by Geoff Smith
'What?' she said, her eyes widening. 'Are you serious?'
She sounded convincing but Bart was not convinced.
And he said, 'I am serious. What about you, Lola? Are you serious?'
And Lola looked at Steve.
And Steve said, 'She knew who I was. But she didn't know I was coming. Anonymous tip off. I was expecting to find Zack.'
Bart rocked his body towards the tea tray and Steve raised an eyebrow.
And he said,'My lord, where are my manners?' And he reached out with the knife, cut Bart's right hand free, and he passed him a cup of tea.
The tea was lukewarm. Over the rim of the cup, Bart looked at Lola, but she was avoiding eye contact.
And then something clunked - noises downstairs.
Steve reacted quickly.
'Sorry sweetheart,' he said to Lola. 'It won't be for long.' And he fastened cable ties round both of her hands and both of her ankles. Bart's free hand retied, the half-drunk tea taken away.
'We have guests, guys,' Steve said, 'so let's get ready.'
He took ball gags from his holdall and he pushed them into their mouths. He fastened them and grinned.
'Always pays to be prepared,' he said. 'So I'd love to stay and chat but uh - no rest for the wicked.'
And Steve tied cloths around their eyes.
And then he was gone.
Pushing on the gag with his tongue and wriggling in his seat, Bart tried to shift the blindfold, rocking his body in the chair. But he only managed to scrape the skin from his ankle and to bruise a finger.
The world darkened. Steve had turned out the lights in the main storeroom. The fluorescent tube still lit the small room where they sat. He and Lola would be clearly visible to anyone coming up the stairs.
*
Two voices. The first a gutsy, London female, and the second male, smooth and sophisticated, just the hint of affected estuary.
'This place is filthy! No offence.'
'Be quiet will you? You're going to get us killed. I'm serious, Franny. Wait. Look!'
'Is that Lo-? Oh Jesus Christ, look at that. What a perv!'
'I said - oh shit. Whatever. Just listen. You'd better stay here, okay. Seriously. It's safer. I'm going in. If you see anything weird going down, you run, okay? Get the police, all that shit.'
'Go on. I got your back babe.'
'This is serious, Fran.'
'I know. I know. Seriously. Now go. Go.'
And Francesca De Souza watched as Zack Richards moved through the maze of games machines and slots, between the fruit machines and pinball tables, towards the lighted room where Bartholomew Crowe and Lola Golden sat bound and gagged. And as Zack got closer, Steve Hasland began to uncurl from the shell of a first-person shooter.
*
Ten metres from the lighted doorway, Zack kneeled and watched. The perspex windows were patterned with cobwebs and dust. Behind them sat Lola and Bart, tied up and blindfolded and gagged. He looked back the way he had come, back to Franny, standing at the stairs, her clothing bright in the grey shadows. And something felt wrong. He scanned the room, looking for movement, keening for sound, but he saw nothing, he heard nothing, so he spoke.
'Hey, guys,' he whispered. 'I'm going to get you out, okay.'
And Bart and Lola turned towards his voice and they made noises, trying to tell him that Steve Hasland was here, that he was hidden and dangerous, but with the gags on it meant nothing, just noise. Zack saw their panic and he took it as a warning. Perhaps a trip-wire or a sensor. He ran fingers up and down the sides of the door-frame. But nothing. No wires. No sensors. And so he took a chance. He stepped into the room.
No bomb, no wires, no sensors, no nothing.
*
And at the back of the arcade, Steve Hasland had slithered out from his wooden box. He felt good, and strangely natural, like the years he'd felt at home, crawling out from under the dining table. He crouched on his knees and he hugged himself. And then he stretched. He reared up like a cobra. He loosened the muscles in his neck and he breathed deep, filling his lungs.
Hasland's hand clapped across Francesca De Souza's mouth. She jolted and struggled in his grip. Then she felt the knife-point pricking the skin of her neck. She saw the blade.
And Steve hissed, 'Make a sound and I'll slit your throat right here, and I'll send you off to Hell without a second thought, all right?'
And she quivered and her breath was shallow. Steve moved the knife slowly, down, down to her belly and he clapped her head tight to his chest, and then, half pushing, half carrying her, they moved across the space and towards the lit room.
*
Zack removed Lola's blindfold. She blinked hard at the sudden return of light, and her eyes were wide. He unbuckled the gag, pulled it down.
'He's here, baby,' she said. 'He's here! He's here! He's got a gun! Get out. Go! Go now!'
But Zack wasn't listening. Instead he hacked at the cable ties with his keys until he snapped her hands free, and he pulled hard on the remaining ties until the last one gave.
'And I'd stop right there if I were you.' Steve Hasland was at the door and he held the knife to Francesca's throat. 'I mean if you want to have all your friends alive for breakfast. Sit down Zack. It's lovely to see you by the way. Oh, and if you could stick that memory card of yours down on that tray while you're about it, will you?'
Zack held up his hands.
'Okay,' he said. 'Okay. Stay cool. I'm going to put my hand in my pocket now. And here's the card. Look. See. No more copies. All gone.'
He placed the card down on the tray.
'Now sit in the chair,' Steve said.
Zack sat next to Bart.
'Sorry buddy.'
And Steve dropped a bunch of cable ties on the floor.
'Tie him down, Lola,' he said. 'Do it quick! Or I cut this bitch, right here.'
And for a moment it looked as if Lola might tell him to go fuck himself, that he could kill them all if he wanted. But she didn't. She kneeled in front of Zack and she pulled the ties tight until he winced, and Steve nodded at her work. When she was finished she looked up at Steve, and at Francesca, shaking, with the knife at her throat.
'Do you want me to tie her up too?' Lola asked. 'I think I'd enjoy that.'
'Oh dear, oh dear,' Steve said to Francesca, and he twisted the knife against her neck. 'Looks like we've upset somebody.'
Then he lowered the knife to Francesca's stomach and pulled her back by the hair.
'Why don't you hit her?' he said to Lola. 'Go on. Just give her a smack and tell her exactly why you hate her.'
Lola looked at him and her eyebrows were raised.
'What?'
'Do it. Hit her. Just a slap. It does have to be hard though. Just to see how it feels.'
'For God's sake let her go!' Zack shouted. 'She's got nothing to do with any of this.'
But Lola loosened her shoulders. She wound herself up, and she hit Franny with a stinging slap.
'Boyfriend stealing bitch!' she said.
*
Blindfolded, Bart didn't see what happened next, didn't see the knife being raised back to Franny's throat. He did hear the fizz of slicing flesh, and he heard the clumping beat of the body falling to the ground and he felt the floor vibrating through his feet. He heard Zack screaming and swearing and rocking on his chair. He heard Lola murmuring, 'My God, my God, my God.' Over and over and over. And then he heard Francesca, gurgling and spluttering. And he heard Steve clapping slowly and loud.
And then Steve said, 'That's one score settled, isn't it? And now that's been taken care of, we can all have a nice orderly chat, can't we? About the rest of our business. Take that blindfold and gag off young Bart, Lola. We don't want him missing out now, do we?'
And Lola leaned over him. She released the buckle of the gag, lifted the blindfold. And she whispered, 'I'm sorry. So sorry. So sorry.'
52
The white Corolla stopped at the gate, and its horn sounded again and again, honks
that merged into a pulsing blare. A grey figure emerged from the big house at the end of the drive, small at first, but becoming taller, broader.
The horns stopped. The car door opened. Its hinge squeaked, and brown brogues slid out onto the tarmac. Grey pressed trousers and a knee length suede coat. The man stood beside the full-beamed lights with his hands in pockets and his legs parted.
The approaching figure stopped three feet from the gate. His skin glowed orange in the light. He covered his eyes with his forearm. Light flared on the heavy band of his watch.
He said, 'What the fuck are you about?'
'I want my grandson. I want Bartholomew Crowe.'
The figure's lip curled up at one side. He checked the pocket where his cigarettes should have been but there were none there. His expression changed, cold as iced whisky.
'Never heard of him. Now fuck off before I call the police.'
'You're lying to me. I know who you are Glenn Golden. I know all about you and I know you've got hell to pay, I can assure you of that. I've seen the photograph.'
Glenn Golden stood tall and he pushed out his chest.
'Listen fella,' he said. 'I'd be very careful about what you say next if I were you. I say I don't know any Bartholomew Crowe. And you can please yourself with your fucking photograph, you daft old git. Now fuck off.'
The hook of Granddad's nose brushing against the damp iron gate.
'Listen to me Mr. Golden. I'm retired. And I've got time. Lots of it. This is a day out for me. And I know people too, police people, insurance people. I can be quite irritating. And maybe you're not bothered by that right now but I promise that you will be. Now, are you going to tell me where my grandson is, or should I get back into that car and sound that horn until I get arrested? Of course, when I do get arrested, I'm going to make sure that they write down the reasons why I'm here. Now I'm asking you again. Where is Bart? Where's my boy?'
Glenn Golden moved closer. Their faces almost touched. He took in the other man for the first time, this skinny guy, bearded, average height, and older than him, straggly hair. And Glenn said, 'Crowe left here five hours ago. I threw him out. I don't know where he went.'
'He went looking for your daughter is what I hear. Nice to know someone is, isn't it?'
Glenn curled his lips into a sneer and he snorted, and he said, 'All of a sudden everyone knows my bloody business. You leave my daughter to me Mr. - Crowe, is it? And don't you worry yourself. When it comes to my daughter, I will get the right result.'
Granddad narrowed his eyes and his brow furrowed.
'The right result! I don't want to hear about your right result. You can keep your right result. Because people like you, you're steeped in blood, aren't you? The next right result, it's all you've got, well that and washing yesterday's blood from your bloody hands. So you keep your right result, Glenn Golden, because I don't believe you know what right means, and I don't care how successful you are. So how about you do something useful and help me find my boy?'
Glenn Golden raised an eyebrow. He rechecked the empty pocket for cigarettes.
He said, 'I see where Crowe gets his self-righteous streak. Look, I'd love to help you, old fella, but I don't know where Crowe is. And you know what? I don't care where he is. But I do care about my daughter and I care about what's mine.'
'Of course you do. So all right then, let's go find what's yours, shall we? Let's go and find your daughter, and maybe we'll find my boy too. Come on then, Golden. The engine's running.'
A glow from Golden's coat pocket. A phone vibrating. Glenn turned his back. He held the phone to his ear.
'Yep?'
Document P
A phone-call from Graham Cameron to Glenn Golden. 22/11/19. 06:15 a.m.
GOLDEN: Yep?
CAMERON: We've got a problem. [PAUSE] Richards has gone. [PAUSE] Are you still there?
GOLDEN: Yes, yes. So there's someone with me right now, so if you could just uh -
CAMERON: Just talk?
GOLDEN: Yes.
CAMERON: Okay, okay, I got it. Right - well you'll remember that I had that run in with Crowe up at the house. Well, I got myself down to the car park at the Travelodge and I got lucky, cos Crowe pulls in and he drops Richards off. And then Richards got unlucky because he met me. And that's when I sent you them pics of the Filofax with the circled addresses, right? So I was just gonnae sit tight in the room til Hasland made his move. An ah shit. Okay. This is embarrassing but - there was this knock at the door and it was like cleaning services or some shite. So I opened up and there was this girl standing there, pretty, dressed all bright, sort of foreign looking. And she says, 'Zack?'. And I say 'I think you got the wrong room, darlin'. Maybe it's the next floor you're wanting?' An' she says, 'Oh it's just that I've got something for him.' An' I shouldda clocked then but I didnae. And she pulls this tube out her bag and she maces me in the face! An' ah Glenn, I never been maced before. I got to tell you, it's fucking shite, it's like snot city. And the pain! Jesus Christ! It's a killer. It shouldnae be legal. Anyway, the girl pushes past me, and she sets Richards loose. An' before I know it he's on top a me, and that kid's a tough little fucker. Boy I'm gonna get in a few shots myself next time I see him. I can tell you that.
GOLDEN: I see. So what's next?
CAMERON: They were talking about what order they were gonnae do the addresses. And it was like they thought I couldnae hear them, or something. Or they didn't care about me hearing. And I'll be honest, I couldnae recall the order exactly but I remembered they mention that Bart was away at the Minnis address first. So after I don't know, ten minutes, I'm comin' back to myself and they've tied me up with sheets. I got outta that, nae bother. So I drive up to the Minnis address, and the place turns out to be a bungalow, and outside it there's like polis and a medic car and a Mondeo parked down the road apeice and I'm pretty sure it's polis too but.
GOLDEN: Intriguing. So what about our clients?
CAMERON: No sign. I walk back up to have a look, but the cops had marked the place off. An' I tried playing the nosey insomniac neighbour, but they were pretty tight-lipped. Fucking professionalism, eh - it's not what it was you know.
GOLDEN: Hang on a moment.
[No one speaks for a few seconds. Golden taps his pocket, looking for the cigarettes that aren't there.]
So how are we moving forward?
CAMERON: Sorry Glenn. I'm afraid I don't know . I could try again, get a bit more assertive. An' maybe they'll arrest me but - I'm sure I can get something.
GOLDEN: No. I think we leave it for now. Keep control at our end. Why don't you head down to the office, and we'll see how we can move forwards from there.
CAMERON: Got ya boss. I'm ay on my way.
[GOLDEN hangs up. He puts the phone in his pocket. There is a man in his mid-sixties, COLIN CROWE, on the other side of the gate.]
GOLDEN: All right then fella. You drive. I'll tell you where to go. You're looking for your boy and I want my little girl. I suppose it makes sense. Plus it will shut you up for a while.
53
Steve Hasland clicked the SD card into the port on his phone.
'That's me all right,' he said, and he leaned against the door-frame, pistol in one hand, phone in the other. 'I tell you, that friend of yours, Torin Malone, God rest his soul, he caused me a lot of trouble with that little snap. And I didn't even want to do the job, not really. Good picture under the circumstances.' He shook his head. Zack looked at Bart. 'But there we are. Dee-leted. Done. I know we don't have any wine glasses or anything like that, but I think we should raise a little toast - to Torin Malone!'
And Steve swept the gun around the room, pausing on each face, then he raised the gun in the air and gestured.
And they all said, 'Torin Malone.'
Only the corpse of Francesca Da Souza was silent.
Steve had lifted her up and set her on the chair next to Lola. Her head had flopped back to expose the bloody slit across her throat. The flow of blood had more or less stop
ped but her left side was drenched, and Steve's whole front was red from moving her.
Zack straightened in his chair.
'The picture's not gone,' he said. 'It's not deleted. I mean it's still out there. You've got the card, but the picture's still out there, in the cloud. And I've got it scheduled to go out on all my social media. Totally automatic. Midday today. So don't you even think about killing us, because I can stop it. And I'll delete everything straight away if you let us go now. So, what do you say, Uncle Steve?'
The grin was still stretching out across Zack's face when Steve's fist smashed into his right eye. Zack righted himself. Cut cheek. Bruised ego.
'Bullshit,' Steve said. 'You've not had time. And what exactly d'you mean by calling me that? Explain now, or I'll smash you again!'
He pulled his fist back for another hit.
Zack was still woozy so Bart said, 'There was a scrap-book, at your house. There were pictures. You and Zack's dad.'
And Steve turned on Bart, and he grabbed the lapels of his coat.
'What were you doing in my house, Crowe? That stuff's private.'
Bart clamped his jaw shut and he braced himself for a blow that didn't come.
Instead, Steve stood and placed his hands behind his head, turning, and lifting the gun up high. Then he brought it down, slowly, the end of the barrel inches from Zack's face. Then Lola reached out, and she touched Steve's forearm. She came to him and she looked into his eyes until Steve gave in and looked back.
He backed off then, dropped the gun to his side.
'Sit down Lola.' He spoke quietly, calmly, slow. 'Sit back down, or I swear it. I will kill him.'
Lola sat. Steve squatted down in front of Zack Richards.
'Right then,' he said. 'Let's talk family.' And he stroked Zack's hair. 'So Zack, how's your mother? I expect she's still struggling with that big ranch in Argentina? All those staff, eh? Must be tough, I mean with her being out of it all the fucking time. That's what the papers say, isn't it? Been out there much? Last Summer maybe?'
'You don't know what you're talking about,' Zack said.
