Numb: A Dark Thriller (12 page)

15

Riley stared up at the ceiling as Carter inserted the tweezers into the wound.

All he could feel was a slight tugging sensation and a little pressure. Nothing bad. Far worse was the metallic clicking he could hear as the tweezers scraped against the bullet, for it was that sound which almost turned his stomach. Not feeling pain still didn’t stop the mind from being disgusted or frightened. It still didn’t stop the heart from racing or the skin from sweating or the body from shaking. He knew more than most that mental trauma could be just as dangerous as physical injury. In times like this you had to keep relaxed and stay calm and focussed. Though like most things in life, it was easier said than done.

“Nearly there,” Carter said. “You holding up, Riley?”

“Never better.” Riley glanced down.

Fluid was trickling from the hole. It was more translucent pink than blood red. The wound was obviously beginning to heal already.

“Got it!”

As Carter pulled the bullet free, the blood followed, oozing out in a thick, red line. He held the battered projectile to his face whilst at the same time covering the wound with a cloth, keeping firm pressure on it.

“It’s flattened but intact,” Carter said, studying the bullet. “That’s good. It hasn’t broken up inside you.”

“So the danger’s over?” Riley asked.

“Not quite.” Carter flushed the wound with clean water from a syringe. Shook his head again. “It’s still bleeding. I told you it’s not always a good idea to take it out. No vital blood supplies have been damaged so I could dress it and see if it’ll heal overnight. But if it doesn’t then you’ll have to go to hospital and...” He looked Riley in the eye. “I suppose I could...”

“Just do it,” Riley said. “Whatever it is.”

Carter stood up, his arthritic knees clicking. He went to kitchen draw and selected a teaspoon. Then he walked to the gas stove and turned on the first burner. He placed the thin end of the spoon in the blue flames.

Riley took a deep breath, preparing himself. Carter had taught him coping techniques years ago, ways of dealing not with pain but with the shock of an injury. Ways to distract the mind from what was going on with his physical body. Counting was one way. Playing a song or film in your head was another. Self hypnosis was another way but he’d never been able to relax his mind long enough to induce a trance state. He preferred counting and doing sums in his head with his eyes firmly shut, and hopefully that would distract him from the sickly, abnormal smell of burning flesh that could easily set off a chain reaction of nausea and panic.

Carter was suddenly back by Riley’s side, holding the scooping end of the spoon between his thumb and forefinger. The thin end was glowing red and steaming.

“You might want to look away, Riley.”

Riley did so, and when he heard the sizzle as the red-hot end of the spoon touched his skin, he instantly felt weaker, like his insides were sinking into the chair whilst his outer self remained upright.

That’s the shock
, he told himself.
That’s what you’ve got to fight. Don’t think about what’s happening. Let your mind drift away...

The smell of burning flesh filled the air; part burnt toast, part barbeque, and something that just didn’t smell right. It was almost too much for Riley and so he closed his eyes and began counting. Backwards from a thousand in denominations of twenty-seven. That was tricky. That required thought and concentration. Concentration was a distraction.

He continued counting until Carter finished the gory task and he heard him place the spoon on the table. Then he opened his eyes and looked down at the wound as Carter wiped the singed hair and black bits away. It wasn’t bleeding anymore and what was just a few seconds ago an open wound now looked like scar tissue.

One more for my collection...

“All done,” Carter said. “The bleeding’s stopped and it should heal okay, but I want you to come back tomorrow so I can check it out. Plus, you’ll need some antibiotics and I haven’t got any in the house. I’ll have to make a phone call in the morning and call in a favour.”

“That makes you sound like a gangster,” Riley said.

“When in Rome...”

Riley didn’t reply as Carter began to dress the wound. He knew the doctor hadn’t meant anything by the remark. It was said the way a father might speak to a son who’d disappointed him, a son who he still loved dearly, despite whatever mistakes he’d made. A son who he knew was a good person deep down.

Riley liked it when Carter made little comments like that.

A few minutes later, he pulled on his shirt, collected the bloody towels and bundled them into the washing machine as Carter gathered his equipment together.

“What about this?” Riley then asked, nudging the bullet with his finger.

“I’ll sort that later,” Carter replied as he put the tin box back in the cupboard. When he turned around, he was smiling. “Or maybe I’ll keep it as a souvenir. You want a drink?”

Before Riley could reply the doctor grabbed a bottle of whisky from the sideboard and began pouring two glasses. He knew Riley didn’t drink as a rule, but obviously assumed that being shot in the gut warranted a change from the norm.

“Here,” he said, handing Riley a glass. “It’s only a small one, seeing as you’re driving.” He took a sip of his drink, and held it in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. Then he asked, “So, apart from getting shot, how are things?”

“The same,” Riley replied.

“How’s work?”

Riley didn’t answer. He knew where this was going. This was a regular conversation when the two of them met.

“Look, Riley,” Carter said. “You’re going to push your luck one day and get seriously hurt – or worse. You’re too good a person to be working for someone like Mike Nash. You hate what you do, I know, I can tell, so why don’t you make a change?”

“It’s not that simple,” Riley said. It
wasn’t
that simple. It was too late to move on. Too late to save himself. He finished his drink in one gulp. It didn’t burn, like it should. Just made him wince at the taste.

“Why can’t it be simple?” asked Carter. “You have money, you have no ties to this place, to these people. Just move away and start afresh. Get a real job. Start a family. Be happy.”

When Riley didn’t answer Carter changed the subject.

“By the way, you don’t need to wait until you’re injured to visit me.”

“How have you been since June died?” Riley asked, and by the look on Carter’s face the older man hadn’t expected that question to be thrown at him. He looked taken aback. Then he quickly shrugged it away.

“Getting by. You have to, don’t you?”

Riley nodded and felt a wave of sympathy for the older man. Carter and June never had children. The retired doctor was alone and had no reason to go on if he didn’t want to. He just felt he had to. It was human nature. That’s what people do. They just go on, whether they have something to live for or not. Self destruction and suicide were easy options, but most people didn’t consider them. Maybe it was because that no matter how bleak life seemed, no matter how dark the road ahead, there was always hope that something better lay in store. Maybe, deep down, Riley hoped the same for himself.

“I guess that’s why I haven’t called in more often to see you,” he said, feeling the need to get it off his chest. “I don’t like to see you alone. You and June were so happy, and she was always so nice to me, even when I used to come here in the early hours of the morning.”

Carter smiled, looking both happy and pained.

“I suppose with us never having kids of our own she looked at you as the nearest thing. You were certainly enough trouble, what with the all the fights and everything.”

Riley laughed, a little embarrassed and a little ashamed.

“Seriously though,” he said, “I want you to know that I’m not totally selfish and that I don’t just stay in touch because you patch me up.”

“I know that, son,” Carter said.

“And if you ever need anything from me-”

“Stop getting shot,” Carter interrupted.

Both men laughed and when they finally calmed down they became away of another noise, this one coming from the pocket of Riley’s jacket slung over the chair. His mobile phone was ringing.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Carter asked.

Riley felt he had to. He pulled out the phone and saw the caller ID said
PURVIS
. Carter walked to the window and looked out at his garden to give Riley some privacy.

“What’s up?” Riley asked, pressing the phone to his ear. He smiled at Carter who pretended not to listen as he sipped his whisky.

“Just checking you’re alright,” Purvis said. “How’s you’re stomach.”

“All taken care of. What’s happened since I’ve been gone?”

“I’ve brought Sandra and Wendy back to their place after the police took a statement. I had to tell them about you. They said they’ll come to your house tomorrow.”

“That’s fine. What about Nash?”

“He’s in hospital. I don’t know if they’re going to operate on him or what, but he’ll be kept in overnight. I heard the bloke who got gut-shot had to have emergency surgery. The woman only had a flesh wound. And of course you know Michael junior’s in the mortuary. McCabe and Howden have gone out to see if anyone knows anything about what happened tonight. There’ll be hell to pay over this.”

“You said you’re at Nash’s house?”

“Yeah, looking after the girls.”

“I’ll call in on my way home,” Riley said. He needed to get something off his chest, something he wasn’t looking forward to because he didn’t want to put Purvis on the spot. But it was necessary. “Give me half an hour. I need to talk to you.”

“Fine,” Purvis said, seeming unfazed. “I’ll see you soon then.”

Riley hung up.

“Problems?” Carter asked.

“There always is.” Riley pulled on his jacket and shook Carter’s hand. The wound in his side felt tight, the skin knitting together, hopefully healing nicely. “I have to go. Thanks for everything.”

“Your welcome. And remember, I want to see you here tomorrow – for the antibiotics. Say four o’clock. It’ll give me time to get them.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

Riley opened the front door and stepped out into the lightly falling rain.

“Please be careful, Riley,” Carter said. The look on his face was like that of a father sending his son off to war. It was the look of fear and the worry that he may not come back alive.

Riley nodded and zipped up his jacket to hide his bloodstained shirt.

“I always try,” he said and headed to his car.

16

Shaun Rodgers was back in the shitty little sitting room inside the shitty little flat on the shitty side of the city – and he was in a shitty mood too. Tonight had been the mother of all fuck-ups and he didn’t even try to hide his anger as he stared down at Brian Wilcox and Marlon Tennant who were sitting in front of him, trying not to make eye contact.

Wilcox was gulping vodka straight from the bottle, his hands shaking, the glass chinking against his teeth. Some of the liquid missed its target and dribbled from the corners of his mouth and down his chin. Tennant was smoking a joint whilst holding a towel full of ice over his pulped nose and looked in a lot of pain. Good – served him right, the fucking useless twat.

They had called Rodgers half an hour ago. Wilcox, sounding nervous, had said that they’d done the job and everything had gone smoothly. Rodgers hadn’t let on to the lying bastard that he already knew that tonight had been a total failure and that Nash was still alive. Instead, he’d said that he’d be right over, and here he was.

“You wanna drink?” Wilcox asked, holding up the bottle of vodka, nervously. He reminded Rodgers of someone who’d just stepped off a shaky flight, happy to be alive but still in shock. “Celebrate a good job well done?”

“The job was a mess,” Rodgers said, sternly. “You two failed.”

“Eh?” Tennant asked, his words muffled under the white towel that had turned pink with blood. “How’s that?”

“Nash wasn’t taken out. Just injured.”

“Bullshit,” Tennant said. He lowered the towel, revealing his swollen, bent nose and the bruises under both eyes. Rodgers didn’t know what had caused the injury – the earlier phone-call had been brief - but he hoped it was as painful as it looked. “I saw him go down. I saw the blood. Head shot.”

“What happened to your face?” Rodgers asked.

“Nothing, just a little accident.” Tennant took a few puffs on the joint and then placed the towel back over his nose.

“Hey, I bet Nash got the message though, didn’t he?” Wilcox said, obviously trying to make light of their failure. “He now knows he’s a target, that someone wants him dead. He’ll be scared.”

Rodgers wasn’t in
the mood for excuses. Especially excuses that didn’t make sense.

“Nash’ll want to get even,” he said. “All you two did tonight was make him aware that he’s a marked man. He’ll want to find out who was behind this and that could spell trouble for the both of you
and
me.”

“He won’t know it was us, though” Tennant said. “We got away clean and got rid of the Peugeot and the gun.”

“Did you ditch the Peugeot in the river like you were supposed to?”

“We couldn’t,” said Wilcox. “But we tossed the gun in the river and abandoned the car as soon as we could.”

“So it’s full of your fingerprints, and hairs and skin flakes, things that forensics could trace back to you?”

“We were careful,” said Tennant. “We wore gloves. Everything went well.”

“What did you say happened to your nose?” Rodgers asked again, catching the black man by surprise.

“It’s nothing. I tripped.” Tennant looked down at the floor. “You sure Nash isn’t dead.”

“Positive.”

“So what now?” Wilcox asked. “What about...?”

“The money?” Rodgers raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t get over the cheek of these two idiots. Not only had they failed, but they actually wanted
paying
for it? Still, he had to play this cool. They said they’d gotten rid of the gun but they might well be lying. They might have it here, on the sofa, behind one of them, ready to pull it out if the situation turned nasty. They couldn’t be trusted. “Keep what I’ve already given you. But the rest stays with me. Count yourselves lucky you got anything from this mess.”

“Alright,” Wilcox said, sounding very relieved. “That’s good. Great. You sure you don’t want a drink?” He held up the vodka bottle again.

Rodgers shrugged. Took the bottle. When Wilcox looked away he let it slip down his hand so he was gripping the neck.

“Sorry we didn’t kill the fucker,” Wilcox then said, sounding more relaxed, “but it was dark and we had to drive past quickly. There were a lot of people outside, more than we’d expected and-”

Rodgers brought the bottle down fast.

The thick glass cracked against Wilcox’s forehead and a savage cut opened up even before the skinny white man fell back onto the sofa, out cold. Before Tennant could do anything other than look up through startled eyes, Rodgers turned on him and brought the bottle down on his head with all his strength.

This time it shattered, soaking the black man with strong smelling spirit as he slumped unconscious in his seat, the blood-stained towel and ice falling to the floor as his hands sprang open, his nerve endings flaring.

Rodgers then worked fast.

He grabbed the lighter from the coffee table and set fire to one of the sofa cushions, the spilled vodka aiding the flames, helping them take hold.

Within seconds they attacked Wilcox’s T-shirt and then Tennant’s trousers and it didn’t take long for the fire to spread, creeping along the sofa like a predator in search of prey.

Neither Wilcox nor Tennant moved as the sofa quickly grew to a raging inferno and their bodies disappeared within the hissing and crackling orange flames. Soon the room began to fill with smoke and the smell of burning flesh and singed hair, and Rodgers knew that both men were goners.

Satisfied he hadn’t had to use the Beretta pistol tucked inside his jacket pocket (bullet holes would look a lot more suspicious that cracked skulls!), Rodgers quickly left the flat and hurried through the deserted street towards his car as adrenalin surged through his veins, almost making him shake. It had been a while since he’d last taken someone’s life. He’d forgotten what it felt like. It felt good. It was a rush.

He pulled out his phone and dialled.

“They’re taken care of,” he said when the call was answered.

“Pity they couldn’t take Nash out so easily,” the man on the other line said.

“Tell me about it. What’s our next move?”

The man on the other line didn’t answer for a few seconds, as if he was wondering the very same thing.

“Nash will want to go after Dainton,” he finally said.

“Tell me something I don’t know. So what do
we
do?”

Again, the man didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “We do nothing.”

“That’s hardly a plan,” Rodgers said.

“Listen, we have to play this cool. We’ll get another chance at Nash. We just have to wait. I’ll keep in touch.”

Then the line went dead.

Rodgers was almost at his car two streets away when he heard the windows of the flat explode behind him. Wilcox and Tennant were no more. Whether they succeeded in taking out Nash or not, that had always been the idea. They’d been expendable. Fall guys ready to take the blame. Now they could be blamed and unable to defend themselves or point the finger at a higher power.

Rodgers climbed into his BMW, satisfied that at least one thing had gone to plan tonight.