“I see, and yet he’s in our cells for?”
Another pause. “Assault, breach of the peace, probably several counts of attempted murder when it comes down to it. He decided it might be rather fun to take his frustrations out on a pub full of Wednesday night revellers and finished up overdoing it slightly.”
“I see,” Burke replied.
“This is a golden opportunity James.”
“Really? And how does this relate to me?”
“Well, he does rather tie up with one, or two, or now I hear three corpses you’ve been looking into.”
“Really,” Burke asked, knowing that this was probably the point where Edwards reminded him he owed him one.
Andy found it hard to breathe. He’d never been a panicker but he was making up for it now. The balled up socks or rag or whatever it was they’d stuck in his mouth wedged his jaw unnaturally open. Saliva gathered at the back of his throat, forcing him to swallow every two seconds and that was difficult when he felt like he would choke on the contents of his mouth every time.
This wasn’t an aspect of hostage life they covered in the movies; the sheer terror regarding basic bodily functions or the fact that inevitably there were no toilet breaks in this game. He’d tried holding it in for so long but eventually given in after remembering a horror story about the contents of the bladder being able to back up into the kidneys.
Now he knew what it would be like to be old. He’d tried laughing at this but it hadn’t helped on a practical level. It was always a source of embarrassment, remembering something funny in public and struggling to stop yourself smirking or laughing out loud in case people thought you were a nutter. That was something he was used to, having that sense of humour, but he’d happily trade the public beamer for the snort of laughter that ended with him trying not to choke on a pair of socks. Or whatever it was. He hoped to god they were clean socks, couldn’t cope with the thought that he might get some kind of foot rot in his mouth or that his breath would forever more smell like some other bugger’s rancid hoof. He’d seen something on the Discovery Channel about things like that happening, something about a Japanese guy picking his nails with a chicken bone, breaking the skin and then having to cope with smelling of poultry for the rest of his days. Not a good way to spend your time, though it occurred to him that it might be a good idea to try out on Davie if he ever got out of here. This made him laugh again until he thought he was going to be sick which stopped him in his tracks. In this situation, that would be the end.
They’d come for him around three. Probably. Not that he was wearing a watch anymore. What he wouldn’t give for a Bond watch right now, one with a laser beam, or a retro turning timer that doubled as a circular saw, like in The Spy Who Loved Me. He’d heard their footsteps echoing round the building, heard wheels rolling along behind him. He’d tried to look round but couldn’t quite stretch far enough and had a feeling they wouldn’t like that anyway so he’d given up and waited. The wheels grew nearer, rattling along with their increasing hollow metallic sound until everything moved with a jerk as he heard the clang of metal hitting the pallet he was sitting on, followed by a pumping sound as he was lifted, then pulled backwards with a force almost certainly designed to wake him up. The pallet swung round violently and he realised he was on a pallet truck, a miniature forklift, like some meat delivery at a supermarket.
There were three of them. The operator of the pallet truck was the toothless one, who now stood, arms folded, in front of him, grinning regardless of the aesthetic this created. Another taller guy stood on the far left, standing at ease in the same way they’d taught Andy to in the Boy’s Brigade. He got the impression that wasn’t where this guy had learned it though, as he stood there with a puffed up chest, staring down the length of a broken nose and raised chin in Andy’s general direction. His eyes bulged out of his skull making him look fit to burst with ‘roid rage.
These two were evidently just the goons. The big chief, or in this case emaciated looking chief, stood in the middle, head back in the style of goon number two, but more in a misguided attempt at posturing. Suited and booted to the max, this didn’t look like the manager of a livestock feed store. The hair alone probably had to be maintained on an hourly basis, just to keep the right air of importance. His eyes were nervous and red. He had the myxomatosis look usually displayed by the hung over. He looked around, unsure of himself for a few seconds, before looking Andy squarely in the eye, confidence replenished from somewhere. “So you’ve been sneaking around have you?” he asked, obviously attempting to make some kind of matey small talk or just buy enough time to think of something more to the point, considering they all knew the answer to that one anyway.
“Yes,” Andy replied, wondering as he did if this boy was actually wanting an answer but at the same time realising too late that he’d said it like it was a question and finished up sounding sarcastic. He was happy with that but they definitely weren’t. The next sound he made was a squeal, as he felt the dull thud, followed by the sharp pain of an assault rifle hitting the side of his head. He’d only ever heard a dog make that sound; a sort of unconcealed helpless anguish when he’d accidentally trapped its paw in a door.
He felt a tear roll down his left cheek as the anger and frustration came to the surface and he couldn’t help but look at his interrogator with a defiant sneer he knew he would come to regret as he bit his own tongue.
The man looked to the floor, refusing to make eye contact and at the same time enjoying his captive’s discomfort. Perhaps he was composing his next brilliant question. “Any particular reason?” he eventually asked.
“No,” Andy replied, “Seemed like a laugh, that’s all.”
“Seemed like a laugh, that’s all?” he parroted. “You don’t seem to be laughing now do you?” The man looked at his two companions. Toothless boy wouldn’t return his gaze. In a way it was like being in the headmaster’s office, taking a bollocking and knowing that you weren’t entirely to blame but at the same time, dobbing in the school psychopath wasn’t going to do anyone any favours.
Andy looked away as far as his head and eyeball mobility would allow, to the fertiliser bags piled high against the far wall. He wondered why they should need to stock quite that much of the stuff this time of year.
“What do you know?” the suit demanded.
“About what?” he replied, genuinely stumped and a little curious.
This was the wrong answer again. The man nodded to goon number two who rewarded Andy with another blow to the side of his head for his trouble. He felt his pulse quicken and a pounding sensation, no doubt where his eardrum was. Something warm trickled down his neck and he tasted salt water again. He realised now that he may have thought it on occasion, but in reality, until this point, he’d never truly known hate.
“I’m asking the questions,” the suit replied, trying to convey an air of calm and control but succeeding in giving off the exact opposite.
“I don’t know what you mean or what you want from me,” Andy spluttered.
Again the crack of an AK47 butt against the side of his head.
“Oh I think you know something,” the man replied.
“I know it all looks a bit fucking suspicious,” he growled back, spitting tears as he did. “I know this isn’t a good way to keep your customers happy and I know you’re gonna get yours you wee prick.”
With that, the suit laughed, shrugged to his goons and tilted his head towards Andy in a theatrical motion before walking away. The next thing he knew he was waking up where he now found himself, trying not to gag.