by Morton Bain
I awake an hour or so later, refreshed and ready to see my hostages.
When I enter the room containing my prisoners they’re both awake, sitting next to each other with their backs against the wall. ‘So,’ I say, ‘are we ready to play?’
‘We have a suggestion,’ the woman says. ‘What you’re asking us to do means that one of us will live for no reason other than blind luck. Why don’t you just toss a coin and decide on that basis which one of us lives and which one of us dies?’
The man nods his agreement.
‘Ah,’ I reply. ‘But that isn’t how this game works. You see, I want you both to be taking an active part in it. If I just wanted to kill someone on the basis of a coin toss, what would the point have been in bringing you both here? You see, I’m invested in you both now. No, the game is played according to the rules as outlined.’
‘We’re not going to play,’ the man says. ‘We’d rather both die.’
‘So you’d find it preferable to be responsible for two deaths rather than one? Think about the life whichever one of you is released will have. Another twenty years with your family. Twenty years you could spend doing good, as I’m sure whichever of you survives today will have their outlook on life transformed.’
‘Twenty years of guilt at having killed another person,’ the man replies. ‘You must be joking.’
‘Well I’m glad you’ve found your tongue,’ I say. ‘What you need to find now is your courage.’
‘We’re not going to change our minds,’ the woman says.
‘Do either of you have families?’ I ask.
Both the man and woman nod.
‘Hold your hands out. Both of you.’
The pair do as I ask, and I immediately see that both are married.
‘Throw me your wallets,’ I say.
‘If this is just about money we can get you that,’ the woman says. ‘I’m quite well off.’
‘Nothing to do with money. Now come on, wallets.’
The man reaches into his trouser pocket and retrieves a black leather wallet that has been deformed to match the shape of his thigh. He throws it to my feet. The woman reaches into her handbag and pulls out a large brown purse, which she lobs in my direction. I retrieve driving licences from purse and wallet, and place them on the ground in front of me.
‘I’m not interested in whether either of you can drive,’ I say, ‘but I am interested in where you both live – information I now have. You see, chances are that your spouses and kids live at these addresses. Now, are we going to play the game, or do you want me to shoot the pair of you, and then go and shoot everyone that lives under your respective roofs? Don’t think for a second that I’m bluffing. I assure you that I’m not.’
The man and woman look at each other.
‘Are you going to stick to your silly principles,’ I say, ‘or save the lives of what, maybe four or five people?’
‘He’s bluffing,’ the woman says.
‘You really want to take that risk?’ I shout. ‘What would your kids think if they could see you gambling with their lives right now?’
The man looks more uncertain. I can see my words are working on him.
‘Have another chat,’ I say. ‘I’m going up for some fresh air. Something one of you could be experiencing in a couple of hours if you make the right decision.’
I lock my prisoners up and head up to ground level. The air is wonderfully fresh as I stand looking out to sea. I unzip and stand urinating, enjoying the freedom of being able to take a piss outdoors without fear of being seen. I sit on a tree stump and rest awhile. I figure on giving them half an hour or so to change their minds.
‘So, what’s it to be?’ I ask after returning to the bunker.
‘We’ll play,’ the man says.
‘Good choice! I’m genuinely surprised. I thought we were going to end up doing this the hard way. Right, first up a little task for you both.’ I drop an envelope in front of them, followed by a felt tip pen. ‘Before we get started I want you each to draw a toothbrush on the back of that letter. Try and make it look like the toothbrush you actually use.’
‘Whatever for?’ the woman asks.
‘Never you mind. Just humour me.’
The woman draws a toothbrush in profile, then holds it up for me to inspect.
‘Very good. Now buddy here’s turn.’
The woman passes envelope and pen to the man, who duly obliges.
‘Great, now I want you each to sign next to your drawing.’
The pair complies with my request.
‘Good stuff. Pass it back.’ The man slides the envelope over to me and I put it in a back pocket.
‘Right, let’s get on with things. I’ll just go and get the other gun.’
I go to the van and retrieve the second revolver. I check that one gun is unloaded, and that the other has a single bullet, chamber rotated ready to fire. Returning to the bunker I put the guns on the floor and say, ‘Ladies first. Which gun do you want to use?’
The woman takes the revolver nearest her. I slide the other firearm over to the man. ‘Okay, so you know the drill? Get nice and close to each other as I’m guessing neither of you is a good shot. Aim for torsos – less chance of missing that way.’ I move back towards the door. The pair each pick up their gun, and, holding them with hands that are trembling, raise them to chest level. ‘I’m going to count you down,’ I say. ‘Backwards from five. Ready? Five, four, three, two, one!’
As I shout ‘one’, both the man and woman swing towards me and pull triggers. I have barely enough time to react, ducking just in time. The sound of the gunshot in such a confined space is deafening. I run at the woman, who is standing nearest me, and wrestle the handgun from her hands. I load it quickly with bullets from my pocket, take aim and shoot, striking her in the chest. Without waiting for her to fall I swing and shoot at the man. I catch him in the arm with the first bullet, necessitating a more accurate shot that hits him in the upper chest. He collapses. I take a step back. Both of my hostages are on the ground now. I move over to the woman who is lying face down and put a bullet in the back of the head, then cross to where the man is lying and put a bullet in his forehead. Six shots in the space of a minute leaves me wondering if I’ve ruptured an eardrum. The smell of cordite is overpowering.
I’m fucking mad that they pulled the stunt they did, but accept I would probably have done exactly the same thing. I think what really infuriates me is that I was actually prepared to let the victor go, despite the danger this would have presented me. You see, we psychopaths do have morals of sorts. I go to the house and retrieve black plastic bin bags and tape. Back in the bunker I slide two bags onto each body, one going over their feet, the other going over their heads. The tape secures the bags. I can now get rid of the bodies without dripping blood all over the van. It takes a lot of effort to haul each body up to ground level, but after fifteen minutes I’ve done so. I slide both bodies into the back of the van and slam the door shut.
A storm breaks shortly after I set off. Rain batters the van and winds buffet it whenever the winding road I’m following loses its shelter. The weather matches my mood. I feel like breaking over someone. The road straightens out for a lengthy section, and in the distance I see what looks like a car accident. It seems a tree has come down on the road, landing right in the path of an oncoming vehicle. Behind the car that has smashed into the tree is another car, but I can’t tell from this distance whether it has collided with the car in front, or has stopped to help.
As I get nearer I can see that the occupant of the second vehicle – a tall man wearing a check shirt – has stopped to aid the leading driver. He turns to wave at me when he hears me approach. I’m going to stop alright, but not to lend assistance. I halt my car, and, fumbling under my seat for the knife that is hidden there, jump out and run at the Good Samaritan. The look on his face is a mixture of surprise and fear as I lunge at him with the blade. ‘There’s a . . .’ he begins, but steel pierces fle
sh before he can finish his sentence. My first thrust hits him in the upper arm. It’s by no means a fatal blow, but it disorientates him sufficiently to allow my second strike to be more precise, aimed at his heart. Although by no means an expert on human anatomy, I think I’m on target. I hit home hard, twisting the knife’s blade as I remove it. The man puts a hand to his chest and staggers forward, mouthing silent protests. He slumps to the ground, resting his back against the body of the crashed vehicle.
I immediately turn my attention to the occupant of the crashed vehicle, a blonde man in his thirties. The car’s crash impact has pushed its steering wheel up against the man’s torso. He looks trapped, but his eyes are open and he’s obviously still alive. I slap his face, and he reacts by grimacing. I don’t want to risk having another motorist come along and spot me, so I act quickly. I reach through the smashed glass of the driver’s window with my right hand, and slice the throat of the injured man. Blood spurts from his severed jugular. Not quite as dramatically as I had hoped, but then I guess he may have already lost a fair bit of blood.
I don’t have time to watch the man fade away; getting spotted would totally ruin my day. Nor do I have spare snooker balls to plant, but I’m not sure I would leave them even if I did. Too close to the house, which is in my name. I race back to the van, start its engine, and manoeuvre around the two stationary vehicles and fallen tree.
I travel another twenty miles before turning the van onto a private road that leads to a farmhouse. I follow the dirt track for a couple of hundred yards, before steering the van into the field of barley that borders the road on the right. The suspension just about copes with the rough ground; the crop folds under the front bumper of the van with ease. When I’m far enough in to the field to not be visible from the road I stop the vehicle and get out. I open the rear doors of the van and pull the plastic-wrapped corpses out, letting them fall unceremoniously onto the ground. I break open the plastic on both bodies around the head area, then pull out the two snooker balls in my right pocket, one green and one brown. I decide to pop the brown ball into the woman’s mouth, as it matches her outfit. The green ball goes in the man’s mouth. He isn’t wearing green, but looked a bit green when I pulled him out of the van at the house.
Chapter Eight
Two days after the bunker killing Joey, Courtney and myself head off to Heathrow to pick up the first group of Haitian orphans. We’ve hired a van that seats twelve – it will be a squeeze, but we should just about get everyone in. There are three kids scheduled to stay with families from my church, and a further four going to families from Joey’s; Courtney’s going to put his cousin and another Sister along for the trip up at his place. I feel nervous as we park the van on the second floor of a multi-storey at Terminal Three. I accept that smuggling coke using orphans from a disaster zone is a pretty novel and low-risk way of doing it, but even so . . . cocaine – it’s heavy shit if you get caught with this stuff.
The orphans’ flight is due to land at ten past eleven, and by the time we get into the terminal the screens are already displaying the flight as landed. We gather by the arrivals exit and wait for nine black faces.
The plan is to take all the kids for a meal at a Pizza Express in Hackney straight from the airport. While the kids are eating Joey’s going to drive the van and suitcases back to his place and remove the drugs. Courtney’s Haiti contact reckons the coke can be removed without wrecking the cases. If there are any that are too badly damaged they will be replaced prior to the return flight.
‘Where are these fucking kids?’ Joey says after we’ve been waiting for about twenty minutes. ‘They should be out by now. Courtney, why don’t you ring your cousin and find out how long they’re gonna be?’
‘I’m not ringing no-one,’ Courtney replies. ‘What if they’ve been caught and they’re with customs people right now?’
Joey’s silence indicates he cedes this point.
‘Maybe we should split up,’ I say. ‘If they get nabbed they’ll be trying to find out who was waiting for them.’
‘Hey, who’s doing the smuggling here?’ Joey says. ‘We’re just priests doing a good turn. Nothing anyone can pin on us.’
Twenty minutes later, when there’s still no sign of the kids, even Joey’s beginning to get nervous. Finally, just as we’re about to leave the terminal, a black woman with a trolley piled high with luggage appears, followed by seven skinny black kids. Another black lady dressed in a habit brings up the rear. She also is pushing a trolley, also heavily laden with bags.
‘That’s them,’ Courtney says, moving forward to greet his cousin.
After hugs and hellos we make our way to the van. We seem to be attracting quite a bit of attention from others in the terminal as we walk. Two men in their clerical garb, two nuns in habits, seven excited kids and a fat Rasta. The luggage falls off both trolleys several times before we get to the van. Eventually bags are stowed, everyone’s on board and we set off. Courtney, Joey and myself occupy the front seat, Joey at the wheel. During the drive into London Courtney talks with his cousin, using a combination of English and some sort of pidgin French. All I catch is that the flight went well, but the cousin is tired and looking forward to sleeping. The kids seem to find the drive enjoyable, pointing and shouting excitedly as they’re treated to the sight of roads without pot-holes, traffic lights that work and shops that haven’t been looted. The volume of their voices rises steadily, until, arriving at the Pizza Express restaurant, I find I have a throbbing headache.
We all hop out of the van, apart from Joey. I pray for strength as our throng enter the restaurant. A startled looking waitress greets us. ‘Table for eleven,’ Courtney says.
The meal is the chaotic affair you’d expect. The kids eat their pizza as if it’s the first meal they’ve had in a year. A fight breaks out at one point over a piece of garlic bread with a fork used to settle the argument. A girl who obviously isn’t used to sitting on chairs falls off hers and brings her plate of food to the floor in the process. Courtney and I exchange glances at one point. I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but I’m thinking ‘there’d better be a big payday in this for me’.
After what seems like two hours but is more likely forty-five minutes, Joey enters the restaurant. He has a broad smile on his face. ‘How we doing people?’ he asks the table.
Courtney stands up, saying, ‘Take my seat, Joey. Going outside for a cigarette.’
Finally everyone’s finished eating and fighting and the bill has been paid. We shepherd our charges to the van. I see Courtney pulling his cousin aside for a private chat and wonder what they’re discussing. We drive to Joey’s church where those offering accommodation have agreed to meet their new houseguests. By seven pm everyone’s been taken to their new residences, including Courtney’s cousin and the nun. Joey walks over to where I’m standing in the car park with a hand raised, palm out. I hi-five him. ‘Good work,’ he says.
‘Yeah?’
‘Very much “yeah”. Each case had about a key. Just shy of seven keys, baby. Time you thought about buying some new clothes, maybe upgrading your wheels . . .’
I drop in on Joey and Courtney two days later. Courtney opens Joey’s front door, and I’m surprised to see he’s sporting a black eye. That’s not the best way of putting it, I guess, because strictly speaking he always has two black eyes. He’s obviously been punched in the eye, however – that or collided with a fist-shaped object.
‘What happened to you?’ I ask as I cross the threshold.
‘I was going to ask you the same question.’
‘Me? I think I’d remember if I’d punched you . . .’
We walk in to the living room, where Joey is staring intently at his mobile phone. He’s so engrossed he doesn’t even look up to acknowledge my arrival.
‘I stopped at your place just now – to see if you needed a lift,’ Courtney starts to explain. ‘There was a man lookin’ in your big downstairs window . . .’
‘What . . .?’
‘When he saw me he turn round real quick. Looked guilty as hell, so I asked him what he was doing.’
‘A burglar?’
‘He didn’t look or sound like one. Sounded and looked a bit look you. But he looked like he knew I knew he shouldn’t be there. I tell him to get lost and he hit me.’
Knowing that Courtney wasn’t the sort of guy most men would dare to touch, I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice: ‘He hit you?’
‘He hit me. I knocked him down. Then I left ‘cos I knew he was going to stay down and I didn’t want no police trouble.’
‘You didn’t kill him?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Shit.’ I fumble for my phone and dial the home number. ‘Darling? Everything okay?’
‘Sort of. Except a man’s been found in the front garden. I just got back from Christine’s.’
‘Found?’ What’s he doing there?’
‘He seems to have been injured, but how I’ve absolutely no idea. There’s an ambulance here now, and I think they’re going to take him to hospital.’
‘What does the man look like?’
‘What does he look like?’ Lucy snorts a brief laugh. ‘Why should you care what he looks like? You can’t possibly know him.’
‘Tell me what he looks like. He might be one of the alcoholics I drop in on at that halfway house.’
‘I don’t think he’s an alcoholic. Too smartly dressed. He’s quite a handsome chap, actually – or would be without the bruising. About your age . . .’
I finish up the conversation, then turn to Courtney: ‘I think you slapped someone who very much wants to slap me – or worse.’
