Eventually, when his vision cleared and the vicious stinging began to subside Campbell found himself looking at the two rings on Gresham’s fingers.
‘Understand?’ Those eyes again. Straight into his. Campbell nodded.
‘Good. Now, the quicker I get answers to my questions — no lies — the quicker we can all be on our way.’
‘Yeah… S-sure.’ Campbell tried to keep the fear from his voice but it emerged as little more than a croak.
‘Lovely. Right. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to lately then, eh? Met anyone interesting recently?’
30
Thursday. 3am.
After initially playing dumb Campbell had been roughed up by the two of them in a manner that seemed designed as much to intimidate as hurt him but had comfortably achieved both. His fear of what may or may not happen if he did tell them everything he knew was greater though than if he didn’t and for some time he remained silent but for the involuntary sounds of pain as they punched and hit him.
At first they had simply fired questions at him quickly from either side, starting one before he could answer the last. Then they were softer and more relaxed, his friend, trying to coax the information from him. And then the violence returned and the threats, the aggression.
Then, as suddenly as it had started it stopped. Slater had re-tied the ropes on his wrists and replaced the blindfold and then gagged him firmly too, both men in silence as Campbell struggled to breathe through a bloodied nose. He had then heard them walk briskly across the floor and then slam the door and shoot the bolt.
Campbell had seen only the inside of the place, the tiny, creaking window revealing only a dark night outside. It was a typical untidy lock-up. Oil stains on the floor, a battered old workbench covered with various detritus of long use; old newspapers, rags, tools, a can of paint. It could have been anywhere at all. Now he was tied up again and not dressed for the cold, still air that he sat in.
He ached all over and felt dazed and very frightened. He began to shiver. As the minutes piled up into an hour, two, he gave up trying to count them. He began to wonder how, or even if, he would get out of this. To what ends would these men go for their answers? Did they even know as much as he did? Certainly they didn’t seem the types that he had expected to be mixed up in what he had discovered. And more worryingly for Campbell, and the thought that sustained him throughout, was what would they do with him if he did tell them? He was only of any use if he still had something they wanted.
Another thought had occurred to him too; even if he gave them what they wanted, did what he was told, he would still know about them, about the situation. He would still be a witness.
He would still be a threat.
He tried to tell himself that his fear and paranoia were getting out of hand, that he was conjuring monsters from the shadows. But tied and blindfolded and beaten in a filthy, empty outbuilding in god only knew where, his nightmarish visions didn’t seem quite so far fetched anymore. They were becoming a cold, dark reality.
Eventually, even in the uncomfortable position he was in, he began to doze off, exhausted both mentally and physically but was quickly awake again. He had heard something, though through his sleep-haze he did not know what. He began to hear things around him in the dark, scurrying and scratching. A voice. A footstep.
And then after a time that may have been an hour or may have been three, he heard them again. A distant engine sound, he thought but maybe not. Maybe tires. Probably footsteps. Certainly the door.
‘Daniel.’ George was back.
He said nothing.
‘Daniel.’ His voice was soft and calm but there was an edge of malice in it all the same.
Outside he heard water running and the squeak of an old tap.
‘You awake there son?’
Campbell nodded but kept his head bowed. He felt hands on his head and the blindfold was taken off and fell into his lap, the gag followed. Then the ropes were drawn from his wrists. Pulling them instinctively into his chest he saw how much more raw they now were. He hadn’t even realised he had been struggling against them. Still he did not look up.
‘We’ve been back to your house for another look. A bit more time and privacy this time. Very nice place son. Doing alright for yourself. It would be a shame to let that all go to waste.’
He wanted to swear at the other man, to scream his rage into his face and his thoughts raced and raced as he tried desperately to see a way out.
Slater’s looming shadow swept across the space and Campbell saw a bucket of water set at his feet.
He began to panic again and his breathing quickened. What were they going to do to him now? How much more could he take? He could feel his spirits crashing as he knew that he had reached the end. Surely he could not cope with whatever terrible thing they had in mind.
‘We couldn’t find what we were looking for. Shame,’ George said and then Slater handed him something but it was only a movement in the periphery of Campbell’s vision.
He had once read of a torture technique where the victim had a towel thrown over his head which was then doused with cold water. The shock of the cold water would make the victim breath in sharply and the towel, now heavy, wet and clinging, would be sucked hard over the mouth and nostrils.
Slater placed a hand on top of his head and pulled it back until he was looking up at George. In his hand he held a familiar object but it was not a towel. The relief was short-lived. A dark green leather-bound book with a single word embossed in gold across the front.
Addresses.
Campbell didn’t need to ask what they meant.
They didn’t just know where he lived. They now knew where all of his friends and his family lived.
‘OK,’ he whispered.
31
Thursday. 6.30 am.
He didn’t recognise anything but got his bearings by the postcodes on the street signs. It was early enough for the traffic to be fairly light and for few people to be around but it was getting light now and it had still been dark when they had left.
Slater exuded menace in the driving seat next to him and Campbell felt almost as if his presence alone were making his ribs ache more. Swinging the car around a corner the seatbelt cut into him and he winced but tried to remain silent and deny the big man any further satisfaction.
Neither spoke a word as they moved through the early morning traffic. Slater still seemed to be full of anger at him although Campbell was not exactly sure why. He felt as if the other man might, at any moment, begin smashing those ham-fists into him again.
His ribs burned with each and every breath and his eye was half closed and swelling. In the mirror he could see it colouring red already and soon it would be much darker and angrier. There was a dark cut on the very top of the swelling and his now-plump bottom lip too wore a black line across it where Gresham had slapped him open-handed and split it open. A dark gash was darkening on his cheekbone as it dried. George had told him to clean himself up with the bucket of cold water and that had actually felt very good against his raw skin and he had dunked his forearms in up to the elbow.
Pulling his car right up behind the tall red shape of a bus Slater revved the engine of his car impatiently and swore through his teeth, clenching the steering wheel tighter. Campbell watched with his head half turned, scared to stare at him directly but unable to look away. He could not help but think about what awaited him when he did hand over the disk. Would Slater leave, satisfied that he had done the job he had set out to do, content with his prize? Watching the man’s barely controlled fury twitching through the muscles of his tense body, Campbell doubted it.
The bus in front was still stationary. Slater suddenly shifted in his seat, wound down the window and leaned half out, propping himself on an elbow, impatient to see what was happening up in front.