So she stands there and watches as boots slam into the man’s ribs and stomach. On and on and on. Hard and furious and unrelenting. The sound of muted crunching and dull thumps coils out across the cattle court, punctuated by muffled screams and grunts of exertion.
Number One keeps on going, even when the muffled screams fade away — stamping on his victim’s chest and head. Then more kicking and punching: on and on and on and on, long after the poor man is nothing more than a ragdoll made of meat and bone and Number One’s mask is peppered with tiny red dots.
Then, finally, the crunching, thumping noises stop and Number One sags against the railings, puffing and panting. ‘Fin... finished... Pfff...’
And through it all, the Auctioneer doesn’t even bother turning to watch. ‘We discipline them.’
Sally forces herself to breathe.
They killed him. Beat him to death. Right there, in front of everyone. Like it doesn’t even matter.
Number Five climbs up onto the walkway and folds the bloodstained plastic sheeting over the body. Wrapping it up. By the time he’s finished, Number One is upright again and together they drag the package out through the door.
‘There we go.’ The Auctioneer claps his hands, voice cheerful and warm, like a man hasn’t just been murdered right behind him. ‘Now, let’s begin. Our first item in tonight’s catalogue is lot number one: Stephen MacGuire all the way from East Kilbride!’
Number Three appears through the same door, pulling a small fair-haired boy by the arm across the pen. He shoves Stephen and the boy stumbles forwards, then stands there, blinking up at the Animals with his tearstained face full of freckles and an angry claret birthmark.
They move in, making a semicircle with Stephen at the centre, staring at him.
‘Stephen is four, a natural blond, and he likes kittens and chocolate-chip ice cream. He’s never been touched.’
Monkey put his hand up. ‘Can he sing? I like it when they sing.’
‘He has the voice of an angel. Now, who wants to start the bidding? Do I hear “five thousand”?’
Monkey blurts it out. ‘Five thousand!’
Pig shakes his head. ‘Six thousand.’
‘Eight thousand.’
Becca pressed her face against the wall of her crate, peering out through the gaps. A lightbulb hung in the middle of the big metal room, making loads of thick dark shadows. They lurked behind the rusty old tractor and the chunks of metal stuff piled up next to it. Made a stripy pattern on the wall underneath the racks of shovels and rakes and things. Made a jungle of dark bits and light bits between the six crates from the Grey Man’s garage.
Six crates, one open and empty, the rest of them full of little children — looking out through the gaps, like her. Someone was crying — louder now that the Grey Man had taken off their gags and untied their hands so they’d look ‘pretty for the nice people’.
Well, the ‘nice people’ could go poo themselves, because Becca was getting out of here.
She shuffled into the middle of her crate, bunched her legs under her and shoved her back against the lid. The crate rocked, but she was still stuck.
Another go... Thump.
A little boy’s voice came from one of the other crates. ‘Shhh! You’ll get us into trouble!’
Come on Becca: big fierce strong girl!
She squatted down as far as she could and banged her whole self up into the lid, pushing at it with her shoulders till they were all achy and her legs trembled and shook.
No use. The bolty thing was too hard.
She sagged against the crate wall and hugged her teddy. ‘Don’t worry, Orgalorg, we’ll get out of here. We will. I promise.’ Becca kissed him on the head. ‘Don’t cry.’
Orgalorg was probably just tired. And cold — all the crates were near a big slidy door that was open a bit, letting the rain in, making the straw on the floor all damp and soggy.
On the other side of the room, a littler door banged against the metal wall and two of the tits backed in, dragging a big plastic parcel between them. Shuffling backwards with their bums sticking out until they’d pulled the parcel onto another sheet of plastic.
It looked like a dead person. You could see it through the stuff! All red and black and icky.
Becca stared. A real dead person. Right there. In the same room!
The tit with a number five on his face wiped his gloves on his trousers. ‘You got this, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ The number one tit wrapped the other plastic sheet around the dead person and fixed it all together with a big roll of scritchy sticky tape. Like a really nasty Christmas present.
Then he stood and flexed his fist. Nudged the parcel with his foot. ‘Serves you right.’
He turned and looked at the crates — the light reflecting off his nasty blue mask with a big number one on it — looking at them with those horrid black slits for eyes. The tit marched over to Becca’s crate, undid the bolty thing, and threw the lid open.
She bared her teeth at him and growled like an angry cat.
He reached in with a big gloved hand and grabbed her by the throat. ‘Any more of that and I break your arm, understand?’ He lifted her out of the crate and took a handful of her dungarees, dragging her and Orgalorg towards the door he’d come in through. ‘Come on: smile, Princess. You want to look pretty for the nice people, don’t you?’
No. No she didn’t.
She wanted them all to die.
Andy kept his voice down, face hidden by his Number Seven mask. ‘I don’t like it, Danners. I really, really don’t.’
The space between the cattle court and the machine shed was home to three dirty hatchbacks, an estate car, a couple of big four-by-fours, the Auctioneer’s black Range Rover, and Danielle’s pristine-white Renault Clio, all lurking in the gloom of a low-wattage bulkhead light. And not a single one of them was wearing a number plate.
Suppose it was quite telling — the difference between the workers’ cars, parked back here, out of the way, and the customers’ ones round the front. But then, if you were the kind of person who could afford to splurge tens of thousands on buying a child to molest, why wouldn’t you drive something a bit more fancy?
But round here, everything smelled of engine oil and cow dung.
She popped open the Clio’s boot, lifted the bass board, and gestured Andy closer.
He edged over and peered inside. Hissed some air in through his teeth. ‘Is he dead?’
McRae lay on his side: bound and gagged, still as a headstone.
She shrugged. ‘I barely touched him.’
‘Yeah, Danners, but... he’s police.’
‘He’s Professional Standards.’
‘Oh...’ Andy nodded. ‘True. What we going to do with him?’
‘Could hand him over?’
‘Nah, they’d kill him. Better keep him here and hope no one finds out. Cos if they do...’
The bass board clunked into place again, hiding McRae’s top half. ‘Yeah.’
‘You saw what they did to that journalist: battered him to death.’
As if she hadn’t been standing right there, watching it happen. Stomach full of wasps. Bile churning at the base of her throat. ‘I know, Andy.’
Andy shook his head. ‘Right in front of everyone.’
‘Oh shut up.’ She closed the boot again, hiding the rest of Inspector McRae. ‘We’ll just have to hope no one finds him, then, won’t we?’
‘Well, I think we can all agree that’s an excellent start to the evening!’ The Auctioneer rubs his hands as Number Five drags Stephen MacGuire off. The little boy’s whining cries fade away into the other room as Number One marches in with Becky.