by Conrad Jones
“Do you have any idea how much shit you have caused me?” Malik’s voice drifted in her ear. “It’s payback, you fucking slut.”
It was dark when Sarah began to come round. She was confused and disorientated, alien sights and sounds flashing through her mind. Above her was a gigantic steel arch illuminated by hundreds of halogen lamps. Yellow streetlights stretched away from her into the distance, and the air was thick with choking diesel exhaust fumes. The suspension bridge above her was enormous, spanning the River Mersey between the industrial towns of Widnes and Runcorn. It’s a landmark that could be seen from miles away. Sarah recognised it somewhere in her befuddled brain. She was sitting upright against the safety railings that lined the pedestrian walkway, out of sight of the passing vehicles. Four lanes of traffic streamed past her in a blur of bright lights, steel and noise.
Her memory began to piece together the last few hours. She was sore and wet between her legs, her face was sticky, and she could recall Malik and his cousin taking turns to have sex with her in the back of the Capri. Their voices echoed in her mind, and the smell of their sex and sweat clung to her. She had no idea how many times they’d used her. She had let it happen again. Sarah stood on shaky legs, gripping the railings to help her stand. Her father would be going out of his mind looking for her by now, and what was he going to find? His slut of daughter stoned and raped… again. No one would believe her. They didn’t the first time, why would they now? She had got into the car of her own free will. She had taken the cannabis willingly and drunk the coke that Malik had given her, despite the previous allegations that she had made. Sarah leaned over the rail and vomited into the black abyss, which separated the road bridge and the river, far below.
Sarah was traumatised emotionally and still reeling from the drugs in her system when she felt warm fluid running down her thighs. She lifted her crumpled skirt and saw liquid streaked heavily with blood running from her. Sarah knew she was miscarrying, and she screamed into the darkness: her waters had broken, brought on by the physical trauma. Her father would never speak to her again, her brothers would be ridiculed at school and she would be banished to Israel, forever this time. Saliva dribbled from her lips as she cried hysterically, her vision blurred by her tears. She had ruined her own life, and was now responsible for the death of her unborn child. Sarah leaned forward, calming suddenly. There was a way to stop it all right now. She gripped the railings low down and tipped her body weight onto the rail. The world seemed to be spinning very slowly as she paused for a few seconds. The traffic became silent while she thought about it all one more time. Could she face her family? Sarah could see her father’s face in her mind’s eye, his shame and disgust etched deep into every wrinkle. When she let go there was no peace as she tumbled in the blackness. The pain inside her heart didn’t fade as she hurtled towards the icy river. Hitting the water from that height was like hitting concrete. Sarah didn’t live long enough to feel how cold the water was, and the impact mercifully ended her torment.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Bruce Mann – Present Day
Bruce Mann looked at the faces of the four men in front of him. He recognised Malik Shah and his lieutenant Ashwan Pindar. The other two were strangers to him, up until they had hit him on the head and stuffed him in the boot of their Mercedes. Malik and Ashwan were suited, smartly dressed. Their associates had long rubber aprons, gauntlets and wellington boots, slaughterhouse uniforms.
“Hello, Bruce,” Ashwan said.
“Ash.” Bruce swallowed hard, trying to maintain his composure. “What am I doing here, Ash?”
“We need to ask you some questions about Mamood.”
“Mamood?”
“My son,” Ash bent level with his face and stared into his eyes.
“I don’t know your son, Ash,” Bruce shook his head rapidly. He was beginning to think that maybe he had sold him some drugs or an illegal firearm without realising who he was related to. “Honestly, I don’t know your son.”
“Maybe you do and maybe you don’t, but how can I believe a scumbag like you?”
“What do you think I know about your son, Ash?”
“You know where he is.”
“What?”
“We think you might know where he is, or you’ll know someone that does know.”
“Is he lost?” It was an instinctive question from Bruce’s point of view, but Ashwan took it as arrogance. He punched Bruce hard in the mouth. Pain flashed from the exposed nerves in his broken teeth, and he spat blood and enamel onto the ancient floorboards.
“He isn’t lost, he’s been kidnapped!” Ashwan spat the words.
“Fucking hell, Ash!” Bruce breathed deeply and shook his head again. “You cut off my thumbs for selling a bit of smack on your turf. Do you think I’d still be around if I was holding your son for Christ’s sake?”
“You have your ear to the ground.” Ash nodded to the two men in aprons. One of them wheeled a metal trolley from somewhere out of Bruce’s field of vision. He couldn’t see what was on it, but he could hazard a guess that it wasn’t tea and biscuits. “Who has my son?”
“I haven’t got a clue, but I have nothing to do with it, I swear.”
“What do you know about the bombing?”
“What bombing?” Bruce wracked his brains. “You mean the mosque?”
“Yes, the mosque.”
“Why would I know anything about that?”
“We think someone is having a pop at us,” Malik spoke. “Who has got it in for us?”
Bruce stared at the floor, shaking like a leaf inside. His mind processed information at a million miles an hour, trying to think of anything that might be significant. One snippet of information could save his life, but nothing sprang to mind. The whirring noise of a power drill echoed in the darkness. A tungsten drill bit glinted in the darkness as it turned at high speed. Bruce opened and closed his mouth and he struggled against the restraints.
“Where is my son?” Ashwan removed a photograph from his suit pocket. He held it up to Bruce’s face. Bruce looked at the picture through his tears, his vision blurred. Mamood was a handsome teenage boy, naked, tied up and terrified. Tears streaked his face and there was terror in his eyes. “Where is my son?” Ash repeated. The man with the drill approached.
“Please, Ash!” Bruce dribbled and screwed his eyes tight shut. The memory of having his thumbs cut off was still raw. He couldn’t stand the thought of prolonged torture; his heart would explode with fear. “Believe me, if I knew where he was I’d tell you. I don’t know where he is, Ash.”
“Maybe Mr Drill can convince you to remember.” Ashwan nodded to the man with the drill. He stepped closer and then kneeled down on one knee. He held the spinning drill bit six inches from Bruce’s foot. “I once watched a man being questioned by my colleague and Mr Drill for nearly four hours.”
“Ash, I don’t know anything,” Bruce was gibbering, dribbling and shaking his head in panic. “I could help you to find him, Ash!”
Ashwan waved and the drill was withdrawn, although the bit kept spinning as a reminder that it hadn’t gone away. He could smell the fear coming from Bruce, and the offer of cooperation was worth exploring before the screaming started.
“How can you help?” Ashwan asked. “One chance, Bruce, think carefully.”
“I know people, Ash,” Bruce took short sharp breath in between his words. “I’ll spend every minute of the day asking people about your son, I’ll look under every rock and stone to help—”
“What people?” Ash interrupted.
“You know what I mean, Ash. I’ll ask around.”
“No, I don’t. Enlighten me, Bruce.”
Bruce swallowed hard. His mouth was dry and caked in congealing blood. “I figure if someone is stupid enough to kidnap your son, then they either want money, or they’re doing it to hurt you, right?”
Ash took a bottle of mineral water from his overcoat pocket. He twisted the top off it and placed it to Bruce�
�s lips. Bruce swallowed greedily and then began to cough and splutter.
“Which category would you fit into, Bruce?” Malik interrupted.
“Which category?”
“Yes, would you do it for money, or revenge?”
“Neither, Malik.” Bruce coughed again before he spoke. “I fucked up once, and I paid for it, right?”
“So you’re in the second group then?” Ash said.
“No!” Bruce shook his head from side to side. “I sold a bit of smack in one of your pubs, and I paid dearly for the privilege. I know the score, you fuck up, you pay for it. I have made a real effort to stay out of your turf, Ash.”
“Okay let’s say I believe you,” Ash said. “Who would fit your profile?”
“I can think of a dozen of your rivals, any one of them could pull a stunt like this,” Bruce struggled to say what he really thought. Malik Shah and his henchmen were spectacularly unpopular. Most of their rivals wouldn’t think twice about killing Malik’s men or their families. “Have they asked for money?”
“Not yet,” Ashwan frowned. “Why do you ask that?”
“If they were amateurs then they would have asked for the money by now,” Bruce said shakily. “The chances are if they haven’t asked for money yet then it’s personal.”
“The chances are it’s someone we’ve had issues within the past, Bruce,” Malik said. “Someone we’ve hurt, like you.”
“I’m a one-man band.” Bruce was trying to think on his feet. The kidnap was baffling, but to think that he was a suspect didn’t make any sense. “I’m under no illusions what people think of me, I work alone because nobody trusts me, nobody likes me. I make a few quid here and there, selling smack and the odd shooter to junkies. This is way out of my league.”
“Who’s league is it in, Bruce?”
“Fucking hell, Ash, kidnap? What about the Richards family?”
“What about them?”
“You remember when they fell out big time with the Burgess brothers?” Bruce was gibbering at a hundred miles an hour.
“Yes I remember.” Malik screwed up his face as if he were getting annoyed. “What about it?”
“Well, if you remember, the Richards family blamed the Burgess brothers for whacking one of their drug deals, right.” He nodded his head to reinforce his story. “One of their heavies was shot, and the drugs and the money were lifted, remember?”
“Get to the point, Bruce,” Ashwan snarled.
“The Burgess brothers paid the Richards off, over half a million from what I heard!” Bruce thought this information was buying him some time.
“Why, what happened?” Malik was curious. He had heard the same story via the rumour mill, but he never found out why one of the families had backed down.
“The Richards took old mother Burgess from outside the hairdressers in Page Moss, kidnapped her in broad daylight.”
“Carry on,” Ash listened intently.
“They held her in a unit, and they sent pictures of her in a coffin holding a wreath, cheeky bastards!” Bruce tried a smile. Malik looked to Ash while he mulled over the information. “The Richards were a smaller outfit, but the Burgess brothers paid up, and they paid compensation for the drugs on top,” Bruce nodded emphatically as he finished his story. “No one would fuck with them ever again after that. It sent a message across the city that no one could ignore.”
“I think you’re right, Bruce.” Malik stroked his chin as he spoke. He looked at Ash, but Ash couldn’t read his thoughts. “I think it’s way above your head.”
“Thank god!” Bruce gasped. He smiled through swollen bloody lips. “I’ll help you find him, I promise I will.”
“You are also right about the message, and we need to send one too. Kill him,” Malik said to the man with the drill. “Mess him up first, and then kill him.”
The drill whined louder as it approached Bruce’s foot. Bruce twitched violently as the tungsten bit ripped through his skin, before tearing bone and cartilage and spraying blood in a wide arc. Bruce screamed and he bit down on his lip hard, but he couldn’t escape the pain.
“I’m confused,” Ashwan said as they stepped clear of the blood splatter. Their suits were expensive to clean. “Why kill him?”
“Tell them to cut him up and dump his body on the town hall steps. I want every scumbag in this city to know what happens when they fuck with us. We’ll send out a message that no one will ignore. I want his body on the front pages of every newspaper. Whoever has Mamood will think twice, and we hit the Richards gang tonight.”
Ashwan took a last look at Bruce Mann. Both men were drilling and cutting, pulling and tearing and the screams were deafening. Ash almost felt pity for him but then the visions of his son restrained and terrified came to the forefront of his mind, and his pity vanished. The screams echoed through the empty warehouse for nearly forty minutes before they were finally silenced.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Bernstein Brothers – School Days
Two weeks after Sarah’s inquest, Nick waited for David Bernstein to finish rugby training. David was struggling to deal with the death of his baby sister, especially as he had to see Malik Shah every day. The coroner signed a verdict of suicide, much to the distaste of the Bernstein family and the police. Witnesses reported seeing Sarah getting into a black Capri, and it didn’t take the police long to connect the vehicle with Malik Shah and his cousin. The witnesses also said she climbed in of her own accord, she wasn’t forced in any way. The police interrogated Malik and his cousin, and they confirmed that they’d picked her up after school. They admitted driving to a park, getting drunk and smoking cannabis, and having sex with her, but they were adamant that it was consensual sex. Malik’s cousin told the police that he had dropped her off at Runcorn train station about ten o’clock that night, and that was the last that they saw of her.
Sarah died upon impact with the river. Her body was travelling at over seventy miles an hour when she hit the water, and although the water stopped her body dead, her internal organs carried on travelling, ripping free of their surrounding muscles and tissues and causing instant death. She drifted down the river for four days before her bloated body, spotted by a passing tanker at the Stanlow oil refinery, was pulled from the water. The polluted river had washed away any useful evidence from her body, and at first the police were baffled. News bulletins appealed for witnesses, and a lorry driver reported seeing a young girl being sick over the safety rail on the Runcorn Bridge; his elevated position in the cab offered him a narrow view of the pedestrian walk-way which ran parallel to the road platform.
The police were open-minded as they investigated her death, never ruling out foul play, misadventure, or suicide. It was Sarah’s diary which swung the coroner in the end. He took her final entry as a gauge of her mental state of mind, and she said that she would rather be dead than be sent to Israel. She also said that she loved Malik, so it didn’t appear too odd that she had secretly met him, or that she had sex with both Malik and his cousin. Her reputation for promiscuity was already on record.
Mr Bernstein refused to attend the inquest, driving a wedge between himself and his distraught wife. She blamed him for being too hard on Sarah, pushing her to jump from the bridge, and she would never forgive him for that. Mr Bernstein couldn’t listen to the reports that his pregnant daughter took drugs and had sex with two men in a car, after the trauma the family had already been through with the failed rape case, and Richard’s assault. It was too much for him to swallow. David Bernstein escorted his mother to the inquest every day for a week, until the final verdict was decreed. The details were sickening to him, and they began to eat away at him inside. Every night after the inquest, when his mother had gone to bed, he shared his feelings with his friend Nick, and his brother Richard, and the three agreed that Malik Shah was to blame for Sarah’s death. Mr Bernstein spent most of the week in his study, drunk on whisky, rarely coming out, and never sharing his wife’s bed. They never shared one agai
n.
David was fast approaching his final exams, so changing schools was not an option. His parents were so shattered and disorientated that they never once considered that David would see Malik Shah at school. The pain inside was eating him away, and the pressure was building to critical. Not only had he lost his beautiful sister, but also he had to watch his parents’ marriage falling to pieces. Richard asked Nick to keep an eye on his older brother, knowing from past experience how Malik and his gang settled disputes. He didn’t want his older brother doing something stupid and becoming a target. He was tough, and so was Nick, but they were two teenage boys, and no match for an armed gang. Nick knew that David had rugby practice on a Tuesday, and so he waited by the playing fields for him to finish so that they could walk home together.
“Hey, Bernstein,” Nick called as he spotted David crossing the road. David smiled, pleased to see his big friend.
“Hey, Nick.” David bumped fists with him. He laughed. Nick’s fists were huge, far too big for a teenage boy, more suited to a gorilla.
