The first thing he did was remove his boxer shorts. They smelled horrible. He left them on the floor before using the en-suite bathroom to clean up. When he was finished, Chris sat and thought about his father and the Irishman, and how they would go about changing the situation.
He figured the best thing he could do was set a trap.
He studied the room. The only thing he found he might be able to use was a small lamp on the bedside cabinet. He searched the place for something he could use to remove the plug.
When he was quite sure there wasn’t anything, he decided to plug the lamp in, switch it on, remove the shade, and smash the bulb. He thought that would make it live. The next time one of those idiots came into the room, he’d give them something to think about. With a bit of luck, he might even kill the pair of them. He wasn’t a copper’s son for nothing.
The next thing he had to do was find something to wear. He couldn’t very well stay naked.
Rummaging through a cupboard in the bathroom brought him little in the way of results, until he spotted something that didn’t add up. At the back of the cupboard, underneath the towels he had pushed to one side, he could see a material he couldn’t quite identify.
Chris banged on the back of the cupboard. It didn’t sound right, nor was it hard like it should have been. The panel was false.
He glanced around the bathroom in nervous anticipation. Running out into the bedroom, he checked the door. It was still locked. He went back into the bathroom. He didn’t care now how much noise he made. If those two creeps came to see what he was doing, he would electrocute them both.
Chris smashed his fists into the panel four times. It gave him the encouragement he needed to continue. Once he had the panel clear, he dragged out all the clothing. There were a number of school uniforms. From what he could tell, two were female and one male. Inside one of the blazers he saw the name ‘David Vickers’.
He also found a pair of boxer shorts, which he recognized as his friend’s. They were clean. He slipped them on.
Chris felt terrible. He tried to imagine what his friend had gone through, but his mind simply wouldn’t allow it. He slammed his fists into the bathroom door, tears in his eyes. He ran back into the bedroom and grabbed the lamp. Sitting on the bed with the lamp in his hand, he waited.
Chapter Seventy-four
The night air was growing distinctly chilly. Cold enough to snow. It was after midnight. Gardener found himself momentarily suspended in the middle of a repeat performance from the previous evening. Late night revellers were clearing out of the pubs and clubs. He had chosen not to take a taxi, but to try making contact with Reilly instead. Despite his injuries, he struggled down Park Row and onto Boar Lane in search of a phone booth.
He felt conspicuous, vulnerable. In view of the beating he’d taken, he was extra careful not to stare at anyone too long. One wrong glance and he’d be in serious trouble. He was in no fit state to defend himself.
Halfway down Boar Lane, Gardener spotted his phone booth. As he drew closer, the door opened and a youth came out. Gardener stopped dead in his tracks. A chill spiralled throughout his entire body, his revulsion mounting.
For one split second, Gardener’s eyes locked with Warthead’s. In that fraction of time, his whole world froze.
It was impossible to describe his feelings, there were so many. Anger, bitterness, sorrow.
Above all else, Gardener’s hunger for revenge was so strong, all physical impairments were forced to the back of his mind. He knew he was going to kill Warthead, despite the consequences.
Warthead took off, running down Boar Lane towards Duncan Street and the Corn Exchange.
Gardener followed, ignoring the pain in his head, his arms, his legs and, most of all, his bruised ribs. He decided not to shout at the freak, choosing instead to focus all his efforts on catching him.
Gardener heard police sirens to his right, coming across New Briggate. What happened next stunned the injured officer.
The traffic light at the Boar Lane and Briggate intersection changed to green, and the stationary car proceeded ahead.
Warthead took a chance to cross the road onto Duncan Street. Cutting across New Briggate like an atomic warhead, what later turned out to be a stolen Range Rover wasted the front end of one car, and bounced upwards in the collision. The car careened wildly out of control, taking Warthead and a portion of nearby railings straight through the plate glass window of the Burger King on the corner.
The series of explosions and shattering glass brought Gardener to his senses. He rounded the corner to confront the devastation.
A crowd milled around the Burger King so fast, he thought they must have emerged from the shadows. Most of them were okay, simply trying to figure what had happened. They were, however, ignoring the people that did need help. A number of victims had sustained cuts. Some had more serious injuries. One youth staggered around, his hand covering his right eye, blood pouring through at an alarming rate. His girlfriend was by his side, screaming at him to lay down while she found some help.
Most people had forgotten about their takeaway. Some had thrown their food right on the ground. At least six people were already on their mobiles. Only three were calling for help. Sickeningly, the others were filming.
Gardener pushed his way through the oblivious crowd. The stolen Range Rover’s engine was still on maximum revs and
