Poole spun round to face the youth.
‘Someone told me to talk to you,’ said the younger man, swallowing hard. ‘They said you could get stuff.’
Poole hawked and swallowed. ‘Fuck off,’ he snapped, turning his back.
‘I’ve got money,’ protested the youth, and shoved a balled-up twenty onto the bar in front of Poole.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Poole rasped, looking first at the money, then at the youth.
‘Do you know this cunt?’ Layton wanted to know.
Poole shook his head.
‘I need some stuff,’ the youth repeated.
‘And I told you to fuck off,’ Poole said.
‘What kind of stuff?’ Layton enquired.
‘Well, you know . . .’ The youth smiled.
‘No, I don’t. You tell me,’ Layton demanded.
‘Whizz,’ the youth told him, the smile fading. He was picking nervously at a whitehead on his cheek.
‘Listen, spotty,’ Layton said quietly. ‘Who told you to come over here and interrupt our conversation?’
‘Spotty’ looked bemused.
‘What’s the stuff for?’ Poole asked.
‘A party,’ the youth explained.
‘And you think that my friend can get it for you?’ Layton insisted.
‘Spotty’ nodded.
‘Come back tomorrow night, same time,’ Poole told him. ‘It’ll cost you fifty.’
‘Fuck,’ said the youth dejectedly.
‘You don’t like the price, then fuck off,’ Poole said.
‘We’ve got overheads.’ Layton grinned. He picked up the twenty and stuffed it into his jeans.
‘That’s mine,’ the youth protested.
‘Call it a finder’s fee,’ Layton chuckled. ‘Now fuck off, spotty.’
The youth hesitated, picked at the whitehead a few more times, then disappeared into the crowd.
‘Fucking kids,’ said Poole.
Layton drained what was left in his glass and got to his feet.
‘I’m off,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I might hang around outside and wait for that little blonde,’ Layton chuckled.
‘She’s only about fifteen.’
‘Who cares? Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed.’
He ruffled Poole’s hair, and pushed his way through the crowd towards the exit.
The blonde smiled at him again as he left.
As he stepped outside, he pulled up the collar of his jacket. The wind had grown cold and he headed down the street towards the bottom of the hill, past closed or empty shops, most of which sported security grilles over their windows. Several of the street-lights were broken. The road was dark, and few vehicles used this thoroughfare at night.
Except the one that now sped towards Layton, accelerating as it saw him step into the road.
The driver had sat patiently outside the pub for the last hour – and now the wait was over.
The approaching car was driving without headlights.
All Layton heard was the roar of the engine, as it bore down on him.
Even if he’d seen it, his chances of avoiding the speeding vehicle would have been slim.
It hit him, doing sixty.
The impact sent him hurtling into the air, where he seemed to be suspended for precious seconds before crashing back down and bouncing off the car’s roof.
As he hit the ground, he heard the screech of tyres.
The car was turning round.
Coming back towards him.
Agonizing pain ran the full length of his left leg, and up most of his back.
Movement was difficult.
His head was spinning, but even in his battered state he realized that, if he didn’t get out of the road, the car was going to run over him.
He looked up and saw the vehicle speeding towards him.
It skidded to a halt a couple of feet away, engine still running.
Layton could feel the heat from the radiator grille, the car was so close. He smelled petrol and rubber.
Heard the sound of a door opening.
Tasted blood in his mouth, felt it running down his face.
The pain in his leg seemed to intensify.
He saw that the driver was carrying something.
Something heavy.
There was a thunderous impact across the top of his head.
Darkness.
95
HE WAS BLIND.
For terrifying seconds, David Layton was convinced he had gone blind.
His heart hammered against his ribs and he tried to cry out, but then he realized that the darkness was caused not by blindness, but by the strip of material fastened so tightly around his eyes.
The same material that had been used to bind his wrists and ankles?
Indeed, even if he had wanted to scream, he couldn’t.
His mouth was sealed shut by several strips of masking tape wound right around the back of his head. It stuck to his hair and pulled at his scalp when he tried to move.
The pain from his injured leg was almost unbearable, and he realized that it must be broken. Somewhere around the thigh, he guessed.
Had the blindfold been removed, he would have noticed the gleaming point of bone protruding through his ripped jeans, its end bloody and leaking dark red marrow.
He had no idea where he was, or how long he’d been unconscious.
More to the point, he had no idea who had run him down, then bundled him into the car, and spent so long carefully blindfolding, binding and gagging him.
Pain and fear filled his mind in equal measures.
He tried to shout through the masking-tape gag. Tried to tell whoever had run him down that there had been some kind of mistake.
That he had money he could give them.
That he needed medical treatment for the shattering pain in his broken leg.
He was sitting on grass: that much he did know. He could feel its damp blades beneath his hands. Could smell wet earth in his nostrils.
Wherever he was, it was deadly quiet.
No passing cars. No dogs barking. No voices.
He guessed he was in the countryside somewhere. He didn’t know how long he’d been travelling in the car. Didn’t know how long his captor had been driving.
He didn’t even know what time it was.
From the silence, though, he guessed it was still night.
He heard movement close to him.
Tried to gauge where it was coming from. His left? His right?
Jesus, if only he could see. If only he could get free. Get his hands on the bastard who had done this.
