I buzz again, lean hard this time in case something’s not connected. Then wait. And again, nothing. Check my watch and it’s eight on the dot now. I take a step back and look up at her window. It’s dark. Which means something’s fucked here. Rob found out and beat her to death. Or she changed her mind. I check my mobile for messages. Nothing.
She’s in the shower, she’s asleep, she’s knocked to the floor, gagged and bound and screaming for help in a dark flat.
Shut up, man.
So I buzz again, because it might just be that she can’t hear it. And because it’s something else to do. I’m out of ideas.
Why wouldn’t she be there? Unless someone got to her.
The guy in the black leather jacket, maybe. He’s not a copper. He could be working for Morris, but then why would Morris check up on me?
I walk round to the carpark. Stokes’ Escort isn’t there. No lights in any of the windows, so either Stokes has found out and done something stupid, or he’s managed to persuade her to do another bunk.
If that’s the case, then I’m back to the drawing board. Even worse, they’re going to be looking out for me, and they know what I look like, the pair of them. Christ, Alison, why’d you have to go and piss me around? I mean, she knows what’s at stake here and it’s certainly not a chunk of stolen money.
I should have kept my mouth shut. I shouldn’t have gone up there; I shouldn’t have talked to her. She’s still a bloody kid, and she’s not about to trust one of Morris’ goons over her own boyfriend, even if he is a prize prick. If I was any kind of detective, I’d have known that. But I had to play Sir Galahad.
Bollocks to the job. I’ve had enough. Let Mo handle it from here on out. I’ll get the scally on the phone, let him know the situation. As far as I’m concerned, I’m finished with it. I’m gone. Their fucked-up little family, their problem.
I start to cross the grass, hit pavement. I’ll ring Mo from the car, then drive home. There’s nothing more I can do here.
And if he wants to get hard with me, I’ll remind him that I have dirt to dish. Let’s see how Morris reacts when he finds out his son’s been keeping it in the family.
Somewhere, there’s the sound of an engine. I don’t hear it properly until I’m in the middle of the road. Then this horrible grating sound rises above the rain and I have to cock my head to figure out where it’s coming from. It gets louder, closer. I narrow my eyes, peer up the road.
Definite movement.
And then two headlights blaze up like a couple of fiery white eyes. Roaring, the engine gunned for all it’s worth.
I’m stuck. Caught and frozen in the glare, thinking daft thoughts like wasn’t this the beginning of Randall amp; Hopkirk (Deceased)! And, fuck me, but tyres do squeal. I thought it was just the movies.
Too scared to move, too scared to stay put.
A small car with a grinding engine. Bearing down on me.
Fucking aiming for me.
The whole world shudders to a halt.
It’s a full car. I can make out passengers, silhouetted.
I should jump. I should get out of the way.
And I try, just as a sudden wind whips around my legs. It feels like someone kicked me in the ribs. Twist up onto the bonnet. Clatter over the roof, and I’m thinking, hey, I’m going to be fine. It hurts like a bastard, but the impact didn’t kill me, so I’m fine. I’m going to be I tumble off the roof of the car, slam off the boot and hit the tarmac with the top of my head.
The world goes grey for a second, but I’m brought back by the pain. I let out the breath I’ve been holding with a whine.
Open my eyes to see nothing but the black of the road. Blink as much as I can, but I can’t shake the blur.
I let myself go limp on the road. A fuzzy mental check and I don’t think anything’s broken, just battered. My head’s bleeding, though. Something warm and sticky is gumming up my eyes.
My tooth throbs.
That little fucker just can’t give it up for a second.
FORTY
I don’t think about where I am. I don’t think about what just happened. All I think about is whether I need to change my boxers. When I move my leg, the skin stings with urine.
So yeah, I do. So much for Nan’s advice.
I want to sleep, but I know I can’t. More advice from Nan, that one. You go to sleep after a knock to the head, you’ll end up in a coma. And I’ve got to stay alive. I concentrate on my breathing, try to keep it from slowing. My head spins. I’ve got blood on my tongue and the smell of my own piss makes me want to heave.
“I think I got him.’ A whining voice. I know it from somewhere. I keep my eyes half-closed, playing possum.
Like there’s anything else I can do.
‘Good.’ Man, I know that voice too, but my brain’s so fogged up I can’t make any connections. ‘Get him in the back of the car.’
‘Fuck that. I’m not sitting next to him.’
‘Stick him in the fuckin’ boot, man.’
A pair of market trainers come into view. Pumas with a mucky red stripe. Old jeans swim into focus, the kind that look pre-distressed. Whoever knocked me over is a ponce.
Hands grab me under the arms, pull me up with my feet dragging in front of me. My head lolls forward. One of my leg buckles and I hope it isn’t broken. My back screams and I want to scream with it.
‘C’mon, man, hold him straight. Don’t dance with the fucker.’
A breeze dries the blood on my face. I can feel it start to crust up. It itches.
‘I’m not dancing with the fucker, but if you’d take some of the fuckin’ weight…’
I hear the boot being opened, feel myself turned. I keep my eyes closed now, but I can see light through my eyelids. They dump me head first into the boot. I crumple, double up and someone pushes my foot so it’s twisted against my leg. Then the boot lid comes down with a thump.
No use in kicking up a fuss, not yet. Give myself a chance to heal first, get my head straight. Difficult to do when it feels like I’ve been pushed arseways through a woodchipper.
I can hear muffled sounds outside the car. They’re talking, arguing.
I recognised those voices, but I still can’t place them.
Fuck. Think, Cal.
Can’t. Too tired.
Then I pass out.
Coach class.
I open my eyes to darkness, feel a jolt and think I’ve gone blind. Then I remember where I am. The boot vibrates under me, jiggling me about. So we’re moving, which means they meant to hit me, as if I didn’t know that already.
When I try to move, I can’t. Pressed up by the back seats, there’s a weight holding me to the floor of the boot. Someone’s sitting in the back seat, and he’s a heavy bugger. That makes three in the car, at least. From the flash in the dark, I thought I could make out more, but it could have been the shock and the light.
I run my tongue over my throbbing tooth. It throbs harder, but it keeps me awake.
So that’s three. At least. Maybe a couple more. Which means I’m fucked.
My knees knock together, my gut pitches, my spine feels out of whack. The boot has filled up with the smell of me and it’s almost unbearable, the stench of urine and fear high in my nostrils.
