Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “Open it.” demanded the gunman. Gregg did as instructed, revealing a near empty boot space, with a blanket folded in half and spread over the boot floor, and a tow-rope folded-up on one side: “I’ll use that on you.” he stated as he lifted his head to stare coldly at Vera.

  “You get in the boot.” he ordered Gregg. Gregg was far from keen to comply and Vera was now decidedly concerned for their welfare.

  “You can’t do that, it’ll kill him.” she pleaded.

  “Why will it?” countered the gunman. Vera had to think quickly.

  “There’s a hole in the exhaust: the fumes will suffocate him.”

  The gunman appeared slightly flummoxed by this. Vera just prayed that he believed her, and cared enough not to go ahead anyway. He glanced at the boot, then Vera, then Gregg, then back at the boot; pondering for a while, he eventually conceded: “Okay. You drive.” he said handing the keys to Gregg.

  Gregg’s foreboding was instantly and visibly abated, as was Vera’s. They all clambered back into the car.

  “Don’t put the lights on, yet.” asserted the gunman, as Gregg started the car.

  “But I can’t see anything.” Gregg pointed out disconcertedly.

  “Jus’ drive straight back. I’ll tell y’u when t’stop.” directed the gunman.

  Eventually, Gregg managed to manoeuvre the car out of the field and turned it to face the road, then asked: “Can I put the lights on, now?”

  “Yes, you’d better.”

  “Which way do you want to go?”

  “Wha’s right?”

  “I think either way will lead on to the A4. Left is quickest.” advised Gregg rather pointedly.

  “Which way is Windsor?” added the gunman.

  “You have to go right, then bear right at the next turn; that takes us on to the race track road, over the river, and joins with the A308... That takes you straight into Windsor.” answered Vera knowledgeably.

  “Okay. Go right and ‘ead f’r Windsor.” said the gunman; leaning forward, he placed his hand on Gregg’s shoulder and continued: “Drive slow. Don’ do anyfink to attract attention...I’ll be watchin’.”

  Chapter Two

  As they drove along the A308 on the outskirts of Windsor, Vera desperately pondered the gunman’s likely motives: it did not help her nerves. Gregg, meanwhile, was considering what options there were to unarm their kidnapper: he concluded the best policy would be to attract attention to their plight and hope someone would contact the police. Before long they were approaching a major junction.

  “We’re already in Windsor. Where do you want to go?” asked Gregg as he slowed behind a lorry.

  “Well, I don’ wanna see the Queen.” quipped the gunman. After looking around and noting the road sign ahead, he continued: “Jus’ keep on the ‘308 and ‘ead f’r Staines.”

  They continued for several miles in silence. An unbearable tension was building, when – yet again – the gunman quite inexplicably had a change of mood and asked them: “Do y’u like music?” “Sorry?” said Vera, nonplussed.

  “Why don’ y’u put the radio on?” he firmly suggested. Vera did as requested and following some random tuning, managed to find Elvis Presley singing Suspicion, which did not feel inappropriate under the circumstances.

  “Yeah, I like this one.” commented the gunman – Vera audibly sighed – “Wha’s a matter: don’ y’u like Elvis?” he enquired in an oddly light-hearted manner.

  “I love Elvis.” said Vera dispassionately. It seemed like the gunman was trying to turn this nightmare into some sort of jolly road-trip.

  “What about The Beatles? You girls all like them – don’ y’u? They got a film out, y’u know?” “Yes – I heard that.” was Vera’s disinterested reply.

  “Rolling Stones – they’re good... I can’ get no...satisfaction, cos I try and I try... Can’ get no....” the gunman started singing to himself, albeit extremely badly; then suddenly broke off to shout: “Slow down! Y’u’ goin’ too fast!”

  “Sorry.” murmured Gregg. Gregg had been considering various driving tactics that might draw attention, but it clearly wasn’t going to be that easy, as the gunman was evidently quite alert.

  “Really gets int’y’u ‘ead that song, don’ it?” continued the gunman.

  “Can’t say I’ve heard that one.” said Gregg slightly mystified.

  “Nah. It’s not out yet.” explained the gunman, which served only to confuse them further, as they were not familiar with pirate radio stations.

  “I prefer The Righteous Brothers – that sort of thing.” commented Vera, once more attempting to move the conversation in a more wholesome direction.

  The gunman returned to singing under his breath what can only be described as a personalised medley version of The Stones’ (latterly) classic track. While he was enjoying watching the twinkling of the street lights in the distance, immersed in his little tune, Vera starting mouthing to Gregg; this quickly became a loud whisper – the gunman now seemed too distracted to notice, or perhaps care.

  “What are we going to do?” Vera remonstrated, implying that Gregg should have a ready formulated plan.

  “I don’t know. We need to find somewhere that sells food...”

  “At this time...? Tell him we’re running out of petrol.”

  “Right. Good idea.” agreed Gregg: there was a bound to be a petrol station somewhere soon. After a few minutes, Gregg coughed loudly; after getting no response, he turned off the radio: “Er, Mr Brown...? Mr Brown?” “Yeah – what?” he replied irritably.

  “Do you know where you want to go? Only we’re getting low on fuel.”

  “Okay. Stop at the next garage. No funny stuff, though.” came his rather nonchalant reply.

  Not long after this exchange they entered Staines, crossing the River Colne over Staines Bridge, before bearing right into the High street. It was now about 10.30 PM. Staines was not exactly a hive of activity on a Friday night, but there was a small Esso garage still open for business. Gregg pulled onto the forecourt and drew up beside the second of the two petrol pumps. The gunman shoved two pound notes into Greggs face, saying: “E’ya: get five gallons, an’ don’ try anyfink.” The middle-aged garage attendant casually approached the car; Gregg wound down his window. “What can I do y’u for, sir?” asked the attendant.

  “...Er, five gallons of premium...please.” instructed Gregg a little hesitantly; he was tempted to raise the alarm, but didn’t quite have the nerve.

  As the attendant started filling the car, Vera surreptitiously nudged Gregg in an effort to prompt some action or other, but Gregg was still too hesitant to do anything overt for fear that the gunman would shoot them and the garage attendant. Unfortunately, there was no one else about the street at that particular moment, so he decided to bide his time. Gregg paid the attendant, who was quick to present the change before Gregg could wind-up the window in a vain attempt to provoke suspicion.

  “Ere y’u’r – don’t forget y’u change.” said the attendant dropping the coins into Greggs palm through the nearly closed window. The attendant had remained completely oblivious of the circumstances affecting the occupants of the Singer. Gregg had no choice but to continue the journey and so re-joined the High Street road, heading toward the City. Gregg gave the change to Vera: she passed it back to the gunman, who somewhat creepily stroked her hand as he took the money. However, this had conveniently distracted the gunman, whom Gregg believed may have lost track of their direction of travel; he figured that the city was a preferable destination to that of the route into the relatively unpopulated Surrey countryside. They were now on the A30 heading towards the London Borough of Hounslow; passing through the quiet suburb of Ashford and behind the vast swathes of concrete that constituted London Airport, there was little of interest other than the city lights, which seemed to pacify the gunman, lulling him into a hypnotic daze.

  Eventually the A30 became the A4 and civilisation begun to return, albeit predominantly in the form of resid
ential housing, as they entered Osterley, heading into Brentford. At this point the gunman suddenly awoke from his dream state as another car overtook them and signalled for them to pull over: Gregg had deliberately left his indicator on for some considerable distance, in addition to speeding up and slowing down – this had finally got someone’s attention.

  “What the fuck’s ‘e want?” snapped the gunman angrily as Gregg pulled over and stopped behind the other vehicle.

  “I don’t know.” replied Gregg nervously.

  “Right, jus’ act normal. Watch what y’u say or I’ll shoot the lot o’ y’u.”

  The ominous threat hung heavily over Gregg and Vera as the driver of the other vehicle approached them.

  “Did you know your indicator’s been on for the last mile or so?” asked a plumpish young man with blond hair as Gregg wound down the window. The man had a bewildered smile beaming from his chubby face.

  “Jus’ get rid of ‘im.” ordered the gunman vehemently.

  Gregg stuck his head out of the window and smiled back, saying: “No I didn’t. Thanks.” “You okay, then?” the man asked circumspectly.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Gregg replied. This seemed to placate him and he returned to his vehicle, quickly pulling away.

  “Wha’s the idea? I’m gonna be watchin’ from now on.” The gunman said in an ominous tone, “Le’s find somewhere f’r food.” then curiously added, “I fink there’s a chippy jus’ up the road.”

  Sure enough, a few hundred yards further on was the imaginatively named Fred’s Chip Shop and it was still open. “Pull in ‘ere” instructed the gunman pointing at the lay-by in front of the shop. Gregg and Vera now realised that the gunman hadn’t been quite as inattentive in respect of their travel route as they had previously assumed, and he clearly had some familiarity with this part of Outer-London. As they pulled-up level with the shop doorway, they wondered how the gunman would play this one – there might be an opportunity to escape. The traffic on the M4 thundered just above them as they sat in the surreal half-gloom below the fly-over. Vera noticed a sign in the window of the chip shop which stated ‘Last Fish Orders 11PM’; the shop was empty of customers and it was near to closing time.

  “Right, this is ‘ow this one’s gonna go: give us the keys.” ordered the gunman – Gregg promptly handed back the keys – “Val can stay in the car...”

  “My name’s Vera.” interrupted Vera, slightly perturbed.

  “Eh...? Oh, right, yeah – Vera. You stay in the car. Don’ try anyfink funny.” compelled the gunman, then clutching Gregg on the shoulder continued: “You and me will go in. Don’t look at me. Any funny stuff an’ I starts shootin’.”

  As the two men climbed out of the car, both on the driver’s side, Vera considered the significance of the fact that the gunman had removed the handkerchief hiding his face, and although neither Vera nor Gregg were able to look at his face full on, Gregg would certainly have the opportunity to form a reasonable impression of his features in the bright light of the shop; moreover, the woman in the shop would have a perfect view of the gunman. It occurred to her that their chances of surviving this bizarre episode may have diminished. But, she could not bring herself to run, thereby abandoning Gregg and quite possibly getting some or all of them shot, including the completely unwitting lady serving in the shop.

  The two men approached the counter, the gunman hiding the gun under his jacket. Gregg restrained himself from glancing at the gunman, keeping his eyes down; he was feeling pretty drained by now and looked decidedly sallow. He hoped that Vera would make a run for it and then he would try to disarm the gunman, but she was sat motionless, staring ahead. There wasn’t likely to be any support from the stony-faced woman behind the counter, either, as she was middleaged and overweight; worse still, she was an Italian who could only speak pigeon-English.

  “Large chips.” said the gunman tapping a coin on the counter. The woman looked up at the clock – it was just after 11 PM – then she sniffed and conceded to his order. “Close, open?” she asked in thick Italian accent and glanced at the pile of newspapers behind the counter.

  “Eh...? Oh, open; an’ put plenty o’ vinegar on.”

  The lady finished adding salt then took two sheets of newspaper to use for the outer wrapping, before presenting the chips to the gunman; she looked at Gregg, half expecting another order, but Gregg kept his eyes fixed on the marble counter.

  “Shilling.” she stated holding out her hand and glaring at the gunman. The gunman slapped the coin in her hand, clumsily grasping the chips with his free hand and barged Gregg towards the door: they left the shop. The woman promptly locked-up.

  Back in the car, the gunman sounded extremely ravenous as he gorged on his chips. “Mmm, lovely these. Want one?” he asked, shoving the bag in front of Vera: “No thanks.” she replied haughtily; “Dunno what y’u missin’” he scoffed and then offered them to Gregg, who also declined.

  The couple continually glanced at each other, both desperately seeking a solution to their deepening crisis, while the gunman happily gobbled chips, making repugnant slobbering noises, much to Vera’s disgust. The gunman handed back the keys.

  “Le’s go.” he demanded; “Do y’u know Kew Gardens?” he asked with a burp.

  “Yes, I think so.” replied Gregg confidently.

  “Right, tha’s the way I wan’ y’u t’go.”

  Gregg pulled-out into the traffic behind a no. 65 bus. They then followed this bus past some ageing gas works, a giant white gasometer building rising out of the darkness like an enormous alien spacecraft; this was shortly followed by the obsolete, yet still imposing Victorian masterpiece of the Waterworks’ standpipe tower, before turning right onto Kew Bridge. From the view over the Thames (illuminated by the bridge lights) the gasometer was again visible on the right hand side, but this was not in Vera’s line of vision, as she aimlessly watched a small boat pass under the bridge. Soon they were passing though Kew Green, past St. Anne’s Church and continuing along the A307 and the walled boundary of the botanic gardens. Towards the end of this stretch, the gunman threw the screwed-up chip wrappings out of the window, which caused the driver behind to flash his lights and furiously beep his horn. The hapless couple momentarily hoped this might provoke something helpful to them; unfortunately, the car turned off soon after. About 100 yards further on was a row of shops (on the left hand side,) with a lay-by.

  “Pull in ‘ere.” the gunman abruptly ordered. Gregg deliberately swerved and braked hard into the lay-by, which caused the car behind to flash his lights. They sat there, with the engine running for several minutes, while the gunman perused the shop fronts. Outside of a newsagents’ he spotted a cigarette machine.

  “Do y’u smoke?” the gunman asked non-specifically.

  “Um? Sometimes.” answered Vera.

  “Did you want some cigarettes?” asked Gregg.

  “Ave y’u got some?” enquired the gunman hopefully.

  “Well, no. We don’t smoke in the car.” replied Gregg, which confused the gunman.

  “Right...? I think there’s a machine over there... I’ll give y’u some money and you go get the fags.” he instructed, tapping Vera on the shoulder.

  “Oh, okay.” she said, a glimmer of hope for an escape flickering across her eyes.

  “Don’ run, or y’u’ boyfrien’s dead.” he reminded her in anticipation of the possibility. Her heart immediately sunk.

  While at the cigarette dispenser, Vera seriously did ponder running, but she just couldn’t bring herself to leave Gregg to his probable death. So, she did as she was told and returned to the car with a packet of ten Kensitas.

  “Okay, keep goin’.” he prompted Gregg; “Give us the cigarette lighter.” he added. Puffs of smoke wafted over their heads; then the gunman started coughing and hurriedly unwound the window to chuck the newly lit cigarette out into the road: orange cinders sparkled in the darkness. The gunman then enquired: “What gear you in?” “Sorry...? Um, third.” answered Gregg
hesitantly.

  “Watch out, there’s some road works up ‘ere.”

  As they cleared the bend, sure enough there were some road works. Soon after this, they passed Richmond railway station. They had now been trapped inside the Singer for about two hours.

  “Don’t go over the bridge.” insisted the gunman, referring to Richmond Bridge. So Gregg continued through Richmond, by-passing the bridge, following the A307 road parallel to the river which headed toward Petersham. Before entering Petersham, they passed through the wooded area of Petersham Common. There was no lay-by along this road, so when the gunman decided he wanted them to pull over about half way along the wooded stretch, he told Gregg to pull onto the grass verge. The road wasn’t busy, but there was still a steady (albeit sporadic) flow of traffic. They sat there in silence, as though waiting for something, but after about two minutes the gunman decided to continue on.

  Once past Petersham they were heading into Kingston, but in between they passed by Richmond Golf Club, which backed onto Richmond Park – this constituted a huge area of both open and wooded parkland. Along this stretch of the A307 there was a substantial lay-by, which they initially drove past. Worryingly, the gunman’s interest was sufficiently piqued by this discovery that he forced them to make a U-turn and return to it.

  “Park ‘ere an’ turn the engine off.” directed the gunman. Gregg and Vera sat rigid with fear; they both imagined that this could be their last moments on Earth. Then the gunman said: “I need a piss. This’ll ‘ave to do... Give us the keys... Right, me ‘n’ y’u boyfriend are gonna go f’r short walk.” he started, addressing Vera, “You stay ‘ere, an’ remember: if y’u a’n’t ‘ere when we get back, ‘e’s dead.” he convincingly informed her.

  Both of the couple were unsure as to what the gunman’s intentions really were: it could have just been a ruse to make their execution easier – or perhaps worse. Vera waited, staring straight ahead; she was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Previously unimaginable scenes of horror played out in her mind. She instinctively went to look at her watch, but the gunman had taken that right at the start of the abduction. It seemed as though they were taking forever; Gregg could already be dead: maybe she should just make a run for it, or flag down a passing vehicle. But what if the gunman did just want to relieve himself – such an action could get them both killed for nothing? She was just on the verge of opening her door, when the drivers’ door opened. She prepared herself for the worst and expecting the gunman to get in beside her, was immediately overcome with relief when she realised that is was Gregg – still in one piece. She audibly gasped and let out an emotional laugh of joy. Then, just for a second, she allowed herself to hope that Gregg had overcome the gunman, but the moment was all too brief, as she heard the rear door open and smelt the gunman’s aftershave.