Archie stared back in terror. ‘There must be a mistake. Your boss? What does he think I’ve stolen?’
‘A painting.’
‘A painting? You mean your boss is Mr Kilgore?’
‘Mr Kilgore is not our boss. Mr Kilgore works for our boss.’
There was a brief, tense silence.
‘I... I don’t understand.’
The one on the left flipped back the lid of the can and held the spout under Archie’s nose. He smelled the strong, unmistakable stench of petrol.
‘N-n-n-no, please, n-n-n-no,’ Archie stammered.
The one on the right, with the red ring, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one out and offered the thin white stick with the filter tip to Archie. ‘Smoke? Like a snout?’
Goff shook his head wildly.
‘Not good for your health, are they, Mr Goff.’ Replacing the pack in his pocket, he then pulled out a plastic lighter and clicked. A large flame burned. He clamped the cigarette between his own lips, lit it and drew in a deep lungful, smoke spurting from his mouth as he spoke. ‘But I don’t think it is the snouts that are going to kill you right now.’ He smiled and took another drag. ‘We don’t have the luxury of time to wait for that to kill you; it could be years, couldn’t it?’ Then the smile fell off a cliff and he looked deadly serious.
‘Our boss don’t like being made a fool of, Mr Goff. He would like the painting you removed from the wall of the Kiplings’ house, not the copy that the artist Mr Hegarty had made. If you’d like to see your lady, Isabella Reyzebal, again, it is very simple. All you have to do is direct us to where the original painting is.’
Archie stared back at him, totally confused through his terror. ‘I... I’m sorry... I... the painting I handed Mr Kilgore last night is the one I took off the Kiplings’ wall.’
The man slammed his fist into the side of Archie’s head, momentarily dazing him. Archie felt agonizing stinging pain as the ring gouged out a chunk of flesh. Then blood running down his cheek.
‘My boss does not think so. Maybe we should jog your memory, Mr Goff.’
His twin circled Archie, pouring petrol in a steady stream all around him. Then, holding the can, he stepped back a few paces. ‘Is this helping you to think any more clearly?’
‘I swear!’ Archie screamed. ‘I swear the painting I gave Mr Kilgore is the one I took off the wall. I don’t know anything about art. Why the hell would I try to screw the man who’d bailed me out of prison? You have to believe me. You HAVE to. Please!’
‘Are you familiar with the television show Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, Mr Goff?’ the one with the ring asked.
‘I... I’ve seen it, yes,’ he croaked, the reek of petrol all around him, and watching the glow of the cigarette in utter terror.
‘So is that your final answer?’
‘NO!’ he screamed, realizing where this was going. ‘NO, this is NOT my final answer.’
‘So, just tell us where the original painting is.’
‘I just did what I was told,’ Archie yammered. ‘I photographed the painting, front and back, as instructed and gave the photos to Mr Kilgore. Then, as instructed, I switched the painting he gave me with the one on the wall.’
‘So why do we think you are lying, Mr Goff? And why does our boss think you are lying?’
‘I’m not lying. Please, you have to believe me.’
Both of his tormentors shook their heads. ‘We are paid to believe our boss,’ the one on the left said. ‘Not a piece of used toilet paper like you.’
‘We’ll give you one more chance to think clearly,’ his twin with the ring said. Then he began to empty the contents of the petrol can over Goff, dousing him from head to foot. ‘Where is the original?’
Archie was sobbing, the petrol fumes stinging his eyes, almost overpowering him. ‘Please,’ he choked. ‘Please believe me, I gave you what I took from the wall of the Kiplings’ house. Please believe me.’
‘Final answer?’ the twin on the right said.
‘Please believe me!’
The twin took a hard drag on the cigarette, now burned down almost to the tip. It glowed bright red. He tossed it onto Archie Goff’s petrol-soaked lap.
56
Saturday, 2 November
Shaking uncontrollably, heart pumping, Archie closed his eyes, waiting for the explosion, the whuuuuumpppp, the flames, the searing pain.
Nothing happened. Time stood still. Time was frozen.
Finally, he looked down through blurred eyes and saw to his astonishment the cigarette was extinguished.
‘You like movies, Mr Goff?’
Barely able to speak through his fear, the stench of petrol fumes making him dizzy, Archie looked up at the two men and croaked, ‘Some.’
Both twins nodded approvingly. ‘We like movies, too. But we like the ones best that have their research correct,’ the one with the ring said. ‘There are so many movies where petrol is ignited by a cigarette, but you see, as you may perhaps know yourself, Mr Goff, as an intelligent man, the ignition temperature for gasoline is way higher than the heat a cigarette can generate. Which means that the movie makers have simply not done their research. Pretty crap, eh?’
Archie nodded dubiously. He was thinking about his daughter. About that ring in the box inside his jacket. About Isabella and the trip ahead with her. What did he need to do to convince these psychopaths to believe him?
Please don’t let it end here.
Please.
There had to be a way out of this.
Fear coiled and unspooled and coiled again in every cell of his body.
Money? he thought. The universal motivation. ‘Look, please, how much do you want? I... I can give you back the money. I’ve... I’ve got most of it. I’ve—’
He screamed as a cigarette burned into his skin, then he screamed again as he felt something clamp to his scrotum, then another cigarette burn. He felt clamps on his nipples. Drenched in perspiration, he cried out again just as his body convulsed with electric shocks.
‘Please,’ he yelled. ‘Please—’ He was stopped in mid-sentence by an agonizing pain in his left arm, as if someone had stuck a sharp knife all the way up inside the skin and muscles. He cried out again, but the sound jammed somewhere inside his constricted gullet.
Neither of the men had done this. They were both still standing in front of him, looking at him. Frowning now.
The pain shot up his left arm again, even more excruciating, but this time only a tiny gasp jetting from his mouth. The men blurred as a volcanic pain erupted inside him. It felt like his entire chest was being clamped in a vice that was tightening, crushing his insides.
Images of Isabella’s face floated in front of him.
Heard one of the twins say, ‘He’s ill.’
‘Isabella!’ he whispered.
The last sound he ever heard was the voice of the twin with the big red ring saying, loudly, ‘Shit.’
57
Sunday, 3 November
Daniel Hegarty’s house, which had a commanding view to the south — facing out onto the English Channel — and to the north of the open fields of the South Downs, was sunk down below the street level.
Hegarty and his wife had bought the house largely because of the inspirational views for his painting. He always woke early, loving the pre-dawn light. His routine, seven days a week, was to dress, down a quick espresso, then take Rocky and Rambo — tough names but wusses of dogs — for a long walk across the open countryside before returning home for breakfast, a scan of the papers and then settling into his studio to paint — sometimes commissions, and sometimes more works for his next exhibition at the Brighton gallery which had endless demands for his pictures.