Dick Alderman and Bill already have theirs on.
Bill hands me a hammer: ‘Take that too.’
I put on my gloves. I pick up the hammer. I put it in my other pocket.
Rudkin comes round to the back. He opens the doors.
I jump out after Bill, Alderman and Prentice following.
We’re round the back of a row of shops somewhere in Castleford.
‘Maurice, you and Jim go round front to keep an eye out,’ says Bill.
We both nod.
Bill pulls down his balaclava. He turns to the others: ‘You lads set?’
Alderman, Rudkin, and Craven nod once.
We all follow Bill along the back of the shops. He stops by a metal gate in a high wall with broken glass set in the cement on the top.
‘This it?’ he says to Dick Alderman.
Alderman nods.
‘Right,’ says Bill to me and Jim. ‘You two look sharp.’
We both set off jogging to the end of the alley, both turning back at the corner to see what the others are doing -
Bill and Dick are hoisting Rudkin over the wall and the broken glass, Craven scanning the alley.
Jim and I walk round to the front of the shops on the high street. We walk along the pavement until we come to it:
‘This it?’ I ask Prentice.
He nods.
We’re in the centre of Castleford and it’s dead but for the odd couple walking to and from the pub.
I turn and look at the window full of school portraits.
There’s a light on in the back. I hear something break, voices raised.
I turn back to Jim: ‘They’re in.’
He nods again, hands deep in his pockets.
There’s a tap on the door behind us. We look round and there’s Alderman at the glass, balaclava raised -
He opens the door: ‘Bill wants you to wait outside, Jim.’
Prentice nods.
I ask: ‘What about me?’
‘Come with me.’
I step inside the dark shop.
Alderman closes the door. He says: ‘Put your mask on and follow me.’
I take off my glasses. I take out the balaclava. I put my glasses in my pocket. I slip the balaclava on. I follow Alderman through into the back of the shop -
There’s a single light bulb and two men tied up and bleeding under it; five men in masks with hammers and wrenches stood over them.
One of the men is young and grossly overweight. He is gagged and bleeding from his nose. He is crying.
The other man is older; grey hair and a harsh face already swelling -
No gag.
Bill grabs the man’s face. He turns it to look up at me. He squeezes it. He says: ‘Just telling Mr Jenkins here how he’s got himself some new business partners.’
I hear Rudkin and Craven laugh beneath their masks.
I step closer to the man. I ask: ‘And what does Mr Jenkins think of that, I wonder?’
Bill dangles a bloody gag from the end of his glove. He chuckles: ‘Been a bit quiet about it actually.’
I say: ‘That’s not very polite, is it?’
‘Not very polite at all,’ says Bill.
‘Have to teach him some manners then, won’t we?’ I hiss.
Bill nods: ‘He’s going to need them if he wants to stay in fucking business.’
‘Roll up his trouser legs,’ I tell Craven.
Jenkins is squirming in the chair and his bindings: ‘Please…’
Craven bends down: ‘Both of them?’
I look at Bill.
Bill nods.
Jenkins is shaking his head: ‘Please…’
Craven rolls up Jenkins’ trouser legs.
Bill looks at me.
I take out the hammer.
Jenkins is squirming. Jenkins is shaking his head. Jenkins’ eyes are wide-open: ‘There’s no need…’
I lift the hammer above my head with both my hands. I say: ‘Oh, but you see there’s always a need…’
I bring the hammer down into the top of his right knee -
‘Always a need for manners, Mr Jenkins.’
Jenkins screams.
The young man howls.
Bill turns to Alderman: ‘Upstairs.’
Dick Alderman takes Craven. They head up the stairs to the right of us.
Bill turns to Rudkin. He nods at the fat lad: ‘Find out who this fucking lump of shite is.’
Rudkin goes into the man’s pockets -
Nowt but handkerchiefs and toffee papers.
‘Try them coats,’ I say.
Rudkin goes over to the back of the door. He fishes two wallets out of the coats hanging there.
He opens one. He nods at Jenkins: ‘His.’
Bill: ‘Other one?’
Rudkin takes out a driving licence: ‘Michael John Myshkin, 54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam.’
Bill asks Jenkins: ‘He work for you, this bastard, does he?’
Jenkins nods. He is white with the shock and the pain.
Craven comes back down the stairs. He tips out boxes of photographs and magazines across the floor. He says: ‘Look at all this.’
‘Well, well, well,’ chuckles Bill. ‘What kind of filth have we here?’
‘Quite the European businessman,’ says Alderman with another parcel.
‘Been a bit modest about his talents and his contacts,’ laughs Craven.
I stare down at the photograph between my feet, at the blonde hair and the blue eyes, the little white smile against the sky-blue backdrop -
I lift the hammer above my head and with both my hands I bring the hammer down into Jenkins’ left knee -
Jenkins shrieks, the young man howls -
Back up for a second time -
But Bill has me by my wrists. He shouts through the masks: ‘Fuck you think you’re doing?’
I look down from the single light bulb at the two men tied up and bleeding under it; the five men in masks with hammers and wrenches stood over them -
Bill shouting: ‘You’ll fucking kill him!’
One of the men is young and grossly overweight. He is gagged and bleeding from his nose. He is crying. He has pissed himself.
