Name: David William Henry
Age: 19
Marital Status: Single
Children: Two
Place of Employment: Various
Occupation: Burglar
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Davey was an orphan. His parents, whoever they were, had giving him away. He never really thought about them. They were to him a couple of despicable bastards not worth the time of day. He’d been left to nuns and a dirty priest, who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, until Davey was old enough to leave, go back and break them. He’d entered the bedroom through an open window as the old pervert slept. He’d crept over to the bed and sat astride the man who had awoken to a large kitchen knife pressed against his throat, as a sock was shoved into his salivating mouth and taped shut with a piece of duct tape. Davey then climbed off the bed and took immense joy in hammering the deviant’s hands to a pulp. His mate, Robbie, had provided him with a lengthy piece of rope, in which he forcibly hogtied the old priest to the bed. At last, he had finally been educated. It might make him think twice, next time.
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He made the call to the owner’s landline. No answer. He took off his light-blue shirt, leaving him dressed in a faded green t-shirt and black jeans. He shoved it inside his bag, rechecked his surroundings, pulled on his grey balaclava and then grabbed the side-wall, hoisting himself up and over, with ease. He felt naked, exposed, but very much excited as he stood on the uncut front lawn, with a row of fern trees on either side, leading all the way up to a small red bricked house, with a white door, and four yellowy-green curtained windows, drawn. Not a good idea at 3 o clock on a sunny Monday afternoon, Davey told himself. The usual, gone on holiday, tell- tale sign.
The house wasn’t anything special, only that it was easily accessible, sat on its own a mile from the nearest village. And the owners were on a one-week break, Robbie had said. Robbie always kept him up to date, because Robbie was the key account manager at Westbury Bank; he had the key to most people’s accounts. Through Robbie he knew who was worth robbing. That way, Robbie always got his cut.
They’d met each other after Davey had spent two months in a juvenile detention centre. After a string of thieving – robbing crap from gardens, mostly. Inside, he’d met a guy called Sim, who’d introduced him to Robbie upon release. Robbie was older, twenty-three, intelligent and helpful. He’d given them both jobs, immediately. Ok, so they weren’t exactly legal jobs, but he was sixteen and needed money, and fast.
Davey never thought about the houses he robbed, or its occupants. They robbed anyone. It did not matter who. They all enjoyed the thrill. The break in, the search, and the taking of whatever they fancied. He knew some of the lads urinated in sinks and on carpets; and stole women’s underwear for their own teenage fantasies. But Davey wasn’t interested in that kind of behavior. He was a professional. And that’s why he was here, now. Robbie had said, this bloke had a very healthy bank account. He was a doctor who had his own private practice and a number of properties in some far flung corners of the world. ‘This bloke,’ he said, ‘is fucking loaded.’
He might be loaded, Davey thought, but he certainly wasn’t burglar aware. Don’t leave your curtains drawn, your grass uncut, and of course, don’t have letters poking from your letterbox – have a friend come to collect them. A few savvy tips and your house remained relatively safe, even on the sunniest of days.
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They were a gang of ten, working in teams of two. But Davey hated teams. He’d worked in the past with Dillon Edwards, an idiot, who’d nearly got them both caught. Dillon had been the main planner on an Indian restaurant job. He’d been given information on the safe’s location and its number. ‘Its easy pickings,’ he’d told Davey. But instead they found themselves confronted with a pitbull, which leapt and tore a chunk out of Dillon’s arse, disabling him and getting him - a week or so later - a two year stretch. After that, Davey decided he would rather go it alone.
But the contacts in this game were unbelievable. They were a gang who had a reputation for doing good jobs. From the milkman, the builder, the postman, the gardener, to an observant security firm, who worked the area, and a few primary school teachers, their jobs – apart from one – were usually jobs done to perfection. Everybody was on the books.
After turning sixteen, he’d felt he had no choice but to become a career burglar. He had two children to support, and from two entirely different women, which was awkward. But all the same, it was uncanny how close his daughters had been born apart, 48 hours, to be exact. But unlike some blokes he knew, he loved his daughters, treasured them, and would rob any house to provide for them. He was tall, and slim, with short cropped dark hair and deep blue eyes. A handsome young man, many a woman wanted to get to grips with. He could also run like fuck. He was sure he could give Usain Bolt, a go for his money.
He pulled on his latex gloves and from his bag, withdrew his tool kit – his pickers. And picked the lock naturally and unhindered. It was like taking candy from an old age pensioner. He’d learnt to pick locks at the innocent age of twelve; with a cut-down hacksaw blade and two hairclips. His first victim was a condom vending machine, in the outside bogs of a rundown pub. He knew from then on, nothing was infallible.
What a whiff, he thought as he quietly stepped inside. It was the smell of cooking fat, repeatedly used, again and again. It made the house resemble an ill kept old people’s home. Strange for a doctor’s home, he thought. But he was surprised to find the smell did not match the picture. The living room was neat and tidy, fitted with the usual furniture, and gadgetry, you would find in any modern day house. Flat screen TV, a mega sound system and a large collection of CD’S and DVD’s, all running in alphabetical order on shelves behind a brown leather sofa and armchair, where to his surprise he found a screwed up fifty quid note laying on its seat. Nice, he thought, I’ll have that. He guessed it was for him, anyway. If you’re going away, remember to always leave something for the poor off burglar; a few quid is sometimes all they need. But this house had a doctor. This house must have a treasure trove of goodies - Silly man.
Well, first things first. His modus operandi was to start at the top and work down, going through each individual room, every nook and cranny; delving into their personals, and taking whatever he considered most valuable. He never bothered with electrical equipment, he left that to the lads. He was into jewelry, gold, diamonds, silver, anything he could lay his grimy-thieving hands on. The best place to start was the master bedroom, if this bloke was married, his missus would surely have it stored away, somewhere up there.
The best times to rob were in strikes, protests, riots and the odd state, or family funeral - a godsend to the burglar. Daytime was, he’d once told the lads, the best time. It made the thief less conspicuous. Nobody would think twice about being robbed at 3 in the afternoon.
Of course, he’d had a few scrapes in the past - it came with the job - but luckily he’d come through unscathed; compared to some of the others, who had been in and out of institutions, prisons, for most of their sad, non-existent, pathetic lives. He felt nothing toward them. There was no honour amongst thieves, nowadays, according to Lock-Smith Harry, once the finest safe-cracker in the business. But Harry was old, 45; he didn’t understand the world anymore. ‘Watch it, boys,’ he would often tell them. ‘Keep them eyes peeled and it’ll keep the Devil (police) off them shoulders.’
Swiftly he moved up the brown carpeted stairs to find two doors on his left, and a third at the end of the landing. All closed. Empty, of course. He twisted the brass knob on the first.
Inside the small room was a white wardrobe and cupboard, with a single bed with a pink frilly cover that matched the walls – neatly folded. He picked up the single photograph on the cupboard, in its nice silver frame, and checked out the pretty blond girl, in a long flowing green dress with a white collar, leaning over a fence and blowing a sexy kiss at the photographer, on what looked to be another sunny day. Nice, he thought. I’ll have that.
He went through draw after draw. Empty. Through a wardrobe, full of empty shoe boxes, and through the pockets of an old sheepskin coat, on a hanger, looking lonely. But found nothing. He swiped his hand over the top of the cupboard and gathered nothing but fine dust. He turned to the bed, looked under, nothing. Strange, he thought; very strange. Young women usually have a myriad of bling stored away. He flicked up the mattress in the hopeless attempt to at least find something more valuable than a picture, but still nothing. What had she done with it all?
Whatever, the bedroom was a loss. He had to leave it. Time was of the essence. When burgling any property, time is limited. Every second counts.
He moved on to the next door, a bathroom, sparse of toiletries, towels, nothing worth nicking. He had to find something of value. If he went back tonight empty-handed, the crew, who, apart from Robbie, would sell their poor old grandmothers for a fiver, would say he was taking the piss, that he was working for another firm. He couldn’t have them thinking that. He was the best in the business. And yes, he was in demand.
He went in and tipped out the wash basket, soiled panties, bras, trousers and shirts, made him wretch at the smell. He shuffled threw them, yes, you bastards, cash, three hundred he counted.
But a weird feeling crept over him. This house was not out of the normal, by any means. But its silence was remarkably eerie. It made him feel like he was being watched, as if a presence was somewhere, close by. Secure Your Home, had worked on this house. Bob Collins had fitted an alarm box to the front of the house, but it had no guts, it was there merely acting as a deterrent. Bob had told Robbie that the bloke was tighter than a ‘ducks pisser.’ He’d turned down the offer of a proper alarm system, security cameras and so on. But still, Davey took it as a sign, a message, and therefore quickened his pace.
He moved to the master bedroom, a double bed, neatly made. A brown chest-high cupboard and another tall white wardrobe, pushed together, giving little space at the foot of the bed. Under the window, a computer sat atop a writing desk – an old Dinosaur – with a wooden chair. He smelt the remnants of stale sweat, sex, maybe. It was vile. But he’d been into some really disgusting houses in his time – this place was a palace in comparison.
He turned to the cupboard and rifled through its four deep draws of socks and pants and knickers, until he found under a pile of t-shirts, a box full of jewelry. Bingo! Chains, bracelets and pendants, gold, silver and some encrusted with rubies and diamonds. He tipped them all into his navy-grey bag and then moved to the wardrobe and opened its doors, the adrenalin rushing throughout his system. There were coats, hats, a black suit and a fine collection of women’s dresses. At the bottom were five shoe boxes, he grabbed them with a vulture-like-hunger, tipping and throwing each one to the side, surveying the pile before him; letters, bills, invitations to weddings and christenings, a black and white photo of a wedding. The bride and groom smiling outside a church, their heads covered in confetti. Shit!
Time was of the essence.
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He ran and jumped the last of the stairs and hit the kitchen, emptying the draws of all their cutlery. Barry Jones, the scrap dealer, would take all this, and probably for a fiver. He also came across a brown leather wallet with a few plastic cards tucked inside. He would check them out later.
Satisfied there was nothing else left, he turned back toward the living room, only to be stopped by another door, hiding, unsuccessfully away from behind a long draping red curtain.
Well, well, he thought. Let’s have a look in your pantry, missus.
He pulled on the handle, locked. He pushed his hand into his bag and found his crowbar, a present from Robbie and the lads, on his last birthday. He was grateful, and happy to find none of the stupid twats had had his name engraved on it. He jammed it just below the lock and applied the little pressure needed, as the door quickly relented.
His heart was pumping, his forehead sweating, as the adrenalin continued to flow. The unknown always had this effect on him. He always got a kick from the unknown, he should have been an astronaut, he’d often thought. He exchanged the crowbar for a hammer. You never know. A crowbar or hammer weren’t too dissimilar when it came to breaking glass, or heads. But the hammer was more maneuverable. He was lucky that none of his jobs had resulted in violence. A couple of the gang had killed in the past – with similar tools – but he’d had no connection to them. They had killed, maimed and shamed, two years before his time. And he was glad.
He opened the door slightly, for the pong to hit his nostrils. Shit! It smelt like a homeless man’s grotto, where rotting food, dogs, nicotine and piss, were the fixed odours of the day. Whatever, it was no concern to him. He was an explorer, on a mission.
Wide open he found darkness staring at him. It was a pitch black darkness that was like a cloak hiding from the light of any day. It made him shiver. This was not the kind of pantry he had in mind. He thought of shelves filled with the finest of foods; Cans of beans, and soups, Tomato, beef, and chicken, and quite possibly a safe – a better place than behind a painting. But so far, he had seen no paintings, and hardly any pictures. The doctor was certainly no art lover. Bland white walls and a clock, he remembered, over the gas fire in the living room, was all that adorned the house.
To his left a switch. He pressed it and then froze. The sound of the hammer crashing to the floor did little to startle him back to some-kind of normality. His mouth fell open, his senses unable to function. He was in shock.
He’d never experienced shock like this before. He’d become immobile, it was like his life had become a film, fictional and slowed down to near pause. He heard a voice inside his head, say; ‘pull yourself together, lad. Time-’
He felt the shock start to dissipate. ‘What the hell!’
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He stepped slowly forward into the stark, dusty, concreted room, holding out his hand in a friendly gesture. But the eyes scolded in black mascara, feared him. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to harm you.’ He knew this was going to sound stupid, and realised he was still wearing the balaclava. He pulled it off to reveal his face and said, ‘I’m a burglar…I’m not here to hurt you.’ He saw the look of hope in her eyes.
He saw the two long rusty chains fixed to the walls on either side, running towards the two iron shackles bound to both her wrists. He looked down to see her legs tied together by some grimy looking rope as she sat on a wooden chair, mid-center of the room, gagged by a brown scarf.
But it was something else that made his mind race. She was young, blond, and wearing a long green dress with a white collar.
Shit! It was the girl from the photo.
‘Look,’ he said stretching out his hands defensively, hoping to reassure her. ‘Let me get you out of here.’
She nodded.
He slowly knelt down and fetched out his pickers, and picked the cheap metal padlocks that locked the shackles. He removed them carefully so as not to hurt her. From her bruised face she’d obviously succumbed to pain. Bastards! He freed her legs and helped her unravel the scarf, to find her mouth slightly puffed up with a cut and blister.
They looked at each other and then she flung her arms around him. ‘I’ve prayed,’ she cried in a slur. ‘Oh, how I’ve prayed…’
Davey hated it when girls got emotional. But he would let this girl off – never had a shoulder to cry on been more valued. He wrapped his arms around her slim fragile body and did his best to comfort her, something else he disliked. ‘It’s going to be Ok,’ he told her as the crying simmered. ‘We have to get out of here!’
But what was he going to do with her? Take her to the police? He was a burglar, robbing the house. How the hell was he going to explain something like this? They’d definitely throw the book at him. But these questions were unimportant to him at the moment; first he had to get her to safety. And then think.
Over her shoulder, he noticed a grey plastic bucket, filled with excrement and piss. Behind it, in the right corner, stood five water bottles, one half-full; and next to them, a blue blouse, a white skirt and a pair of black high heels – her clothes, no doubt. In the left corner, a collection of mobile phones, thrown down, making a pile of sorts; making him wonder what poor bastards they’d belonged to – as more missing people came to mind. This was deep shit, unfamiliar shit. Davey had never come across anything like this in his entire career. What evil was there in the world? He knew that robbing people’s houses was, in its own way, bad. But what would have happened to her, if he hadn’t been passing?
He felt her relax and pull from him. He fetched from his pocket a packet of paper tissues, and offered them. She gave an awkward smile and took them. ‘What happened?’ he asked calmly.
‘I’m not exactly sure…’ she said wiping her eyes. ‘I remember going to my friend’s eighteenth birthday party at Star Five, on Saturday night…leaving around two, to catch a taxi… and then… waking up here. ’
Star Five was a nightclub he never frequented. He hated clubs. He was more comfortable in his council flat, with the TV, a beer and joint. ‘Saturday?’ he said.
‘Yes…Saturday…’
‘But today’s Saturday.’
She looked at him with the eyes of a non-believer. ‘No, it’s Sunday…it’s not Saturday.’
‘What was the date of the birthday?’
‘It was yesterday, the eleventh.’
Davey’s eyes unwavering, said, ‘Today’s the 18th.’
For a moment she looked further lost, confused. He wondered if she might collapse, faint, then he was in a whole lot of bother. Instead, she blew her nose and shook her head. ‘They must have drugged me,’ she said. ‘But why choose me? ’
He had no answer. ‘How many are there?’ he asked instead.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen anybody.’
‘What? You must have seen someone…you must have eaten…’
‘Why? Because of all that shit back there? I’ve not eaten…and I don’t feel like eating ever again…And that shit’s not mine
She scratched wrists, pulling up the sleeves on the green dress. The bruises resembled large abstract tattoos, woven in blacks and purples, imprinted on to her white sallow skin. He thought of large hands, gripping and pressing, restricting the blood, as the abrasions around her thin wrists, took on the form of two thickened-red bracelets.
She turned to him, ‘What do you think?’
Davey shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘They look painful.’
‘I don’t feel pain…not physical…but emotionally, well, I feel like a piece of cheap fucking meat!’
He nodded. ‘So they’re not your parents?’ he asked, realising the stupidity of the question.
‘Of course they’re not my parents,’ she replied, shaking her head, stifling back the tears. ‘I don’t know who they are…why do you say that?’
He sank his hand inside the bag. ‘This,’ he said, withdrawing the silver-framed photograph.
She pushed her hands over her mouth, ‘Oh my god!’
‘You have to say, there’s a likeness.’
‘They’re trying to dress me up as their…’ she paused…, ‘Dead daughter.’
Davey was surprised, ‘you know…knew…her?’
‘No…look.’
She was pointing to the bottom of the frame.
In Memory
How could I have missed that? he thought.
‘Shit! We have to get out of here.’ he said, throwing the picture aside. ‘I was told they were on holiday… ’ She gently took his offered left arm, ‘Cm’ on! We have to get-’
But as they turned, they stopped – they stopped to watch freedom vanish before their very eyes; as the door drove back, kissing wood, with a hard, discourteous bang!
‘Fuck!’
He heard something being dragged across the floor. A cupboard, he guessed. Davey stopped himself from running at the door. He didn’t want to be another Taffy Wilson, pulling down his trousers, showing them the mighty work the farmer’s double barrel-shotgun had made. He had been one of the lucky ones. The gang had lost one or two heads in the past. He didn’t want to add to the list and make it a third; or be another Taffy Wilson on disability allowance, hobbling around on a dodgy left leg, and half an arse.
He surveyed the room for a way out. But this room had no windows, no other door. No escape.
She let go of his arm. ‘What now?’ she asked, standing back, biting her chipped and blackened fingernails.
‘I wish I knew,’ he said, reaching into his jean pocket for his mobile phone. ‘We need help, and fast.’ He pressed the pad. ‘Shit…! No battery.’
‘You’re kidding, right? Please say you’re kidding?’
Davey wasn’t listening. His heart was pounding. His mind set deep in thought. Think…
What a fucking mess. He was a burglar who could get into any house he chose, but out…well that was a different matter entirely.
He moved to the phones and went through each and every one…dead…dead…dead… until he found a glimmer of hope in one. It was a phone similar to his own. He slid off the cover and pulled out the battery.
She whispered, ‘Who are you going to call…the police?’
‘Well I can’t exactly do that…I’ll get caught…’
The girl reached down for an unopened bottle of water and unscrewed the blue plastic top. ‘But you’re… already… caught,’ she said between swigs.
Absurd as it sounded, she had a point.
He switched it on. What power it had was small, but enough to call Robbie.
‘Call the police,’ she demanded.
He said nothing as the phone connected, rang four times and then switched to voicemail. Shit. ‘Listen, I need help…I’m trapped on that last-’
‘No,’ she murmured.
He pressed the key pad, hoping to revive it, but it was dead.
She started to shake. Her blue eyes dilating with fear. She looked sorrowful, and weak. He wanted to make her happy, comfort her, say something to take her mind off the present situation, but instead he took the bottle from her, ‘You should have called the police,’ she remonstrated.
Maybe she was right. But he never listened to women, teenage girls, especially. Instead, he pushed the phone into his pocket, tipped back the bottle and began gulping.
‘We’ll never get out of here,’ she said. ‘You’re an idiot…all men are idiots. Why didn’t you just call the police? It was that fucking easy, you twat!’
She was becoming hysterical. He put the bottle down, stood straight and confident, and placed both hands delicately on her shoulders, ‘Sit, please,’ he said. ‘Let me think.’ She acquiesced.
Her eyes moist with tears made her look like an extra from a cheap horror movie. Every bit of hope she’d had minutes ago, had now faded. ‘What do you think they’ll do with us?’ she asked.
Davey walked solemnly around the room. This was some kind of extension that had been built with concrete slabs; a makeshift shelter, thick and impenetrable, built for the condemned. He felt the chill run throughout his body. Death had never entered his head before now. Of course, all life must die. It was nature. But at nineteen, the idea was ridiculous. This whole situation was ridiculous. He needed to find a way out – and for them both.
‘Do you think they’ll kill us?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Davey turning. ‘It’s a possibility…’
‘Oh what joy you bring,’ she said sarcastically.
‘Now, listen to me…whatever your name is…’
‘Debra…’
‘I have two daughters’, and when they get to your age, I’m going make sure they don’t go walking around in the middle of the night, dressed up like cheap whores.’
‘Bastard! That skirt wasn’t cheap. It cost me…’
‘I don’t care what it cost…I care about getting out of here, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Debra flicking her head to the side, pissed off by her incompetent saviour.
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Suddenly, he heard footsteps tapping along outside the door; a single pair of leather hard-soled shoes working their way around the kitchen. He could hear a draw opening, and a mumble of irritancy, surely after finding their draws cleared of cutlery. They were going to be even more pissed off, when they find their jewelry’s been taken and the photograph of their – supposedly – dead daughter, missing.
He checked his Rolex, 4pm. This was either going to be the longest day of his life, or the shortest. If anything, he would put his money on the latter. Apart from the stolen items, he’d broken into their secret world. Whatever world that was, he could only speculate, but they would have the last say. That was, unless, Robbie came to get him out of this mess. But somehow he knew, even Robbie would have problems. He couldn’t do this on his own. The bloke…doctor…banked with him. Robbie was the guy’s adviser. Robbie would have to send in the troops.
He turned back to Debra to find she had now moved from chair to floor, propping herself up against the right-side wall; her arms folded, trying to stave off the cold. He hadn’t noticed how cold it was. He took the shirt from his bag and went over and wrapped it around her. ‘It might help,’ he said putting on a brave smile. She grabbed the shirt tighter, smiling nervously back with a voiceless, thanks.
Who was she really? He wondered if she was really telling him the truth - the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He read the local newspapers with vigour, especially the ‘Got You,’ column. What and who had been nicked; the court cases, the sentences and the rest of the junk that went with it. He never read the National’s, the gutter-journalist-bullshit was on a level he refused to step down to. But if she was telling him the truth, he was sure he would have read about it. A young missing girl was something he wouldn’t have overlooked; a handsome-ransom, nobody overlooked. And not forgetting the chatter. The old girls like gossip. The pensioner’s in his building got off on stories like this. She’d be the talk of town. She would be sought after, missed by those who know or didn’t know her. But he’d heard not a dickey-bird.
Who are you? Where do you come from? Where do you live?
But she’d found sanctity on the cold concrete floor. Her eyes closed. Comforted at last, he thought - somehow, by her useless liberator.
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He slid to the ground and leaned back on the opposing wall, and began to think it over. He was handed the job two days ago. Waking up, startled more like, to his mobile ringing. It was an early call. Six am. He hated early calls, because early calls meant something was quickly needed. Robbie had said he’d been chosen to do this. He’d asked why? But Robbie was just as much in the dark. All he could say was that the order had come from above - believing it to be a job left to skill. But whoever had handed out this job hadn’t done their homework -like they were all supposed to. The owners were not on holiday. The owners were kidnappers, perverted and possibly murderous. And the owners had caught a second.
Maybe it was paranoia, maybe it was carelessness, or maybe somebody’s bad planning. There was so many fucking possibilities it made him hate the word.
He pulled the bag towards him and brought out the crowbar. Violence was the only option he could see. Their violence was set more on humiliation - of course, a better contender – humiliation was far better than a kick in the head. To humiliate in public, in front of an audience, a private-paying-audience, was the ultimate in humiliation, if you were the unwilling victim, of course. There were many perverts, trolls, sickos, whatever you called them; there would be no name low enough to get near them.
He heard the hollow-like footsteps fade. They were leaving the kitchen. He slowly rolled onto his knees and started crawling.
At the door, he listened, but heard nothing. He found that the crowbar, when breaking in, had taken out a small splinter of wood; carefully he drove his right eye forward. It wasn’t the perfect hole, or angle. He saw a square of white-tiled floor, and a little of the kitchen door (nothing higher than an ankle). When the eye is blind it makes up its own pictures, and the picture he had was of a big gun standing on the other side of that door, waiting to take off his head. Leave nothing to chance. However flimsy the door was, it was being guarded by a dangerous wolf that did not stray far. He was sure. But all wolves have to sleep sometime or other. And sleep would be to his advantage. But the possibility of straining it out for that long, was going to be a long haul, on mind, body and company.
Something told him, that day and night are inseparable, when imprisoned. The girl had been here for a week. What had they been doing with her? He didn’t want to pause on that thought. He had to pull himself together. A weak mind was the devil’s playground. And a weak mind was something, David William Henry, was fortunate, not to have. If he could keep the bastards away long enough, they both had a chance. He had to stay positive. Robbie was in a meeting. Robbie always had meetings. And when Robbie was finished in that meeting, he’d check his phone, dial his voicemail, mumble fuck, and then go into action - in the usual, Robbie way.
He watched as the feet shuffled back into the kitchen in a pair of old brown slippers. He wanted to catch a glimpse of the legs. If they were bare or clothed, and with what, would at least give him some idea on who he might be dealing with – man or woman. But the feet soon stepped from view, as if retreating with food in hand. They were, he assumed, taking enjoyment in their further rat trapping. The girl, Debra, being a looker for their dead daughter, had been a planned kidnap. They had obviously been tracking her down for some time. Waiting for the right opportunity to smash and grab – her blond greasy hair matted with dry blood - but it somehow didn’t fit. If she was here just to take on the starring role of their daughter, then why treat her like this? Was it because they’d also done the same thing to their daughter, and maybe foolishly killed her, and wanted this girl to take over from where she’d left off?
He crawled back to the photo and clipped open the frame and took out the picture. There was no name to give him a clue. He folded it and shoved it into his right sock - the left sock storing a couple of emergency pickers, might damage or tear it – and pulled his jean down.
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‘Daddy!’ shouted Katie, as she ran towards him, arms unfolded, readying herself for immediate flight. Davey grabbed her under the arms, lifted and twizzled her round and round, until they both felt dizzy. She kissed him on landing and took his hand and led him toward the house. He didn’t really like the idea of coming to this house. He’d had his good times, here, once – after a chance meeting in the park, on a grey Sunday lunchtime. And the result was now dragging him inside to where he would meet, Shelly, the golden girl herself, wanting also to be lifted and loved. He felt guilty. He always did. He saw her as the stray cat looking for an owner. But he wasn’t ready to take on a relationship. He hated the idea of being close to someone. He’d never experienced love until his daughters’ came along. He’d never been in a proper relationship. His life was cold, and heartless to a point. He was quite settled to the single life, with two daughters’ who loved him without restraints placed upon him. After all, what did he really have to offer them? One day he would be caught, a fact of life. Five years, minimum. Everybody gets caught one day. He’d seen them come and go; had wiped his brow at the relief, that it was not him. If you live on the wrong side of the law, you must accept the consequences. If he lived and shared his life with Shelley and Katie, he would have to change his ways, find a real job – what a horrible thought. He would lose his Job seeker’s allowance, his low rate council tax and heating subsidies - the idea was frightening.
They reached the blue front door. The same blue door all the semi-detached council houses had along this street. That’s how you could tell they were council. A warning to those on a more supreme level; more acquainted to the finer things in life, like good jobs, money, private homes and expensive cars – not to drive this way. The blue door a sign, that this humble street was plagued.
He was tugged inside by some force. For a three year old, she was strong. She took him past the empty living room, pulling, heaving him up the stairs. ‘What’s the rush?’
‘Daddy… Becky and Fiona are here.’
What? Becky was the other girl - woman - who had briefly stepped into his life, in the same park, some three weeks after Shelley; the result being Fiona. What were they doing here? Becky and Shelley hated each other. The last time they’d met was in town, outside the Bull Inn, drunk and arguing, kicking, and ripping out peroxide blond hair by the ton. It had been a fight over him - because he had a fondness for Becky, and always gave her a little extra when needed - a fight that had lasted a good five minutes until the police intervened, to a roar of protests, mostly men; enjoying the spectacle of two jealous women with their skirts torn, and their blouses ripped, screaming in a tangle on the ground. He’d never felt so fucking embarrassed in all his life. He’d only gone to the Bull to buy a pack of cigs – and wished he hadn’t.
Davey stepped into her pink bedroom and saw a dress fully laid out on her single-pink-sheeted bed. It was long and green with a white collar, way too big for her. ‘It’s great, ain’t it, Daddy?’ He nodded and smiled. ‘Where did you get it?’ he asked. Katie shrugged her shoulders. He felt a horrid tang in his throat. What was going on? The dress looked dirty around the hem, and the sleeves frayed. It was a dress for an adult woman not a three year old. He knew Shelly shopped mostly in charity shops - and had bought some favourable things, at some cozy low prices, over the months. She had an eye for clothes, but the dress was something he did not like. It was a summer dress for the plain and boring. She would find no man’s eagerness when wearing this. He saw it more as a-
‘Becky,’ she said, kneeling over the bed, taking a green felt tipped pen; pressing it and scraping it across a large piece of paper; continuing to colour in the picture she had obviously started, before her father’s arrival.
‘Becky? She gave your mum the dress?’
‘No.’
He bent down and said, ‘Tell me darling, what you mean?’
‘I mean,’ said Katie. ‘She stole it.’
He felt confusion furrow his forehead. He felt the silence sting and shudder. He didn’t want to be here, anymore. He wanted to live a life of ignorance and stay away from humanities corruption. ‘Where are they?’ he asked as she raised the picture. Of-
-Two stick people. One tall and green, one small and red; their eyes black and bulbous; their mouths blue and down turned, as if scorned in misery. And below, he saw more red - patches upon patches of scribbled red. ‘That’s Becky,’ she pointed to the tall figure. ‘And this is Fiona.’
He hesitated to ask what the red signified. Because he didn’t want to hear it, he already knew. He rose and turned to the window. ‘They’re in the garden,’ she said giggling. ‘Fiona and Becky are in the garden.’ She sang, ‘Fiona and Becky are in the garden, la…la.la…la…’
Outside, below the window, he saw two large men, slipping into an already deep-dug-hole, two grey bags. Two bags filled with two stick people. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘It’s not possible.’ He watched as they grabbed their shovels and began filling. He could hear the soil hitting the plastic as Shelley moved forward, smoking a cigarette. She sensed him. She turned, looked up, and smiled.
‘La…la.la…la…di…’
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His grip loosened by the nightmare before him. He tried to fight away the darkness, but its docility was too powerful. His mind had weakened. The demons had arisen. They stood before him, dressed in blacks and greys, blues and pinks, rotating, mixing, holding, tussling; playing by their rules. He heard them laughing at his pathetic resistance. He felt no strength or will to fight. As if, all had been zapped from his body – how? He did not know. But the pressure applied, hurt. The pain inside his head, hurt. Freedom, he longed to see freedom. Freedom was painless, it did not hurt.
‘Fuck… you,’ he heard himself mumble.
He felt something dripping on to his hand. His nose, he guessed. His own uncontaminated blood was being syphoned from him, without consent. He was about to be the third stick person. He was to follow Fiona and Becky, all of them together, as one, holding up the soon-to-be built, patio; that would provide them with the necessary air in which to breathe - enough to drink.
But he heard his lungs gurgling. They were full of that cantankerous old wheeze smokers get. But this wheeze was a little different. This wheeze was about to explode. His lungs were about to burst from his mouth, leaving him to suffocate. The patio would be his headstone. And under the headstone, in a thousand years from now, architects would dig and find, and be amazed that people, settlers, had arrived here, long before the problem families with their feral children, bad hygiene and diet.
There was a rustling sound. But his vision was blurred, way beyond clarity. The movement, the scraping, the tipping and tapping - across the floor – made the bile churn. He was in the rat’s house. He saw its big black furry body dart towards him. He flinched as it jumped and clung to his right foot, as its sharp teeth sank in to his toes, pulling, tearing, wrenching. He tried to kick it off, but it became more ravenous, more obsessed in ripping his foot to shreds. He saw the thick red blood gushing like a broken water pipe, spreading evenly across the floor. He tried to shout, but he had no voice. His tongue had been severed. He wondered if the rat had taken it. He wondered if the rat had taken breakfast this morning, with Fiona and Becky. If it had, it was a hungry rat, a dog-like rat, that ate and ate-
‘Daddy,’ Kate said. ‘Daddy, come back.’
He was slipping into further darkness - being pushed forward by fevered hands. He felt like dropping. The rat had locked on. It was heavy, like an iron ball and chain, it weighed him down. His head had sunk, his arms dangling loosely like the empty arms of a shirt, or coat, or a green dress - in a light summer breeze. He had no stamina. He wanted to die. He wanted the darkness to swallow him up in one large gulp.
The rat continued shredding. He felt the cold air circulate around his foot as his leather boot vanished. The rat was after flesh. It was persistent and strong. That’s when he lost his balance and fell to the concreted floor, hard - face first. And then he felt the hands. Hands that grabbed and rolled him over; forcing his arms and legs down with a mighty power. In the distance he heard water gushing into a bucket. He thought of urine and shit; as a rag was stretched over his mouth. He struggled in vain, as the freezing cold, and slimy water, came crashing down. He took a panicked breath only to suck in the cloth. They were waterboarding him. It had the same feeling as drowning. He was coughing and twisting and fighting to breath; as another defiant hand clamped to his chin and held it ridged.
‘Nooooooo…’
He was going to die. He couldn’t hold on.
As they stopped to refill, he could hear the shuffling of feet, as if cursing his existence. He could hear the sudden demise of whispers change to the somber tone of Classical music; becoming more vibrant and hypnotic, as if to cover up his silent screams. That was it! He could smell a fresh-soaped-body or hand drifting in and out of his senses. As if scrubbed and ready to perform the operation.
He heard a scream, ‘Daddy, I love you.’
Help me GOD, please, help me… don’t let them fucking-
But it was a stupid idea. Because God had more important calls to make, better people to save, than a damn burglar. He was needed elsewhere; like Robbie, who was probably in the pub, drinking, watching football, or maybe at home, in bed, necking. What did he care? Nobody cared. David William Henry was a parasite. There was no place for parasites. They would all, one day, be wiped out.
‘Pleeeese!’ he cried.
Only to be stopped in mid motion.
His voice suddenly held clarity, as if he had been brought back to life by a defibrillator – shocking, choking; reverberating around him; reaching out for pure air.
It wasn’t possible.
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He stretched his mouth wide open - the gag had gone - his jaw free, his tongue prominent and in one piece, licking, searching out his dry mouth. Apart from his heart banging like a drum, everything else had become quiet - grave quiet. He felt no hand, no wetness, no rat tugging and gnawing; he felt no one near him. His sixth sense telling him, he was alone.
He felt a flow of cool air brush over his forehead, as the darkness of his eyelids turned to light. He opened them warily. He twisted his aching head from left to right, as far as he possibly could; the place was empty - including the girl. He saw nothing of clothes, or phones, or water bottles or a bucket full of shit; or his bag. The place even smelt better. It smelt pure and summer breezy; as the silence echoed with a warm-inviting-emptiness, arousing his comatose mind, he turned to the door, and found it standing wide open.
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He’d been drugged. It was in the water, of course. And the girl had drunk it too. That’s why she’d fallen asleep.
His mind began recharging, driving away the crap that had filled it for who-knew how long. He had to get out of here. The girl was not his responsibility. There was nothing he could do except keep alive. Survive it as best as he could. Today is the first day, he told himself, for the rest of your life. He’d had it with stealing, thieving. Fuck it!
He was sitting in the chair. The shackles pressed tight, were making his writs sore. The chains rattled across the floor as he brought his hands together as he pulled up his left leg to rest it on his right knee, just enough to fiddle out the pickers – glad they were still there.
It wasn’t difficult to tempt the locks open. It wasn’t difficult to throw them and the shackles and chains to the floor. He felt a sense of freedom, of heroism, in being able to fight against those damned evil demons inside his head. He had survived the ride. They were hoping he wouldn’t. But he had.
He stood a little awkwardly, resting a hand on the back of the chair. A sort of light-headed drunken feeling was there. He took a deep breath and with urgency pushed himself on. He’d only taken a few steps when he felt he had to rest. He was tired. The drugs were tainting his stability and vision once again, as his eyes wavered to adjust, like a kid with a pair of out-of-focus binoculars, he grabbed the wall. You’ve got to do it, he forced himself. It’s not far… You can do it.
But his legs jellied, bent and slipped.
A meter from freedom!
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***
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They sat in the car. Three of them, on a slope, camouflaged by a large oak tree that gave them the necessary view, needed. Robbie had received the call, and had immediately gone into action. He’d been waiting for such a call. His boys often got caught and needed help. But more often than not, it was a late call. A call that was meaningless. They’d been caught. And they would do their time like the men they were, and keep their gobs shut. If not, well, they knew what faced them, when released. Or so the word in prison, said. He’d been put in charge of the Fagan gang, because of his skill, cleverness, intuition, and utter ruthlessness. But he hated it when one of the lads got pinched. Even if it did keep the devil off his back… kept Robbie unleashed to reign on for a while more, it still worried him that one of those boys would spill the beans, in order to get a reduced sentence. One day.
In the end, it all came down to money. He had the virus. All thieves have the greed virus; although he’d never really done any serious housebreaking himself, it still didn’t stop the greed from wanting more. And he was always hungry for more.
But Riley Fagan was the main man. The Teflon chief – nothing stuck. However much info the police had on him, Riley Fagan remained aloof. A good lawyer, and plenty of well-fed witnesses, gave him the time to revel in his freedom time and again. He’d told Robbie how he loved to take on the establishment and win; as if the police and courts were the devil incarnate. He’d respected Riley. He had, after all, got Robbie a job at the bank. And Robbie had felt a need to thank him, by taking charge of some of the weekly burden. But now Riley was branching out, he had new boys – working moles – who dug tunnels towards banks; Robbie’s bank in particular. The days of the old fashioned robber was over. It was time to explore other routes. And this route was a difficult route. Robbie felt he’d been let down, used more like. He’d got the job only to support Riley’s plan. A plan he’d been unaware of at the time. If he had, he wouldn’t have accepted the position at all.
Riley had at last shown Robbie, his true colours. Riley Fagan was nothing more than a using motherfucker. And Robbie had no time for using motherfuckers.
Davey was the best he had, but at the end of the day, he was just like the rest of them, nothing but a number. Robbie didn’t care about befriending his lads. He made them believe he did. But that was his skill. They were paid to do a job, and that was all. The Fagan Gang wasn’t into social networking. They never bothered about idle talk, or meeting each other in pubs. The only get-togethers came when a job was available and two or three bodies were needed. The Fagan gang comprised of young lads, set on a life of crime… easy money to some. They were used and paid, and then left alone until needed again. But some of them had become careless, which in turn made him feel a target. This sort of work usually brought paranoia to his door. And Riley knew. And Robbie knew he knew. He was also growing quite suspicious about Riley’s motives. It had to be said, that Riley was becoming tirelessly abhorrent about certain people. Robbie knew he had to do something before Riley turned his cold callous eyes onto him. Robbie had contacts, money and locations, to hide and plan. He had no choice but to step on the old man’s feet - it was necessary if he wanted to take over the entire operation. But to do that, he first had to play along a little bit more. Wait his time anxiously, and then have the old man ‘disappear’. It was a nice thought. After all, Robbie had been working for the Fagan gang, ten years now; it was time for promotion.
‘Whose house is it?’ the driver asked.
Robbie kept his eyes set on the house. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ he said. ‘It’s on a need to know basis… and… you don’t need to know. ’
‘I was only-’
‘Prying…you were prying.’
‘I didn’t mean any-’
‘Nobody does,’ Robbie replied, as if he could read minds. ‘It’s something we live with. It’s in our veins.’
The driver frowned, ‘I don’t know if I quite follow.’
Robbie turned to him and smiled. ‘Don’t follow,’ he said. ‘Never follow…just do it and be damned.’
The driver didn’t reply. He just carried on staring out of the window at nothing in particular.
Robbie hated the silence, ‘What do you think of Riley?’ he asked.
The driver coughed. ‘He’s a nice man… he’s a man who keeps his word.’
‘Is that why the job came to me?’
Again the driver coughed. ‘Your name was passed around. Word is… you’re the best at what you do.’
‘There are many others.’
The driver shook his head, ‘Not with your vision, Robbie.’
Robbie felt the invisible hand pat him on the back. He knew an emotional, thank you, was in order. But he would never allow any form of emotion to creep into his work. Emotion, for one thing, was dangerous. This kind of business required a cool head, a heartless-self; and an uncouth, inflexible, impartiality. Emotion had no place in there. If it did, then no one would ever get robbed.
‘You keep your mouth shut,’ Robbie said. ‘You know what to do?’
‘Yes,’ he nodded and passed over a thick brown envelope. ‘It’s all in there.’
Robbie took the envelope, opened it and counted the bound notes. ‘You mess me about...I’ll be coming for you…understand?’
‘I understand.’
The driver pointed to the back seat, ‘And what about… her?’
‘She’ll wake up soon,’ Robbie said. ‘Don’t worry, just take sleeping beauty back to the address, I gave you.’
‘No problem,’ said the driver, the invalid, who had two contorted and twisted - pincer-like - hands. ‘And thanks.’
Robbie climbed out of the disability car, ‘And you keep me out of this…and her…you hear?’
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘That’s a promise.’
Robbie slammed the door and walked down the road, towards the house. The house, Robbie’s uncle owned, but hardly used, preferring to spend his winters in Spain, with Britain’s Most Wanted. He had given Robbie permission to use it as a hideout, if needed. But Robbie had other plans. He’d set this whole thing up weeks ago, with the help of his uncle’s daughter, ‘The girl in the green dress,’ he liked to call her. She was a willing accomplice when it came to money. She was young, seventeen, and had numerous contacts in the pharmaceutical industry – she liked her drugs, which came in rather handy for such work as this. She had a good head on her shoulders, and a gift for making herself look like a beat up, naïve, little bitch. She had a talent.
The way she applied make-up was stunning, especially this morning. He considered her film move, to some horror make-up department, a future prospect. She definitely had what it took to pull off a big job. Like the job he was setting up for Riley Fagan. Riley liked his money and young women. But the latter would be Riley’s downfall. Robbie’s little cousin would see to that. They just had to get the house ready. Set up the camera’s, and then lure him in. They knew the house now had endless torturous possibilities. Davey had done well. Davey had survived it. If he couldn’t make it out, then no one could. They somehow needed a guinea pig, and Davey being the desire for some retired priest’s revenge, fitted just perfectly.
He lit a cigarette and looked at the lustrous fields soaked in the golden sunlight. It had all worked out rather well. Riley had already received his cut; now Robbie and his cousin had theirs. The X priest had got what he’d paid for – revenge for his knackered hands, and revenge is sweet, is it not? And now young Davey was about to be saved, by his longtime, trustworthy friend, Robbie. And Davey, he thought, pulling on his cigarette and exhaling with a smarmy yet satisfied grin, would be none the bloody wiser.
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The End
Cobra4
N.J.W ©
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