by Shaun Hutson
“We sent him out with an artificial leg we’d made from bamboo. I don’t know if he survived the war. Probably not. The way they treated us, it’s a wonder anyone got out alive.” He wiped a tear from the corner of one eye.
“We caught one of them when it was all over,” he said quietly.
“One of the guards. When news came through that the war was over, most of them just hopped it straight away. But we managed to capture this sergeant. He’d been a real bastard. He’d tortured men I knew, beaten them unconscious for no reason. It was as if, finally, after three years, we could get our own back on one of them. We tied him to a tree and took turns sticking slivers of bamboo into him. We even held up the wounded so they could do it. We all had a turn. And we all enjoyed it. It took him more than a day to die. I can still see him there now, screaming. The bastard. I know it’s bad but we felt as if we were getting some kind of revenge.”
“After what you went through, Jack, I’d say you were entitled to some,” Faulkner mused.
“When you get treated like an animal for long enough, you start to behave like one. Everyone’s got a breaking point. A point that they won’t go beyond. There comes a time when you either fight back or just give up and die. I swore I’d never just give up. That’s what I keep drumming into the others here.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard you.” Faulkner grinned.
“What hold have you got over the other residents, Jack?”
Fuller looked puzzled.
“I’m only kidding,” said the younger man.
“They look up to you here. They respect you. Probably because of what you’ve been through. I reckon you could run this place on your own.”
“Perhaps it’s the military training.” Fuller smiled, wiping his cheeks again.
“It never leaves you, you know. The discipline. The self-belief. Is it so bad if others take it on board too?”
“No, it’s not,” Faulkner told him.
“You sort them out, Jack,” he said, smiling.
The two men looked at each other for a moment longer.
“Are you going to be able to sleep now?” he wanted to know.
“I’ll be fine,” Fuller said, pulling the covers over himself.
“Thanks for listening.”
“Goodnight,” Faulkner said quietly.
He closed the door of the room as he left.
Jack Fuller lay on his back staring at the ceiling.
Alone with his thoughts.
THAT’S SHIT THAT is.”
Liam Harper nudged Graham Brown and almost knocked the Catatonia CD from his hand.
“What do you fucking know?” the older lad snapped.
“The singer’s all right, but the rest of them are cunts,” Harper persisted.
Brown ignored his younger companion and continued searching through the racks.
The HMV store in Kempston town centre was crowded with weekend shoppers. Music blaring from the speakers inside the building made it almost impossible to speak without raising your voice. At one end, the bank of screens was showing the latest Red Hot Chilli Peppers video. Brown glanced at it occasionally as he continued to sort through the racks.
Elsewhere in the shop, Carl Thompson, Donna Freeman and Tina Craven were moving amongst the bustling throng of shoppers.
Brown had no idea whether they were on the ground floor like himself and Harper or the first floor.
It didn’t really matter at the moment.
He knew Terry Mackenzie was not too far away, playing on a Dreamcast machine set up in the games section of the store.
Brown glanced around and saw the security guard immediately.
Tall, dressed in a dark blue sweater and trousers.
Fat bastard.
As he watched he saw Tina Craven standing near the main doors, peering at the chart albums.
There was a young lad with her: Tony Morton. Barely ten years old, he wore a navy Kappa tracksuit top and Nike baseball cap.
Tina and the younger lad disappeared among the other shoppers and Brown returned to his browsing.
Finally, tiring of that, he made his way towards the escalators that would carry him up to the first floor.
There were TV screens all the way up and he peered at the images that were displaying a scene from “The Beach.”
As he reached the top of the escalator he glanced around at the racks of DVDs and videos. There was a Two For the Price of One’ sale on and the aisles were clogged with bargain hunters.
He looked across in the direction of the counter and saw Donna Freeman. She had two videos in her hand and was waiting patiently in a queue ahead of a young woman.
Behind the woman stood Carl Thompson.
The staff were run off their feet, Thompson noted with delight. They could barely cope with the flood of purchasers and enquiries.
The lines towards the tills moved slowly, but that suited Thompson.
The young woman in front of him was holding a Friends boxed set.
Yank shit.
She was also holding a blue American Express card in her free hand.
Ahead of her, Donna placed two videos on the counter and smiled at the harassed sales assistant.
“Do they do wide screen versions of these?” she asked, pushing the empty cases towards him.
“I’ll have to check,” he said, hoping the possibility of waiting might put her off.
It didn’t.
He moved to his computer and tapped in details.
Donna waited with apparent interest.
Behind her, the young woman tutted and glanced at her watch.
Thompson slid his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket.
He pulled out his mobile phone, one eye fixed on the American Express card held by the young woman in front of him.
The shining digits seemed to wink at him.
He pressed a corresponding key on his phone.
just hold it there.
He had twelve of the fourteen digits.
The young woman lowered her hands.
Come on, you bitch. Show me the rest.
She moved the card to her other hand, one index finger over the first four numbers.
Thompson pressed in the last two then the expiry date.
Thanks a lot, Christine Williams.
He stepped out of the queue.
At the counter, the assistant informed Donna there were no wide screen versions of Mystery Men or Stigmata. Donna nodded and moved away from the counter leaving the cassette cases where they were.
The young woman with her boxed set of Friends moved forward gratefully.
Thompson was already heading for the “Down’ escalator.
When he reached the bottom he wandered out into the street.
Donna and Brown joined him.
Tony Morton and Tina followed moments later.
“Find the others,” Thompson said to the youngest of the group.
“We’re going shopping.”
He looked at the readout on his mobile phone and grinned.
CARL THOMPSON LOOKED at the piece of paper before him.
At the American Express card number.
The expiry date.
The name of the owner.
AH he needed.
“So now what?” asked Tina Craven.
“We phone a few shops,” Thompson said, sipping at his Coke.
“Make some purchases.”
“Like what?” Graham Brown wanted to know, picking the piece of dill pickle from his cheeseburger and dropping it onto the table.
“DVDs are popular,” Thompson said.
“If we call Currys, Argos and Comet, we can get one from each shop. Sell them for about a hundred each. We’ll do the same with stack systems or TVs.”
Brown smiled and wiped tomato ketchup from his mouth.
“Yeah, those big fuck-off wide screen ones.” He grinned.
“You’ll have to make the call,” Thompson told Donna Freeman.
“It’s a woma
n’s card. They’ll expect to hear a woman’s voice.”
She nodded and looked at the piece of paper with the relevant information scribbled on it.
“Aren’t they going to want to see the card when the stuff’s picked up?”
Brown enquired.
Thompson shook his head.
“Donna can tell them she can’t get into the shop, someone else is going to pick it up for her,” he said.
“They’ll have all the details as soon as we phone the order through. They’ll have checked the card. Found out it’s all right. As long as they’ve got the name of the cardholder, the number and the expiry date they couldn’t give a toss. What the fuck do they care who’s picking the gear up? They’ll already have been paid for it.”
“We could get them to deliver it.” Donna smiled, sipping her coffee.
“Good idea,” Thompson agreed.
“It’ll save us lugging it back.” He pulled the mobile phone from his pocket and switched it on.
“I think I’ll get a new one of these too.” He chuckled.
He called Directory Enquiries and got the numbers of the three electrical warehouses, scribbling them down on the piece of paper beneath the Amex number.
“Sorted,” he said, switching the phone off.
“Now all we’ve got to do is make our choice.”
He finished what was left in the Coke container and took a couple of chips from Tony Morton’s share.
Morton sucked his milkshake, then took a bite of burger. He chewed noisily.
“What if that stupid bitch cancels her card before we can get what we want?” Brown demanded.
“Why should she?” Thompson wanted to know.
“It hasn’t been stolen. The first she’ll know about is when her monthly statement arrives and there’s three grands’ worth of electrical gear on it.”
The others around the table laughed.
“I wouldn’t mind one of those fucking DVDs myself,” Brown said.
Thompson held out his hand.
“To you, eighty quid,” he said.
“Fuck off,” sneered Brown.
“Come on, finish that and let’s go and check out what we’re buying,” Thompson said, getting to his feet.
“You mean, what Christine Williams is buying.” Donna smiled.
Once again, they all laughed.
Others seated in the Burger King glanced briefly at the raucous group of youngsters gathered around the table.
Thompson met each stare, his face impassive.
Donna picked up the piece of paper and glanced at the fourteen-digit number.
“That’ll do nicely.” She chuckled.
They filed out of the Burger King, leaving wrappers and the remains of unwanted food spread across the table. The first stop was Comet.
ANDY PORTER LIFTED the last of the shopping bags into the boot of the car, then slammed it shut.
“Christ,” he muttered, rubbing his aching hands together.
“You’d think we were feeding a bloody army.”
Ronni smiled and slid into the passenger seat.
“Some of it’s Dad’s too,” she reminded him.
“Make sure you get the money off him.” Andy grinned.
The car park of their local Tesco was full. Vehicles prowled slowly back and forth along the lines of stationary cars waiting for the first gap to appear, ready to speed into it as soon as they could. They reminded Ronni of sharks patrolling bloodied seas, looking for stray survivors.
Andy clambered behind the wheel and started the engine. As soon as his reverse lights lit up, two cars sped forward, indicators blinking.
“Jesus, let me get out, will you,” Andy murmured, trying to manoeuvre the Peugeot through the waiting cars.
Both tried to move into the vacated space simultaneously.
Ronni looked round as she heard the blaring of hooters.
“Every man for himself.” Andy chuckled.
He drove slowly, watching for other shoppers emerging suddenly from behind parked cars pushing bulging shopping trolleys.
“You can drop me off at Dad’s,” Ronni told him.
“I’ll walk back after I’ve seen to him.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’ll come in with you. I haven’t seen him for a while anyway.”
“I didn’t think you wanted to.”
“You never asked.”
“He’ll be pleased.” She reached across and touched Andy’s thigh briefly.
He smiled, but didn’t take his eyes off the mazelike aisles running between the lines of parked cars.
An Astra suddenly reversed out and Andy hit the brakes.
“Dickheadr he rasped.
The Astra raced away at a ridiculously high speed and a Primera hurriedly shot into the space.
“Are you sure you couldn’t get the night off?” Andy wanted to know.
“Don’t start that again,” she said, wearily.
“Start what? I just asked.”
“It’s my turn to do the late shift.”
“It’s always your bloody turn.”
“I’ve finished early three days this week, you know that.”
“And I’ve been on lates all week. I feel like I haven’t seen you at all recently.”
“It’s not my fault.”
“It never is.”
“Why don’t you take some time off to fit in with my shifts, if you’re that bothered about us being together?”
He didn’t answer.
“What would we do if we were off together, Andy?” Ronni said scathingly.
“Go out for a meal? Go to the pictures? No. We’d sit in front of the telly all night in silence.”
He turned a corner.
The figure appeared in front of the car as if it had stepped from thin air.
Andy hit the brakes so hard they were both slammed hard against their seat belts.
“Shit,” snarled Andy, glaring at the vision before him.
Carl Thompson looked down at the front bumper of the Peugeot.
It was inches from his leg.
“Look where you’re going,” Andy called, winding down the window.
“Fuck you.”
The voice came from beside the car.
From Graham Brown.
“You could have run him over.”
Ronni heard a third voice.
Tina Craven was standing beside Thompson, staring in at them.
“You didn’t look,” Andy snapped.
Thompson remained where he was, his gaze moving slowly from Ronni to Andy, then back again.
“You were going too fast,” Brown offered.
“Just get out the way,” Andy said irritably.
Thompson didn’t move.
There was a loud thud on the rear windscreen.
Ronni turned in her seat to see Liam Harper standing there.
She felt her heart thudding hard against her ribs.
He too was watching them.
“Are you going to move?” Andy insisted.
Thompson was like a statue.
Andy reached for the door handle.
“Andy, don’t,” Ronni said, shooting out a hand to hold him back.
“They’re kids for Christ’s sake,” he snapped, preparing to push open the door.
Another figure appeared close to the side of the car.
A young woman.
Dishwater-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Heavy make-up.
Padded leather jacket.
Ronni was sure there was something familiar about the girl. She caught a whiff of scent through the open window that sparked a memory in her.
The girl was chewing, and staring in at Ronni.
“Stay in the car, Andy,” Ronni said quietly.
“Either you move or I’ll fucking drive over you, you little shit,” Andy called.
Still Thompson remained motionless.
Andy stepped on the accelerator and the engine roared.
Thompson moved aside.
“Thanks,” Andy said sardonically.
As the Peugeot moved past, they both heard the grating sound of metal on metal.
Thompson and the others were suddenly running, disappearing through the rows of parked cars towards the shops beyond.
Andy was out of the car instantly.
He walked around to the passenger side of the car.
There were two large scratches running from the wing to the door handle.
The paint had been shaved off; the metal badly gouged.
“Little bastards,” snarled Andy.
“Look at that.” He gestured angrily at the damage, then peered in the direction of the fleeing youngsters.
They had been swallowed up by the hordes of shoppers.
Ronni stepped out of the car and also inspected the wounds on the body
work
“Fucking kids,” Andy hissed.
From behind a Range Rover, hidden from their view, Carl Thompson watched.
RONNI SIPPED HER tea and gazed out of the front window of her father’s house.
He was standing beside the red Peugeot speaking to Andy. She couldn’t
hear what they were saying, but every now and then she saw her husband
gesticulating angrily. More than once he pointed to the savage marks
made on the car’s body work
The television was on, the sound turned down to a whisper. It was bowls; hardly the most raucous of games at the best of times.
Her father had played for his work’s team when she was younger.
Her mother too.
He still had her woods upstairs.
Along with all her clothes and other belongings.
Nothing had been touched since she’d died.
Ronni glanced at her parents’ wedding photo on the coffee table beside the TV.
There must be a dozen pictures of her mother around the room, some discoloured by the passage of time.
In every one she was smiling.
Ronni reached out and touched the nearest one, tracing the curve of the smile with one index finger.
Outside, her father shook his head once again as he looked at the damage done to the Peugeot.
“Little bastards,” Andy hissed.
“I should have chased them.”
“It’s probably a good job you didn’t get out, Andy.”
“I think I can handle a bunch of kids, Jim.”
“What do you think they used on it?” the older man mused, touching the deep gouges.
“A bloody can-opener by the look of it. Keys or coins wouldn’t have done that much damage.”
