Midsummer means it may be time to take stock. Having made the decision to carry on with my utterly selfish life I am free to write what I want. No more ‘dumbing down’ for a mass readership, you may think. Well, maybe.
Here’s a short that popped onto my head late last night. It’s not a great work of literature. That’s okay though. I can start on that project next week.*
*Cue: Add peals of mocking laughter on soundtrack.#
# Non-existent soundtrack, due to credit crunch restrictions.
In the main, people believe what they want to believe. What they prefer to believe. A reclusive leader living in a cave or a lone sniper at a sixth floor window are far more acceptable than the alternative scenario: an underground conspiracy where the protagonists are walking around, free and invisible. Untouchable.
Discovering conspiracy theorists may have a sound basis for their wild theories would come as a shock to most citizens. Even more shocking when there’s a personal involvement.
‘What do you want from me? I have nothing you want.’
The shouted question went unanswered. Like all his previous questions. The room was dark. Blinds down and barely a chink of light visible. Night or day? He had no means of telling. He’d been here for a few days. In this room. Tied to a steel pillar; one of many supporting the roof. He knew there were others in the next room. He’d heard them talking. Moving around. Occasionally, water was brought to him. Once a chunk of bread and an apple. Not today, or yesterday. He wasn’t sure.
The same man each time. About thirty. Tall, well built, silent. Dressed in black jeans and a polo shirt, also black. He’d never seen him before. Even in the perpetual gloom, he was certain the man was a stranger.
He’d been on his way to meet a client. The taxi had dropped him at the address he’d been given. A deserted industrial estate, the buildings abandoned and forlorn. He’d waited at the entrance for the client to arrive. The project may still have been at the embryonic discussion phase, but urban renewal on a grand scale was always an enticing prospect. A black car, a Mercedes, had drawn up alongside and two men alighted. He didn’t remember much more until he’d woken here, in this room. Chained and alone.
Footsteps, far away. More than one person. He turned as far as his shackles allowed, peered into the darkness, but could see nothing.
Suddenly, the blinds to one of the windows were raised. Light flooded in and he stared towards the silhouettes of the three men who’d entered the room. Two remained by the window, but the third man detached and walked towards him. Not the man who’d brought the water. A stranger.
‘Why am I here?’ His voice cracked.
‘You’re important to us, Michael.’ An educated voice. Rich and mellifluous. ‘You’re a dead man, or you soon will be.’
The bound man screwed up his eyes as if to shut out the words.
‘Sorry you’ve been inconvenienced for a while, but we’re ready for you now.’
‘I don’t underst…’
‘Of course you don’t why should you? You’re the package. We had to make certain arrangements first. The blood, you know?’
He blinked, dropping his gaze to the crook of his arm. He remembered, vaguely, the needle going in, the strap wrapped around his upper arm, but he’d been barely awake.
‘We took a blood sample. For DNA testing.’
‘I’m not who you think I am. I’m nobody. Not who you want.’ Michael sounded odd, as if his vocal chords had been damaged. His voice seemed alien. He stopped talking, looking up at the man standing over him.
‘Oh, but you are. We went to a great deal of trouble choosing you. Right age, right build, no close family. Now the paperwork matches up. Your DNA sample is a matter of record. Your body will identify who you are. DNA, dental records, all matching. No reason for error.’
The bound man flinched. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said again.
The other man sighed. ‘They haven’t told you then? Why you’re here? No? Ah well, maybe they saw no sense in upsetting you before we were ready for you? Not my place to criticise. You’re to become Derek Bradley. Murder victim.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t know Derek Bradley. No reason you should. Few people do. He’s an economist. Works as a consultant. For a Think Tank. You’ve heard of Think Tanks? No matter. They’re where policy is worked out. Behind the scenes. Not my place to know much more than that, but Derek Bradley holds the key to the nation’s future.
Unfortunately, some people who should know better have uncovered a few details about Derek’s private life. Not my concern, but apparently there are links with some unsavoury people. Paedophile rings, to be specific. What he does in his free time’s no concern of mine, but others take a different view. Derek Bradley needs to disappear. Away from prying eyes. His employers in Government prefer to have his knowledge and insight without it being devalued in the eyes of the public. That’s where you come in.’
Michael heaved against his chains, screaming and the two figures by the window walked over. One was the man in black who’d brought him water. The other man with him was taller. Burly and unsmiling. He reached down and slapped the face of the captive.
‘Shut it,’ he said.
‘Better do as he says.’ The man with the calm voice was clearly in charge. ‘You’re going to die today. No need for it to be any worse than it has to be. You’ll be unrecognisable. Sorry about that. Can’t be helped. It’ll be a few days before you’re found and you won’t be very pretty by then. The police will have to check missing persons, dental records, take DNA for testing. They’ll find a match. Your body will be identified as Derek Bradley. No room for doubt. That will bring about an embarrassing end to the harassment our Mister Bradley’s been getting. Can’t expose a dead man, can they?’
‘You’re fucking mad.’
‘No. It’s all been planned for a while. We had to find the right person. That’s you. I’ll hand you over to my good friends here now. There’ll be evidence of torture and you’ll end up in a bad way, I’m afraid, but they’re good at their job. It’ll be quick. A few minutes, at most, and the pain will go away. The more unpleasant aspects of the procedure can be added in after you’re dead, but for realism there has to a limit for what can be seen to have been done post mortem. There’s my lads’ job satisfaction to consider as well. Chopping up corpses is hard graft, you know? Better for them when there’s a reaction to their work. Okay?’ He nodded to the other two men and walked away. A few moments passed and there was the sound of cups clinking in the next room.
The man in black said nothing, just stood and watched as the other man dragged over a heavy canvas sack. When he produced the knives the victim began to scream, pulling vainly at the chains that secured him. The knives were dull grey, like butchers’ knives, with black handles and they clanked together in a ritual show of readiness.
The burly man struck the first blow. The knife blade hummed in the fetid air and the blood spurted from a deep gash on the shoulder of their intended victim. Both knives rose and fell in a deadly ballet, choreographed by murderers who regarded themselves as artists and took a pride in their work. The man on the floor had stopped screaming and was no longer even trying to evade the blades when the man in the dark jeans raised a hand. Both men were breathing heavily and it took a few moments before the slighter man could trust himself to speak.
‘See that?’ he gasped, pointing at the flesh of the man on the ground.
“Fuck,’ his companion snarled and walked briskly away.
Within seconds he returned, accompanied by their leader. He bent over, studying the barely alive man on the floor. ‘A fucking tattoo. Didn’t you think to fucking check?’
‘You never said.’
‘Isn’t it obvious? Fuck me, there’s another. On his arse.’
All three men bent forward. ‘Get his clothes off,’ the leader ordered. ‘Get on with it.’
The removal of the clothes took a while. Blood-soaked, the wearer unresponsive, it was three minutes before the task was complete. All three men stared at the naked man on the floor.
‘Turn the fucker over.’
When this had been accomplished the leader snorted in disgust. ‘Three tattoos. How could you miss three fucking tattoos?’
‘Nobody said take his clothes off, check for tattoos. We could cut ‘em out. Worth a try.’
‘No, it won’t do. He’s supposed to turn up dead, knocked about a fair bit, his face not even anything his bloody mother would recognise. Nobody said anything about carving fucking great chunks off him to get rid of three bloody great tattoos. All that fucking work, for nothing.’
‘What do we do?’
The leader shook his head. ‘This was supposed to be the easy bit. His DNA matches that of Derek Bradley. His fingerprints, his fucking dental records, all match up. All wasted.’
The other two stood silently. Waited for orders. It was his decision to make.
‘Finish him off and get rid of him. I’ve got work to do. Records will have to be changed. Again. That costs money and a fucking great load of favours have to be called in.’
He nodded as if reaching a decision. ‘Do it. Kill him and get rid of him. I don’t want him found. Ever. Small pieces, different places. Not a fucking trace of him, okay?’
The other men nodded. Michael groaned and the leader thrust his face down towards him. Enraged, spittle flying, he screamed into the face of the stricken victim. ‘See what you’ve done? Wasted my fucking time. All that preparation and you’re fucking useless to me.’ He composed himself with a visible effort and straightened.
‘Kill him now. I want to see the fucker die. Now.’
The burly man raised his blood-splattered knife high in the air and brought it down with all the power he could bring to the task. Blood spurted and the severed head rolled to one side forcing the leader to take a swift backward step.
‘Better,’ he said. ‘Chop him up and get rid of him. I’ll start looking for a replacement. This time, when you’ve got him here I want him stripped, checked over properly. Got it?’
The others nodded and he left them to their work. The large knives hacked away, separating the torso at the major joints as the leader left the room. He had an explanation to make and the man who’d entrusted him and his team with the task would not be best pleased at this outcome. He’d talk him round, eventually and there was a back up plan in place. Another white-collared loner who would scarcely be missed. Details like that, having a plan in place in case of setbacks, were the reason his services were so much in demand.
It was spotting with rain when he got outside and he frowned, turning up the collar of his jacket. There were a couple of blood spatters, low down on his trouser legs, and he’d have to go home to change before he could go back to work. Appearances were important and a Detective Chief Superintendent was expected to set an example to the men in his command.
Gulliver Smith 