by Shaun Baines
Polly cleared her throat. "It would be best if you left."
Her right eye twitched. Bronson's cheek twitched in response.
"Well, if you're not open," Bronson said loudly, "I'll leave you to whatever it is you're doing."
He walked to the shop door, opening it and closing it with a clash. Bronson turned back to Polly and pressed a finger to his lips.
Polly screamed. "I have to do what they say."
Bolting to the door, she knocked a row of ham and pickle sandwiches to the floor, tumbling into Bronson as she fell.
He struggled from under her and saw the shapes of teenagers through the plastic sheeting.
"Bollocks," Bronson said, helping Polly to her feet. Her glasses were askew and she nudged them back into position.
"Run," he said and thrust Polly outside, hearing her screams fade as she pelted down the street.
Bronson launched himself through the plastic. The room beyond was a chamber of tiled walls with speckled rubber flooring. A bank of wide-mouthed ovens lined the far wall. A central counter top was dusted with flour and hardened gobbets of icing. Cooking implements were scattered amongst the debris.
The teenagers stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting for him.
Bronson swallowed his fear and scanned the room for a weapon, regretting his earlier bravado. A rolling pin sat on the counter top and he eased toward it.
The teenagers rushed him as one.
Bronson staggered backward. Thin hands clawed at his face. Knees and elbows struck his body. The teenagers climbed over him, like ants and their weight drove Bronson to the floor. He covered his face, slapping away kicks and punches.
One kid leaned in too close. Bronson grabbed him, held onto him, dragging him down and using him as a shield. The rest of the teenagers didn't seem to care. Fuelled by bloodlust, they attacked indiscriminately, striking both Bronson and their former friend.
Bronson pitched the teenager into the pack, leaving him precious space to move. Scrambling to the counter top, he lurched for the rolling pin, but it slipped from his grasp, spinning out of reach. A kick landed on the back of his knee. He almost fell, but Bronson held onto the counter for support. The rolling pin was gone and he grabbed at the next best thing.
He turned, swinging at his opponent with a biscuit cutter. It connected, marking the red haired girl's face with the bloody outline of a gingerbread man. She shrieked and stumbled, her hands pressed to the wound.
Bronson wanted to stomp her with his boot, to deliver justice for her unfortunate victim at the bus shelter.
As he raised his foot, the rolling pin struck the side of his head. His teeth clattered and his vision blurred. Another strike. And another.
Bronson slumped, darkness collecting at the back of his eyes. He heard laughter and howling. He was pulled and pushed and slapped, but he didn't see any of it. For a while, it felt like the teenagers had gone. He dropped to his knees, swaying and fighting to stay upright.
And then the teenagers were back, dragging him along the floor. There was no pain. There was a sense of floating and nausea. A grey rectangle loomed ahead of him. Something creaked open and Bronson was thrust head first into somewhere dark. His body was heavy and he lay his head down, ready to sleep.
As his eyes closed, the last Bronson saw was the glow of blue flames.
Chapter Ten
"Time for work."
The voice barely registered with her. Karin was curled on top of a nest of shredded cardboard. Her hands were clamped under her arm pits, but her feet were numb with cold. As she'd tried to sleep, another girl had offered to share body heat with her. Karin had responded by calling her a 'dyke,' something she regretted now.
Sleep came in fitful spurts, but at the calling of the voice, Karin had convinced herself her recent captivity was nothing but a dream.
All around her were shuffling feet and hushed whispers. Reluctantly, Karin opened her eyes. The room was still gloomy, but her eyes had stopped stinging. Adrian brushed strands of cardboard from his pyjamas. The girl who had propositioned her was teasing out knots from her hair. She caught Karin staring and looked away.
The last inmate was a man, much older than the rest. Karin guessed he was around twenty-five, twenty-six years old. His pyjamas hung off a thin frame and one of his sleeves was bunched at the shoulder where he was missing an arm.
"No more sleeping. Time for work."
Karin followed the sound of the voice and was instantly awake.
Choo. He stood by an open door, wringing his hands together.
Jumping to her feet, Karin's nerves crackled with electricity. The irritation was back. Her neck burned with anxiety and the room fell away to nothing. Her fellow inmates dissipated into smoke. All Karin saw was the man who had put her here. The man who had fooled her into thinking he was the victim.
Her jaw set like concrete and Karin stormed toward him.
He didn't see her at first. He was busy mopping a furrowed brow with a handkerchief, but as she approached, his eyes widened in fear.
"Back to work," he said, scurrying backwards into the wall. "Back to work."
Karin raised her hand, swiping downwards at Choo. The strike was halted by Adrian, who held onto her wrist.
"You're making it worse," he said.
Choo cowered, fumbling in his pocket. He brought out a can of pepper spray, aiming it at Karin.
"He tricked me," she said, struggling to free her hand.
"He tricked all of us," Adrian said. "He came to my outreach centre. Asked if I could help him with his benefit claims. I told him he had to be looking for a job, that he wouldn't receive a penny without that and I ended up here."
Adrian pointed at the other girl. "Rachel was taken on her way home from shopping for her mam. The one-armed guy is called Crash, I think. He doesn't speak. I don't know what happened to him, but Choo is sly. There's no getting out until he says so."
Karin wrestled from Adrian's grasp, her eyes going to the bandage around his head. "He do that to you?"
Adrian nodded, his fingers tugging at the tattered material. "He waits until you're asleep. There's not much food so you tire easily." His lips trembled and he stared at the floor. "They cut off my ear."
Karin swallowed. "Who's 'they'?"
Choo held up a silver whistle tied around his neck, sending a piercing shriek through the room.
Footsteps thundered from beyond the door. Rachel and Crash hurried to their cardboard nests, heads down, hands clasped in front of them.
Two men appeared in the doorway. Dressed in black, they wore sheepskin coats and rubber gloves. In their hands were whips made of plaited rope. The whips dripped liquid on the floor and Karin smelled bleach.
Choo uncurled his finger toward her and the guards lunged.
Fear and adrenaline kicked in. Karin ran at them, her fist rising in the air. She swung and missed. One guard snatched her arm in an iron grip, twirling her on the spot. Suddenly she was facing him in a dancer's embrace, his arms wrapped around her. She wriggled, kicking out her legs, but his grip only grew stronger.
An exploratory hand snaked to her lower back, his fingers finding naked flesh. The guard yanked up her pyjama top, exposing skin tattooed with a blue dolphin swimming up her spine.
The second guard came behind her. His whip slapped across her back. There was a thud, but not much pain and Karin continued to struggle. After the second blow, a burning sensation began to build. The third strike engorged the heat, as if a flame had found kindling.
Karin was thrown to the floor. Her hands went to her back and she recognised her mistake. The skin of her palms blistered, the chemicals transferring from one body part to another.
The two guards crowded her, the whips trailing behind their shoulders as they raised them up.
Adrian threw himself on top of Karin. "Stop," he shouted, his voice breaking. "For the love of God."
"More," Choo said. "Give her more."
"We'll work," Adrian said, turning to Karin.
"We'll go to work, won't we?"
Her back throbbed, as if it had been lacerated and dowsed in lemon juice. Her hands stung, the skin threatening to split. Karin nodded frantically. Anything, she thought. Anything to make it stop.
The guards waited for their orders. Time stretched on while Choo seemingly spent years making his decision.
Choo waved the guards aside, following them as they retreated through the door. "Back to work," Choo said over his shoulder.
Pulling Karin to her feet, Adrian lifted her top. "Hold onto it," he said, racing back to his nest. He returned with a bottle of water and sprayed it over Karin's skin.
"I don't have enough," he said.
"Use mine," Rachel said, offering up her bottle.
Adrian dowsed the rest of her back and soaked Karin's hands. Grabbing a handful of shredded cardboard, he dried the raised welts.
Karin swore and twisted out of his reach. "It feels like you're using a Brillo pad, you idiot."
Crash took the sleeve hanging from his missing arm and tore it loose, handing it over.
Adrian used it to dab Karin's raw skin until it was dry.
"It's going to sting for a bit," he said.
Karin slapped his hands away. No shit, she thought. The pain pulsed with the beat of her heartbeat. It was ebbing, but what was new, what was building, was her shock at being so powerless. For the second time since meeting Choo, he'd taken away her strength. He'd humiliated her.
Karin tried to form fists with her hands, but the skin was too swollen. It hurt too much and though she didn't want to admit it, she was afraid of what might happen if she lost her temper again.
Adrian watched her under hooded eyes. Rachel and Crash were at his side.
"We could have escaped," Karin said.
"They were all over you," Adrian said.
"We're too tired," Rachel said. "I mean, look at us."
For the first time, Karin noticed bandaging on Rachel's hand. If Adrian had lost an ear, Karin guessed Rachel was missing a finger. The stump of Crash's arm was visible. The wound had healed years before. Karin looked over Crash's ill-fitting pyjamas and didn't want to guess what else he was missing.
"I can't stay here," she said, not recognising the whine in her voice.
Adrian placed a hand on her shoulder. "Sometimes it takes as much strength to stay as it does to fight. We'll get out eventually."
"And until then we work?" Karin asked, looking toward the door. "What exactly do they want us to do?"
Chapter Eleven
"Why didn't you call me when you saw how many there were?" Daniel asked.
Bronson gingerly stroked his upper lip. The skin was red and shiny where the rest of his injuries glowed yellow and green.
"They burnt off my bloody moustache," he said. "That's never growing back."
His friend was half-dead, thought Daniel and as his imagination painted pictures of the beating – the beating Daniel had allowed by not being there – his frown deepened. "You're an idiot. Do you know that?"
"Luckily, the shop owner came back. She pulled me out of the oven," Bronson said. "I thought they were just kids. They were more like animals."
"You should have called me," Daniel said. "Do you know how close you came to dying?"
"Since when did that bother you?" Bronson shifted his position with a groan.
Daniel picked mud from his trousers. "It bothers me."
"So why are we here?" Bronson asked. "I said, it was dangerous."
Daniel and Bronson were in a field, hiding behind a water trough. The greasy liquid attracted the type of insects with more eyes than legs. Daniel snatched one from the air and crushed it before continuing his vigil of the pub.
"The people behind the kidnappings are called the Motorheads," he said. "This is the biggest biker gang in Newcastle."
The Bull and Cart was a single storey building on the outskirts of Glebe, Washington. It was poured concrete and pebble dashed with brown stones. Its windows were made of thickened yellow glass. The pub was surrounded by the tarmac moat of a car park. Withered weeds stood next to battered motorbikes, their keys hanging from the ignition. No-one dared take a vehicle from the Bull.
The place was a dive, in keeping with the bikers' reputation, but it also sat on the feeder lane to the A1 motorway and from there, anywhere in the country. For a quick getaway, it was perfect.
"Yeah, but these lot are called the Nottinghams," Bronson said. "It may be a stupid name, but it's definitely not the Motorheads."
"We're going to the pub at ten o'clock in the morning. I thought you'd like it?"
"It's a biker's bar. They don't answer to anyone. Least of all us."
"Don't worry," Daniel said. "I won't leave you alone again."
Bronson was difficult to read, but Daniel caught the surprise on his face and knew he had said too much. He was a grown man, not a child and Daniel needed Bronson to know he was trusted.
There would be a time in Daniel's future when that trust would be called upon.
"You said it yourself, this is weird," Daniel said. "Kidnapping teenagers is one thing, but holding onto them for weeks doesn't make sense. It increases the risk."
A lorry paused at a junction, its dead indicators giving no clue which way it was about to turn. On its side was the company title of Hadaway and Tripe, Purveyors of Fine Meats and Innards. It was accompanied by the picture of a smiling lamb, seemingly happy with the idea of being diced into cutlets. The lorry rumbled onto the A1 and was swallowed in a swarm of a hundred other lorries.
"But what if they're ferried around," Daniel continued. "Kept on the move. It would make them harder to find."
"You think they're being held in the back of a truck?" Bronson asked.
Daniel pointed to the pub. "These guys are couriers. They take whatever you want wherever you want it. Why not frightened kids?"
"Because it's easier to heard kittens than kids."
"You can't hit a moving target," Daniel said, slipping from behind the water trough and over a rusting barbed wire fence.
Bronson scrambled after him, pulling a sawn-off chair leg from his jacket. "I can try," he said, taking a practice swipe.
Daniel picked his way through the car park. "We'll deal with the Pelaw lot soon enough, but right now, this is our priority."
"I like Sophia," Bronson said. "I really do."
Daniel stumbled over a patch of thistles, but righted himself before he fell.
"But I'm not sure why we're taking this job," Bronson continued, hitting the weeds with his chair leg. "We'd be better off finding out what's going on and taking a piece of the action."
Unlike his friend, Daniel hadn't brought a weapon. He didn't need one. Daniel took out his iPhone instead and sent a text. 'Have a great day at school, hon. Tell Uncle Bear I'll pick up chips on the way home.'
He returned the phone to his pocket. "You know why we're doing it. Let's go."
When they entered the pub, the music might have stopped if the Bull and Cart had had a jukebox. A wooden bar ran the length of the room, but there were no beer taps and no optics. Instead slabs of canned beer and bottles of suspicious looking spirits were stacked against a wall with drinkers helping themselves. The air was thick with yellow smoke. At the far end of the pub was a door for the Toilet. Not Male and Female. Just the Toilet and Daniel hoped his bladder didn't betray him.
The occupants watched them closely.
"What the hell is that?" Bronson whispered from the corner of his mouth.
Surrounded by beer barrels was a mechanical bull. It had seen better days, but judging by the smoke curling from its rear end, Daniel guessed it was still operational. But only just.
"Let's get a drink," Daniel said.
The barman was a slim man with a patchy white beard and a deep scar over the bridge of his nose.
"I want to speak to the Sheriff," Daniel said to him.
Taking a can of beer, the barman drank it in a single gulp and belched loudly.
Bronson wafted his hand in front of his nose. "Have you been eating eggs?"
"I ask again," Daniel said to the barman. "The Sheriff. Now."
A barrel toppled over behind them and they turned to see a biker getting to his feet. He wore heavy leather trousers and boots up to his knees. The head of a snake tattoo peeked out from the collar of his T-shirt.
"It's Steve," Bronson said, holding out his hand. "How's it going, mate?"
"I told you before, my name is Viper," Steve said.
Daniel pushed himself away from the bar and towered over the biker. "That's clever," he said. "Because of the tattoo, right?"
"Except it looks more like a tapeworm," Bronson said.
More bikers got to their feet.
Bronson pressed a hand to his jacket, feeling for the chair leg. "Let's all calm down. We're just kidding around. You did a job for us, remember?"
"And I never got paid," Viper said, his eyes shooting laser beams.
"In fairness, that garlic bread was cold when you delivered it."
Viper searched the damage of Bronson's face. "Are you sure you want to start something here?" he asked. "Looks like you've already taken a beating."
"I just want to talk to the Sheriff," Daniel said, stepping between Viper and Bronson.
The room was silent, except for the creaking of floorboards. The bikers inched closer.
Bronson stepped forward.
Viper shifted his stance, ready to uncoil.
Only Daniel remained stationary. He'd been ready for this before he'd even walked through the door. His heart beat a steady rhythm. His mind planned and replanned the assault as the pieces moved around the board.
"You better leave," Viper said, stroking the snake at his neck. "We don't deal with the Daytons."
"Okay," Daniel said with a shrug.
Bronson hopped from foot to foot. "What?"
"There's no point in both of us waiting here," Daniel said.
He walked to the door, holding it open, spilling light into the pub. The bikers shrank from it like vampires.
"Call me when the Sheriff turns up," Daniel said to Bronson, "and try not to upset the Nottinghams."
