  Eric crouched, looked where Mark was pointing and gritted his teeth. “Terry?”

  Mark rubbed at his beard. “I told you Al would fold,” he said. “That’s fifty you owe me.”

  “So you did. Proves nothing, though. Might be something else,” Eric replied as he approached the door. “Er, Tel? That you, mate? Was getting some sleep, like,” he said, trying to replicate Bellman’s nasal drawl.

  There was no reply, just more knocking.

  Eric stepped back from the door.