Now, as she stepped off at Perivale, she felt her body shake as the alcoholic aftermath took hold.
She was glad she wasn’t on a timer.
Helal could wait.
Stepping out of the station, she took a nice, long breath of fresh air, the sharp chill snapping into her lungs and waking her up. She’d planned on getting an Uber, but with a kebab shop open next door to the station, and the prospect of a walk through the brisk evening, she decided against it.
The chips she bought soaked up a large amount of alcohol, the greasy carbs acting like a sponge. She still felt like crap, but Singh was at least functioning as she made her way to Helal’s apartment block. As she pushed open the gate, she was pleasantly surprised by the immaculate garden, wondering how much a digital journalist made to afford such a plush residence.
At the door, she scanned the list of names by the buttons, located the one for H. Miah and pressed it, the buzzer echoing sharply through the speaker.
Without a word, Helal unlocked the main door, an ear-piercing sound echoing from the timer before it relocked. Singh stepped in, cursing the lack of elevator to the second floor as she clambered up the steps. While she felt better, her body was drained and she paused a few times, needing to steady her legs.
Hopefully, Helal would have some more food on the go.
Eventually, after what felt like a trek up Everest, Singh arrived on the second floor, marching down the corridor until she came to Helal’s door.
With a shaking hand, she knocked.
Knowing you’re about to die is a horrible feeling. Helal had come to terms with his imminent death, knowing that his torturer was correct.
There was no fight in him.
In the world which he’d discovered to be a violent and terrifying place, there were only a select few who could fight back. Who could fight for survival. He was sure there were plenty of parents who would run into oncoming traffic to save their children, but to fight for their own survival?
What could Helal have done?
The man who had brutally and systematically tortured him was clearly well versed in it, with a terrifying bulk and strength that Helal would never be able to match. If he had fought back, the man would have beaten him easily and, due to the disrespect or the perceived lack of fear, would most likely put him through much worse.
As it was, this was the path of least resistance.
He had had tried, valiantly, to hold back on the information, to keep Singh’s name safe.
But the pain was too much.
The horror too real.
As Helal felt a tear run down his face, the Hangman’s voice echoed from behind him, the vile stench of cigarette smoke clinging to each word.
‘It is no shame,’ he said softly. ‘Many men believe they are strong willed. They will not break. But they always do.’
A sharp buzzer broke his speech, indicating Singh had arrived and was hoping to be buzzed up. With the sock still lodged in his mouth, Helal tried in vain to scream out to her, hoping she would hear.
His muffled cries fell to the ground, unheard.
Farukh marched across the apartment and without uttering a single word, unlocked the main door and lured Singh into the building. With one final glance back to Helal, he offered a respectful nod.
Not an apology. Just an acceptance that it was he who had killed him.
Helal tried to struggle but stopped quickly. Once Farukh had sent the text to Singh and placed the noose around his neck, he’d leathered Helal with a few more sickening right hooks, dislodging teeth and cracking ribs.
Freshly beaten, Helal was in no state to resist and the Hangman freed him from his chair, letting the poor journalist flop to the ground. With no furniture for him to reach for, Helal lay in agony, a sad acceptance of his fate.
The horror became real enough as Farukh hoisted him up to his feet by the noose, pulling it tightly across his windpipe and Helal squirmed for air.
‘Up,’ Farukh demanded, and Helal wept as he took a step up onto the chair, before his other foot followed. He heard the roar of the masking tape as his attacker wrapped it around his wrists, pinning his arms behind him.
He was about to be executed.
His attacker was the Hangman.
Literally.
As his hopes of survival withered away, he watched the burly assailant attach string to the leg of the chair and then rolled it out, until it just about reached the front door. A quick knot later, and Helal’s fate rested on the movement of a front door.
As soon as it opened, the chair would move, and his balance would go.
Helal felt the cable tighten around his neck, as Farukh pulled it tighter, ensuring the ties were in place.
They were.
Helal literally had a few moments left.
He quickly thought of his family, uttering silent goodbyes to them all. He hoped that he’d helped or heard people throughout his life.
That people would remember that he cared.
He regretted no settling down. Not having a child.
He wondered which places he should have gone to, and who of his previous girlfriends could have been a wife.
As he heard the gentle knock on the door, Helal shed one final tear. He took a deep breath, stood straight, and exhaled.
He was ready.
Farukh stood to the side of the door and with a flick of his mighty wrist, he turned the handle, taking the door off its latch. The suggestion of an invite. Singh obliged, pushing the door open with reckless abandon.
‘Hello?’ she began, before her eyes widened. The chair was pulled out from under his feet and Helal dropped a few inches, the cable snapping tight around his neck and shutting off his air supply.
His eyes bulged, his throat wretched a silent scream of pain, and he shook
