The Hurting

by RJ Mitchell

  “Ooh, I love a surprise Jim,” she cooed, all of a sudden acting like a little schoolgirl. “Would you mind getting the door?”

  “For you my darling, anything,” he replied playfully.

  Fraser opened the door and stared uncomprehendingly. He only had time to take in the black swathing of the figures on the landing when something metallic lashed out and cracked against his jaw, propelling him onto the bed for the second time that afternoon.

  The two men burst into room 69, levelling their revolvers at the heads of both the occupants and letting the door slam behind them.

  “Shut the fuck up and we don’t decorate the walls with your brains,” said the first man.

  Vanessa’s face was framed in shock and she had lost the ability to scream. The first man, slightly taller and with what appeared to be a white blemish on one of his eyes, jumped onto the bed and cuffed her across the face.

  “Make yourself decent, bitch.” She pulled up the camisole top that had fallen down during her recent exertions. The intruder slapped tape across her mouth and grabbed her hands before binding them in a similar fashion.

  Fraser had been stunned but not knocked out by the pistol whip and the second man had already completed a gagging order on the leader of the council.

  “On your feet,” commanded the man with the white eye. “It-Ha-rak!” he hissed and gestured for them to move. The door swung open and Glasgow’s highest profile businesswoman and the leader of the city council were dragged along the corridor and bundled out the fire escape at the rear door of the city’s most prestigious hotel.

  16

  BLINDFOLDED AND hands bound, Vanessa lay in the boot, her sobbing uncontrollable. It seemed like hours but she knew that they must have been held for a relatively short time. She had only instinct to go on as her captors had removed her gold Rolex. When Jim Fraser had tried to argue he had been belted over the head with a pistol and had his own watch taken before he was shoved unceremoniously in beside her.

  Even in complete darkness Vanessa quickly realised that Fraser was out cold from the second blow. She shivered despite the close warmth of Fraser’s body next to her own.

  It was the ultimate nightmare for anyone in the public eye, to be kidnapped – by some kind of money grabbing blackmailers no doubt. Even if they were returned to their loved ones, ransom paid, their respective lives would be ruined.

  Vanessa contemplated the spotless image she had tried to rebuild in the public’s perception. Any blackmail case would attract the type of publicity her celebrity status would make unavoidable. ‘Just another money-grabbing fame-seeking bitch,’ she thought as her mind turned already towards a damage limitation strategy.

  All the money she had poured into high-profile charities, the newspaper columns defending British business, British culture, British bullshit, anything to get on the right side of the establishment, to become part of the establishment. The big hearted businesswoman, who was proof that success could be grasped with hard work, but had never forgotten her roots, still had the common touch.

  ‘Oh I’ve got the common touch all right, and if the shit hits the fan with Fraser then the truth will really be out there,’ she thought. But she would keep a cool head and see what the bastards were after. ‘Keep thinking on your feet girl,’ Vanessa told herself.

  The car came to an abrupt halt and Vanessa thudded into the inert body of Fraser. The boot suddenly opened and Fraser was manhandled out first and a figure, swathed so only his eyes were visible, grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her out of the boot before roughly shoving her down on what felt like concrete.

  “Ta-aal wi-ya-ya,”3 said a voice in a language that Vanessa thought was similar to the Egyptian spoken by the locals on her recent holiday in Sharm el-sheik.

  3 “Come with me,”

  She heard a door open then slam shut again and she felt hands on her shoulders and her body shivered with fear. Vanessa was forced down onto her knees and she heard Fraser’s voice from a few feet away say, “Okay, okay!”

  Her blindfold was ripped off and, blinking furiously for a second, she saw that they were inside a room with a domed ceiling. She wondered if they were in some kind of underground cavern.

  Vanessa looked over at Fraser and saw that his right eye was almost closed and there was blood streaked across his face. She couldn’t stop her concern pouring into words. “Jesus, Jim, are you okay?”

  She was so focused on Fraser that she didn’t see the man seated calmly on a chair at the end of the room until she felt something cold, something metallic jammed up against her chin, forcing it up and a voice said “If you wish your head to stay on shoulders, bitch, shut the fuck up.”

  The man who had spoken was the one with the hideous white blemish in his left eye. Vanessa also noticed an overpowering, nauseating stink of garlic.

  She kept her mouth shut.

  She noticed movement to her left as Fraser’s body seemed to flicker with motion in a half-light that she realised must be coming from a candle. Then a thud sounded as Fraser keeled over onto the cold damp surface of the rough stone floor.

  Another heavily swathed man bent over Fraser and attempted to lift him. He was stopped by a command from the seated figure.

  “Take the kafir to his cell. It is the female I will have words with.”

  “Yes master,” was the reply.

  Slowly the pressure on her jaw relaxed and she was grabbed from behind by her bound hands and propelled upwards towards the voice.

  Now she was able to focus her attention on the man sitting in the raised part of the room. He had a black beard and eyes that were as dark as the whirlpools of hell. Vanessa had met some intimidating and powerful men before, but the evil emanating from the individual in the skull cap and flowing robes of the Middle East reached a whole new level.

  “Welcome to my humble abode Miss Velvet,” he said and flashed a cruel smile. “Not what you are used to but it is now your home,” he added. “Whether that is for the remainder of your life we will see.”

  Vanessa could not help her desperation betraying her “Why have you brought me here? Just name your price, for God’s sake.”

  He smiled again then slowly rose from his seat and covered the few yards between them with languid menace. He took off his prayer cap and viciously slapped it across her face.

  She recoiled and would have stumbled but for the strong hands that held her upright by her wrists. She tasted blood in her mouth.

  “For God’s sake?” he repeated with dripping sarcasm. “How appropriate, my painted whore.”

  He returned to his seat at the raised end of the room and indicated for Vanessa’s guard to propel her towards him and onto her knees.

  She couldn’t control the sobs racking her body. “Why am I here?” she begged, “Please tell me. Who are you?”

  The man leered and grabbed her chin in his hand.

  “You may not know me Miss Velvet, but I know you. I have been watching you for months. The face that appears everywhere, the flowing blonde hair, the endless cultivation of publicity. You have no morals, you have no shame, you are everything that makes me and my people sick and now you kneel snivelling before me begging my mercy. You ask why you are here ‘for God’s sake’? Which God do you worship, bitch? The Western God of Capitalism? Everything has its price, there is nothing that can’t be bought and paid for.”

  He stopped for a moment and took a breath, his eyes pulsing hate, a mere foot away from Vanessa who remained in the iron grip of her captor.

  “Tell me, was that not why you were in the hotel? Everything and everyone can be bought, including the leader of Glasgow City Council,” he paused before spitting out the last two words, “Miss Velvet.”

  He struck her again but this time with the back of his hand. The blow was cruel and vicious and administered with a force that snapped her head back and made her feel nauseous.

  “It is I who is here for God’s sake, whore. Here to do the one true God’s work. You, slut, wi
ll help me bring about its successful completion. The price on your head is the freedom of a beloved brother kept captive for doing Allah’s work, the work of Jihad against the accursed West … Can you comprehend the meaning of Jihad my Miss Velvet?”

  Vanessa tried to regain her composure before she finally found her voice. “It is a religious war I think, waged by Islamists on the West in Afghanistan and the Middle East.”

  “As explanations go that is as good as I could have expected from a godless kafir such as you. Shortly, you will be taken to your cell, but first we have something you might enjoy, given your love of publicity. We are about to make you more famous than in your wildest dreams.”

  “In that room,” Black Beard continued, pointing to a door “we will film you and the beloved council leader pleading for your lives at sword-point. The price, if our demands fail to be met, will be your heads.” Once again he grabbed her jaw and forced her head round until she met his vicious eyes. “Is that plain enough for you Miss Velvet? Just think, your death would result in immortality. A fame never ending, even though your disgusting, shameless existence had been finally snuffed out.”

  The last vestiges of Vanessa’s self-control disappeared. “No! No! I will do anything, meet any price you set, just let me go free!”

  His face was temporarily awash with surprise then he laughed in cruel delight. “You offer yourself to me as a harlot, no? You tempt Allah’s servant?” he laughed viciously again. “But the only price I am interested in you paying is your life.”

  Vanessa gambled: “Why me? Why not set me free and hold on to Fraser? He’s the politician and everyone knows he will be the next leader of the Labour Party in Scotland and eventually the First Minister. Surely he is more important to your cause, more useful than just some businesswoman?”

  The bearded man turned to the other captor who stood nearby in the shadows. “Give me your knife,” he demanded.

  He grabbed her jaw and held the glinting blade under her chin. “You have made me very angry Miss Velvet. A shameless harlot who will mount the cock of any man to get what she wants. Now she’s prepared to sacrifice his life for her own snivelling existence. Before I turn your life into a pile of shit I think it is time I have some sport with you.”

  He moved the point of his blade down to her camisole top before ripping it down and exposing her breasts.

  “What now, Miss Velvet? Would rape be a fitting punishment for a painted Jezebel, as your own holy book would surely call you, do you think? But then, I doubt if someone like you has a religion.”

  Vanessa steeled herself for what was coming.

  Her captor lifted his knife point from between her heaving breasts and pressed it onto her cheek. “No, I will not sully Islam by such behaviour. I have other plans for you, Miss Velvet. But first I will have my fun. Should I slice that pretty face of yours so that no one wants to photograph it again? That would be cruel of me would it not? Almost mindless! But we are not here for anything other than to wage Jihad for the one true cause.

  “I am the Imam Tariq and these men are members of the Spear of Islam. We are here to avenge the thousands of brothers who have had their blood spilt by crusader greed and cruelty.”

  He stopped and examined the curved blade, before slicing it through the air with hissing hate. Vanessa felt her heart pound. Then she felt a sharp searing pulse as her hair was slashed and her treasured blonde locks shorn viciously.

  The Imam Tariq held a handful of her hair in his hand and taunted “A small memento of our time together Miss Velvet. Perhaps you will be lucky and leave with your life. But that is something I can not guarantee.”

  17

  THE HUM of expectation was vibrant as a small group gathered in the private room at the back of the Half Crescent bookshop.The room was dimly lit with scented candles that diffused the sweet smell of cinnamon and apple through the air. At its rear was a raised platform with a wooden chair and a small table on which a glass of water and a copy of the Koran were placed.

  As the audience’s fervour grew, a beaded doorway to the left of the stage was brushed aside and a man exuding an aura of assured menace strode into the room. He wore a black shalwar kameez and a taqiya and when he reached the platform he held his right hand up for silence in a gesture of authority. At once the hushed chatter of the group was silenced.

  The man on the platform brushed the fingers down through the beard that dropped almost three inches below his jaw. He lifted the glass of water to his mouth and sipped it slowly before returning it to the table. Then he focused his eyes, dark as the night, on his captivated audience.

  “Allah be praised!” The man’s right hand shot out, his index finger pointing at the group before his hand opened and swept from one side of the gathering to the other. Their attention did not waver.

  Imam Tariq began. “The person who hinders Allah's rule, this man must be eliminated. We ask the devout to steel themselves and be ready for the call to arms to face the enemy down and give him death. The faithful can show no weakness in following the word of truth, the word of Allah. You, my brothers and sisters, must be strong from start to finish.

  “Forget about weapons of mass destruction. Jihad is a war that must be waged in hand to hand combat, by dagger, by sword, by whatever means comes to your fingertips. It must be done face to face with the infidel so that you see the fear in his eyes, smell it coming off him. You, the faithful, should savour it as you wipe out the crusaders who have defiled the soil of our spiritual homelands all these years.

  “You must penetrate the enemy with cold steel until he cries out no more and watch him bleed out like a pig before you. This is the first stage of Jihad.”

  Tariq drew a deep breath and took another sip of water, still closely watching his audience.

  The crowd, made up of students and professionals, were youthful, pliable and enraptured. Tariq’s chest puffed with pride as they hung on his every word.

  “But we of the true faith face challenges too. Our young people are being infected with the ways of the West and the immorality of the crusaders’ religion and . . .” His voiced trailed into silence.

  He picked up the Koran and slammed it down onto the table, sending the glass of water flying. His voice seemed to fill the whole room with its power. “It must be stopped, this corruption of believers by the infidels. And I want you, my true brothers and sisters, to make sure it is. “My friends, let me tell you that no drop of liquid was loved by Allah more than blood!”

  The fervour gripping the gathering now exploded into verbal force. “Allah be praised!” A round of applause broke over the room but Tariq noticed that not everyone was embracing his words wholeheartedly.

  At the back of the room sat a white-haired man with a distinguished air about him. The Imam recognised him as one of the elders on the Mosque council, a man who disapproved of Tariq’s preachings and the fervour he was beginning to foster in his followers and the wider Mosque. Now, however, was not the time to let the old man distract him from delivering and spreading his message. That was for another day.

  “Brothers and sisters, our people are cheated and treated like cattle by the West.”

  There was a tumult of indignation now generating from the gathering. “It is the truth! The infidels must pay!”

  Tariq continued. “The Nation of Islam must regain its dignity. But it will not be regained without blood.”

  Again Tariq’s gaze was drawn to the white haired man sitting at the back of his avid audience who, unlike the rest of the gathering, was not applauding. The two men’s eyes locked for a moment, long enough to reveal the disgust the old man felt. But there was another emotion in that gaze and Tariq was filled with satisfaction when he recognised it. Fear.The elder stood and walked through the door, back to the public part of the bookshop and Tariq knew that he must be dealt with soon.

  “Now we must take action.”

  The group were on their feet and their voices filled the room in praise of Allah, but Tariq raised
his hands and commanded silence.

  “Now my brothers and sisters, as you know, we have started our Jihad here in Glasgow by punishing the unbelievers at Braehead and Dowanhill. The time has come for you to join us and execute on crusader soil.”

  Professor Farouk had reached the front of the shop and passed two imposing men flanking the doorway, when he realised he had left his spectacle case in the private room in his haste to get out of Tariq’s sickening presence. He turned back but one of the guards barred his way. He noticed the man’s left eye was ruined by the paleness of a cast.

  The professor explained; “I left my glasses,” and indicated with a motion of his hands that they were in the back room. The outstretched arm was removed and Farouk slipped back into the rear of the gathering. The audience, on their feet cheering and chanting, masked his return from the Imam.

  Farouk watched with growing horror as the curtain behind Tariq shook open and five men filed out, their heads swathed in black linen keffiyeh with only their eyes left clear.

  The applause died down as the audience took in the scene. The five lined up in front of Tariq were each carrying a firearm which Farouk recognised as AK-47 semi-automatic rifles. They presented them to the audience and once again the chant rose. “Allahu Akbar!”4

  4 “God is great!”

  Farouk felt a sickening chill.

  This was it then. Jihad had come again to a major city in the UK. It was being waged in Glasgow and Tariq’s preaching in the Half Moon bookshop was proof, if any more was needed, that it was he who had been behind the atrocities at Braehead and Dowanhill. Farouk knew he had to tell someone before things got any worse.

  An apocalypse now beckoned.

  18

  THOROUGHGOOD AND Hardie, both still in a state of shock, arrived together outside Tomachek’s office. Clouds of smoke were visible through the half glass door.