Falling (23 page)
The alternative isn’t much
better. Run away and spend the rest of our life looking over our shoulders.
Whatever is in the documents is not something that Simon is going to let go. We
could hand the documents back to Simon and hope he is in a forgiving mood. Or…
I look at Tina and dismiss the
thought but after five minutes chatting the thought is back. It sounds simple.
It really does - if we were in any way professional at this game? Rescue
Charlie, finally take the police option, confess all and pray Simon, the
gorillas etc all get caught. It is the last bit that gets me worried. Even if
we could rescue Charlie who’s to say that Simon and the gorillas will be caught
or at least caught before they get to us.
Tina comes up with another build
on the idea and I look down in admiration. I quiz her about it but the more we
talk, the more it appears the only option. We agree on a course of action
starting with the highly implausible feat of extracting Charlie from the
clutches of Simon.
George and Tina to the rescue -
don’t all laugh at once.
Both legs are screaming at me and
I’m facing a dilemma - no matter how hard I press on the wounds the blood still
seeps between my fingers but the more I press the more it hurts. I’ve pulled
myself back on the car seat but every time we turn a corner I’m thrown against
one of the doors. I can’t let go of my legs to grab a hold of anything and the
blood has turned the back of the car into a red ice rink.
The car brakes once more and I
slide forward, slip back into the seat well and decide to stay there.
Outside the landscape is changing
and we seem to be heading east.
Simon hits the hands free and the
phone rings. It trips to an answer machine and he hangs up. Almost immediately
the phone rings and Karen picks it up, listens and hangs up.
‘George and the girl have flown
the coop. The girl’s house is covered but just in case I want to ask blood boy
here a few more questions. Head for yours.’
There is no argument from Simon
and we hang a sharp right. I smack my head off the door handle, yelling to
no-one in particular. The orange of the street lights has turned my blood black
and I’m aware I’ve lost a lot of fluid and I’m not heading for the hospital
anytime soon. The strobe effect of the lights passing by is winding up a
headache and the bandage around my head is loose and all but useless.
I try and steady myself while we
are on a stretch of straight road. I reach out and try the door handle but the
central locking is still on. Karen spots me at the handle and gives my head the
business. No-one is designed for the punishment I have received in the last
twenty four hours and I pass out.
When I come round the car has
stopped and the front seats are empty. I push up to look out but the effort
sends a pain express across my temple telling me to stop. I reach down to my
legs and touch both wounds. They are still agony but at least the blood seems
to have stopped flowing. I pull the bandage from my head and unravel it. I rip
at it with my teeth and produce two bandages for my legs. I tie off the left
one and then the right one. There is too little material to do a proper job but
maybe it will be enough to stop the wounds opening when I move.
I hear a door slam and then
shadows cross the car windscreen. The rear passenger door opens and hands reach
in and grab me. I’m pulled from the car and land on a large blue plastic
tarpaulin that has been laid out next to the car door. Simon grabs one end of
the plastic sheet and bundles it up into a knot using the whole thing as a
rough travois. Karen pitches in and they drag me into the garage.
Once inside Simon hits a button
on the wall and the garage door winds down with the whirl of an electric motor
from above. Karen flips on the ceiling lights and my eyes close momentarily
against the brightness.
The plastic moves again and I’m
pulled towards a door at the rear of the garage. Simon reaches out and kicks
the door open and I’m dumped into the small toilet beyond. The door slams shut,
missing my head by millimetres.
I hear scraping and something
heavy is dragged across the outside of the toilet door and the light from the
gap at the bottom vanishes. The garage light goes out and I hear a door close.
I lie for a second taking in the
silence while checking the wounds - both bandages seem dry. The toilet is
windowless and a small red light high on the ceiling, probably a fire alarm,
throws off enough light for me to see the layout. It’s a basic toilet bowl and
small quarter sink set up and little else.
I prop myself up against the wall
and lean on the toilet bowl. It smells fresh and not used much. Not unusual -
this house probably has more toilets than most homes have rooms.
There is a breeze blowing on my
cheek. It seems to be coming from an extractor fan next to the fire alarm
light. The fan is dead but the wind outside is blowing through the slats,
dropping small gusts on me. The world is quiet. I consider shouting but I have
neither the breath nor the energy. I’m also scared to hell that Karen will reappear
- knife in hand.
I try and order my thoughts.
How the hell do you think in a
circumstance like this? How can you function when you have someone like Karen
in the wings - a woman who seems to show no remorse, indulges with no
hesitation - and will, I’m certain, be back for more. Whatever way I look at
this I’m dead in the water. What do they want with me? I can’t tell them
anything else about the location of the documents, no matter how many knives
they stick in me.
What is also beginning to tear at
my gut is the fact that they will ask if I know what is in the documents. It’s
a bloody obvious question and once they know what I know - I’m history. They’re
hardly going to let me go? I might not know the detail of what they are up to
but I know enough to make things awkward. The assault on me, the gorillas and
their antics, the documents and my suspicions, Leonard - any or all of this
would be enough to bring the police in.
I’m making myself more and more
dispensable by the moment and sure as bears drop in the woods they will be
planning their next step. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure what
that will be. Extract what info I possess and dispose of me - simple really.
I put my full weight on the
toilet bowl and push myself to my feet. Both thighs telegraph a ‘don’t move’
message but I push on. Once upright I take the small step required to get to
the door and turn the handle. The lock clicks open and the door moves a half
inch before hitting whatever it is that they put in its way. I turn my back to
the door and try and gain some leverage. I push and there is a little give but
with my legs in the state they are there is no strength in the effort but I’m
sure I can move the blockage if I can get some power into the bloody action.
I slide down the door and place
my feet on the base of the toilet bowl, my legs are curled up and I lean into
the door and try and straighten my legs.
The pain in my thighs is a living
thing but I feel the door move another half an inch. I can feel dampness and
the warmth of fresh blood down the side of my left leg as the wound re-opens
but I just have to get on with the job and I lean into the door with what force
I have left. Whatever is holding the door closed shifts and screams as it is
forced over the garage floor.
I freeze, waiting for Karen or
Simon to come running. I count to twenty and with no sign of life I push at the
door again. This time the door moves a little more and the object beyond slides
with less protest. My legs are straight but the gap between door and frame is
too small for me to squeeze through yet. I straighten my back and curl my legs
up to give a final push but the blood on the floor gets under my shoes and my
legs shoot away from me. I try again but all I’m doing is spreading my life
fluid. It’s like a bloody Torville and Dean routine from a horror movie.
I lean up and grab the toilet
roll and with a pull start it unfurling. I grab handfuls of the paper and wipe
up as much as the blood as I can from the floor before my leg adds it back. I
wipe the soles of my feet and try for one last push.
The door resists and then the
object gives up the ghost with a howl and I fall backward into the garage
smacking my head on the concrete floor. I lie on my back, chest heaving,
leaking blood like a sieve and nursing the return of an OTT headache.
I can’t believe that no-one heard
the noise. I might have only seconds to get moving. In my spent state I ought
to be down and out for the count but God loves a good ‘un and I roll onto my
front and haul myself to my feet.
The garage is swathed in all but
a curtain of black. I try and focus on where I saw Simon hit the door control
and I head for it. I can see a vague light under the door that leads into the
house but there is no way I can exit that way and the garage door is Hobson’s
choice.
I grope along the wall and find a
box with a rocker switch on it. I flip it and the electric motor in the ceiling
kicks into life. The door starts to rise and the garage starts to light up as
the street lights take hold. I am moving before the door is an inch clear of
the ground. I drop to the concrete and grasp the underside of the door trying
to force it up quicker.
I risk a glance back but the door
to the house is still closed. I dare to think that no one is aware of my escape
yet. The garage door is about two feet in the air when I roll under it and onto
the driveway. I stagger to my feet and stumble forward.
A pair of arms catch me and my
heart falls like a stone.
‘Going somewhere?’
Simon pushes me to the ground and
for good measure kicks me.
He gives me a punch to the face
and drags me back into the garage. I try to struggle but my strength is gone.
He hits the switch and the door closes. The door to the house opens and Karen
walks in switching on the light.
‘Time for a chat,’ she says.
For the first time since I was
three years old I piss in my trousers.
George has dropped quiet on the
way to Simon’s house. I let him drive as I need to make a couple of calls and
get my mind straight on what we need to do. Timing is everything and we are at
a severe disadvantage. I don’t know Simon’s house and that would seem a bit of
a pre-requisite if we are to get Charlie out. My plan also has more holes than
my favourite pair of jeans and to top it all we are, as far as I can see, about
to take on people who see killing people as a minor hobby.
The night holds Glasgow a
prisoner as we drift through the suburbs. I’ve walked these streets for nigh on
most of my life and still they hold a mystery at such a dark hour. Cars flash
by and I wonder where they are going at this time. A boy of no more than ten is
standing alone on a street corner and I almost ask George to stop and find out
why he is out so late but as I watch he turns and vanishes up a side road and
we are moving on.
I run through the next steps in
my head. I’m in alien territory here. If this was telly then the plan would be
exact and extensive - mine is inexact and brevity itself. We will case - even
the words feel wrong - Simon’s house and look for an opportunity. If one
doesn’t present itself I hope plan B works.
We lose the city and after ten
minutes of country we enter Simon’s village.
House prices have only gone one
way in Glasgow’s satellite villages, even given the recent economic turmoil,
and Simon’s village is no exception. What few cars we see parked on the road
are all fresh out the wrapper in the last three years. The houses are set back
with hedges and walls to give privacy. Only the centre of the village looks
inviting, courtesy of a short burst of pre World War II terraced housing
coupled with the compulsory corner store and local pub,
George checks his wee black book
and confirms the address. I don’t have Sat Nav or a street map but the village
isn’t that big and we cruise, checking out the road signs. George tucks his
book into his pocket. He told me at the flat it is the one thing he would save
in a fire. Every contact, deal and customer is hidden in its scrappy pages. It
is the only reason we know Simon’s address.
George feathers the brakes and
slows down to read the next road sign. He brings the car to a halt, backs up
and turns into the avenue. The houses are further apart now and the road lights
stop a couple of hundred yards ahead. We head towards the darkness and old
homes give way to new builds. Custom builds at that. George points to a mono
blocked driveway and whispers ‘Simon’s house’. It is the last on the street.
We drive past the last
streetlight and into the night. We pull into the entrance to a field and George
kills the engine and the lights. I open the door and let the cold in and George
does the same. The house is a hundred yards back towards the village and we
walk up to the edge of the first pool of street light and stop.
The house for all its custom
build still looks like a thousand that I have seen in estate agents’ windows.
The mock Tudor makes me smile and ask the question ‘Why? What the heck did the
Tudors ever do for Glasgow that requires such homage?’
There is light behind the large
double window downstairs and a small security light highlights the front door.
We wait and I wish I had brought
a thicker coat. Even in summer Scotland doesn’t like to hang onto the heat too
long. George suggests we try and get a look at the back of the house when our
attention is drawn to the garage by a screeching noise emanating from inside.
There is a pause and then a second noise.