Numb: A Dark Thriller (4 page)

“So what are you going to tell her now?”

Simpson shrugged.

“That I changed my mind about leaving here. I didn’t really want to leave anyway. I shared this house with my wife for over forty years. She might be dead but I... I can still feel her here.”

Riley wanted to leave before the old guy started crying again. He sounded on the verge of it.

“I’ll see you on the first of next month, Mr Simpson.” He headed for the door but stopped when he noticed the framed picture on the cabinet. He’d missed it on the way in and now wished he’d missed it on the way out. It showed Simpson and a lady who Riley assumed to be his deceased wife. Simpson looked much the same as he did now. His wife looked very thin and very frail. Her skin was tinged yellow and the hairs on her head were mere wisps of grey. She smiled broadly but painfully as they both posed in front of the cake at the foot of the bed. Riley could just make out the candles that formed the number 40 and the word ‘anniversary’ in icing.

Suddenly, the bottom fell out of his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“For what?” Simpson asked.

For everything
, Riley thought, but said, “For your loss. I heard it was... recent.”

“Three months ago,” Simpson said, a sudden strength in his voice, like he wanted to get something off his chest. “My wife was dying when I borrowed the money. The cancer had spread to her liver and was terminal. I had to give up work to look after her. We never had kids and so I was the only one. My sister and her boys live in Liverpool and couldn’t be on hand all the time. When we found out she was on borrowed time she made it clear that she wanted to die at home and not in some hospice. She was in a wheelchair by then and would need a stair lift. I had already used up most of our savings after leaving work and I couldn’t get a loan with any banks to have one installed. Then I saw an advert in the local paper for
Fast Track Loans
. It all seemed legitimate. I had no idea Mike Nash was involved until I had trouble paying.”

Most people don’t know he’s involved
, Riley thought.
Why do you think he get’s so much business?

“Since her death I haven’t been able to get another job and can’t manage the higher repayments. I’m an electrician – contract work, mostly. Being sixty-three I suppose it’s understandable that employers don’t want to know.” Simpson then smiled. His eyes glazed over. Grief tinged with happy memories. “My wife saw our fortieth anniversary and died three days later in her own bed. But at least she died at home, with me beside her like she’d wanted. She didn’t know where I’d gotten the money in order to have her live her final months at home. I didn’t want to burden her with those kinds of problems with what she was going through. But I don’t regret borrowing the money, not at all. Because I had her with me until the very end.” He was still smiling when a single tear rolled down one of his pale cheeks.

And that was Riley’s excuse to leave.

“I’ll see you in a month, Mr Simpson,” he said and couldn’t get out the house quick enough.

He sucked in the cool afternoon air as he made his way back to the Mercedes under a sky that suddenly seemed devoid of a sun, a sky that had turned a drab grey, threatening rain. Maybe it just seemed gloomier because of the way he felt. Violence he could deal with. Grief, on the other hand, was trickier and he was glad to be out of there. Despite offering Mr Simpson a way out of debt and freeing him from Nash’s grip, Riley still felt like he had swallowed a led weight and was ashamed of calling on the older man at all.

“What took you so long?” Howden asked as Riley climbed behind the wheel.

“I told you. He was counting the money.” Riley tossed the envelope at Howden.

“It took a while. Was he paying in pennies?” Howden looked inside the envelope. Leafed through the notes. Did a quick count. “That’s all of what he owed. So what fees did you hit him with to keep the debt going?”

“None.” Riley tucked the paperwork in his pocket.

“Eh?”

“He’s cleared his debt. It’s finished.”

“Nash won’t like that. It’s not you’re place to make those decisions.”

“Leave Nash to me,” Riley said and started the engine. “Two more to do and then that’s us for the day.” He placed his hands on the steering wheel and saw the smear of blood on the knuckles of his right hand. The thin cut underneath had obviously been made by the second nephew’s teeth. Riley dropped his hand down to his lap, hiding the wound from Howden as he pulled away from the kerb and headed out of the estate. He’d have to treat it later on. Something like that could become infected. The mouth was full of germs and bite marks were notorious for carrying bacteria. But it was nothing to worry about just yet. After all, he’d had worse in the past.

And had he not seen the blood, he wouldn’t have known the wound was even there.

4

The sitting room inside the upstairs flat on the north side of the river was what an estate agent might describe as
“in need of some refurbishment.”

Most others would simply say that it was a dump.

The paper was nicotine stained and hanging off the walls like diseased flesh, the carpet was worn and littered with crumbs and rubbish and there were several damp patches staining the ceiling. The only furniture was a battered sofa and small coffee table full of empty drinks cans. Surprisingly, however, there
was
a HD television on the wall and a games console and DVD/BLURAY player underneath - which showed the priorities of the owners. The place stank of sweat and smoke and beer, and two of the three men inside smelled the same. Both wore jeans and T-shirts and neither had shaved in days. One of them was Brian Wilcox; Caucasian, twenty-eight and unemployed. The other was Marlon Tennant; black, twenty-nine and also out of work. The third man was smartly dressed in a dark blue suit, smelled of expensive aftershave and was more muscular than the skinny pair sat on the sofa. His name was Shaun Rodgers, forty-three years old, four of the last five of which had been wasted in prison.

“So, let’s go over this one last time,” he said, looking down at Wilcox and Tennant, cans of lager in their grimy hands, their eyes glued to the television. “You tell
me
the plan, so I know that you both understand.”

“We’re not fucking thick,” Tennant answered. He glanced up at Rodgers and when he saw the look in the older man’s eyes he looked down at the floor and took a cold mouthful of lager. Then, in a more respectful tone, he said, “We pick up the first car at the multi-storey.” He picked up the first set of car keys from the coffee table. “Red Corsa, parked on floor D, bay twenty-two. We drive to the ferry landing and leave it in the car park. Then we walk to the disused steelworks by the river and pick up the car that’s been left there.” He picked up the second set of car keys. “Black Peugeot. The gun will be under the tarp in the boot, loaded with thirty-two rounds. Then we drive to the club and wait around the corner until the call comes to tell us that they’re outside. Then we drive by, do the job and disappear into the night.”

“Where to?” Rodgers asked.

Wilcox took over, as if to prove he knew the score also.

“We head back to the steelworks and ditch the Peugeot and the gun in the river. There’s a spot nearby where the car will roll down the riverbank if we take the handbrake off and give it a little push. Then we walk back the ferry landing and drive the Corsa back to the multi storey in the city centre. The security cameras inside will then show us arriving back in the same car we left in. Then we both go our separate ways and meet back here to celebrate.”

Rodgers nodded.
Hoo-fucking-ray
, they’d finally got it.

“Just make sure you two are better dressed tonight so you’ll blend in with the rest of the Friday night crowd,” he said. “You don’t want to stand out and draw attention to yourselves.”

“I’ll even shave for the occasion,” Tennant said and rubbed the week’s growth on his chin before downing the rest of his can.

“And don’t get too pissed so you can’t fucking drive straight, let alone shoot straight.”

Tennant laughed, dropped his empty can to the floor and held up his hands.

“Whatever you say. I don’t want to spoil a good thing.”

“No you don’t,” Rodgers said. “Remember, this job’s worth five grand.”

Wilcox and Tennant high-fived. Then Wilcox leant over the coffee table, laid out three cigarette papers and picked up the bag of cannabis.

“And don’t smoke too much of that shit so you both fall asleep.”

“It’s just to help us relax,” Wilcox said, spilling some of the green herb onto the papers. “This shit tonight’s the biggest thing we’ve done.”

“Exactly, so don’t fuck it up.” Rodgers shook his head as Wilcox rolled the joint. Drugs had never been his thing. “Right, if you two are sure you know what’s what, I’ll get going.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Tennant held up a hand and rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers.

Rodgers rolled his eyes and pulled the bundle of cash from his inside pocket. He tossed it on the coffee table where it knocked several empty cans down like skittles.

“Two and a half,” he said. “The other half tomorrow, after it’s done.”

“First thing in the morning,” Wilcox said as he picked up the notes and began to count them. Then, as if he sensed Rodgers staring at him menacingly, he looked up and added, “Or whenever, you know...”

Rodgers didn’t answer as he left the room and clumped down the stairs to the front door.

After double checking in both directions he stepped out onto the street and hurried out of the estate, away from the one-up/one-down flats and pre-fab housing that, in his opinion, would be better off demolished. His BMW was a few minutes walk away in the car park of the supermarket. He couldn’t park it outside the flat in case it was seen by anyone who knew him who might wonder what he was doing with a pair of scumbags like Wilcox and Tennant. That would be a problem, and he’d have to offer an explanation that he simply didn’t have. Plus, a BM parked in an area like this? It wouldn’t last five minutes.

It was crawling with fucking criminals around here.

5

Todd Williams of 37 Dyson Drive had surprised Riley and Howden by producing the three hundred he’d been told he had to pay by today. But because he was late Riley had to then inform him that they wanted another five-hundred, plus the outstanding two thousand by the end of the month. Williams said he’d try (what else could he say?) and Howden, seeming somewhat disappointed at not having a head to bust, simply had to make do with a verbal threat.

“You fucking better have it,” he’d snarled in the face of the poor man who was obviously on the bones of his arse. Williams looked underweight and the flat he rented was bare and freezing cold. Riley assumed the electricity had been cut off as Williams tried to cut back on luxuries like food and warmth to pay back three hundred quid to a man who probably tipped his milkman more at Christmas.

Now they only had one more to collect - Henry Moore, 14 Regents House. Riley had been looking forward to this one least and had left it till last for that reason. He couldn’t help out everyone who was struggling to pay Nash what they owed, and in all honesty, not all of them deserved help. Moore’s case was different to Terry Simpson’s. Simpson had needed the money through sheer bad luck and had genuinely expected to pay it back on schedule. Moore was simply useless with money and spent more than he earned and Riley and Howden had paid him a couple of visits before as he’d frequently been late with payments. Somehow though, in between the regular collector leaving and Riley and Howden turning up the next day, Moore had always managed to scrape together enough money to stave off a beating. Interest had then been added to his spiralling debt and therefore each subsequent monthly payment had gone up and Riley assumed today would be the day Moore broke his agreement by having no money whatsoever.

In a way, Moore’s situation was his own fault. He was a compulsive gambler who’d been that bad at his favourite hobby he’d gotten into serious debt with legitimate lenders before turning to Nash for help. Six grand, he’d needed, to keep his wife ignorant to how deep in shit he was already. But he’d be able to pay the loan off easily. There was a lot of overtime coming up at work. He’d pay it back in no time – honest!

Nash would have seen Moore as a long termer. Someone who would be paying everything he could for many years to come and would end up paying back at least five or six times the original amount loaned before he eventually suffered a nervous breakdown or died of a stroke or heart attack or committed suicide. Moore really deserved no sympathy, but if he didn’t have the payment today, Howden would take it out on his face and
that’s
what Riley had been dreading. Moore had kids for God’s sake! Howden had a young daughter himself. How would
he
like the thought of being kicked to a pulp in front of her? But then again, a lot of the boys working for Nash had family, and some of the shit they’d done over the years would make even the most cold-hearted bastard turn away in disgust.

“I hope this doesn’t take too long,” Howden said. He’d lit up another cigarette as soon as they’d gotten back in the Merc and smoke was streaming out of the partially open window as they cruised along the dual-carriageway. “It’s coming up to six. I want to get home and have a shower and a change before tonight. It starts at eight, remember.”

“Yeah, for you,” Riley said, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’ve got to be there for half-seven.”

“Nash got you on the doors, has he?”

“Technically I’m a guest, but when the club’s involved I’m always at work.”

Riley’s official job was head of security, or head doorman. All of this was just extra duties that justified his more-than-average salary. Nash’s security firm supplied men to run the doors for every pub and club on the south side of the river and Riley was in charge of hiring and firing, dishing out the work, checking on his men throughout the night by driving from venue to venue and, of course, sorting any major trouble that might rear its ugly head – which it regularly did, especially on weekends. Even though tonight was a private party and the club was closed to the general public, he might be needed elsewhere at short notice and had to be ready for anything. Working for Nash was a twenty four hour job. If something comes up, you have to be available and Riley, having no family, was always available.

Unfortunately.

He turned off the dual carriageway and headed towards the first of the two tower blocks in the centre of the Meadowfield Housing Estate, one of the many estates built by Thirnbridge council in the late sixties that had been forgotten by the council
since
the late sixties; the houses were run-down and in need of renovation; most of the corner shops were closed, their windows and doors boarded up and covered with graffiti; the streets were full of litter and dog shit; the park was an overgrown jungle and you’d be hard pushed to find a bus stop that wasn’t smashed up and reeking of piss. Some of the people who lived here didn’t care about their environment because they knew no different. Some, however, like the residents who had bought their homes from the council at a reduced rate when the estate was half decent, were desperate to move and had reduced their selling prices to try and attract potential buyers, even though they knew that anyone looking to get a foot on the property ladder would be looking for that ladder in a better place than here.

Howden flicked his cigarette out the window as Riley parked next to a dark blue Nissan at the front of the tower block.

“I hope there’s some action this time,” the bigger man said. “It’s been fucking boring today.”

“I prefer it when it’s boring,” Riley replied.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They climbed out the Merc and Riley took in his surroundings. If working the doors had taught him anything, it was to always be aware of what’s around you. Right now he felt as though he was in a school yard. Wherever he looked there were groups of kids just hanging around doing nothing, or sitting smoking cigarettes, looking bored, or listening to iPods or clutching mobile phones looking just as bored as the smokers. But, he thought as he and Howden headed into the tower block, maybe that’s because there was nothing to do around here. Everything cost money – the cinema, ten pin bowling, even things like youth clubs. If the parents couldn’t afford those things then the street was the only alternative to staying indoors and getting cabin fever. But walking the streets led to trouble. Half of these kids would probably see the inside of a jail cell before they turned eighteen for either fighting or being drunk and disorderly, and a fair percentage of them would no doubt end up doing longer stretches as adults for trying to make easy money by selling drugs or stealing. Then it would all begin again with their kids; a never ending cycle of desperation and crime.

Riley and Howden climbed the two flights of stairs to the second floor of the tower block and knocked on the door to number 14. The lobby smelled musty and the plaster was crumbling from the walls.
Regents House?
Riley always found it funny how a lot of crappy buildings were given posh sounding names as if to compensate for the cramped space and bog-standard fittings.

He took a deep breath and readied himself as footsteps echoed inside number 14. Howden, next to him, big and mean and menacing, clenched his fists and worked the knots out of his neck by rocking his big, meaty head from side to side.

He was still doing his pre-beating warm up routine as the door opened and Henry Moore appeared in front of them, looking edgy and nervous as Riley had expected. He was wearing his factory overalls and his hands were a dusty grey colour. He’d obviously not long gotten home from work.

“Oh, err... yeah, I was-” Moore started, but Howden didn’t let him finish. He barged inside the flat, simply pushing Moore aside as he did so.

Riley quickly followed into the sitting room, prepared to take charge of the situation before Howden kicked off, and it was lucky he did. He didn’t want anything to happen if the kids were in. They were.

The girl was about twelve and was still dressed in her black school blazer, knee length black skirt and black tights. Her brown hair was in a ponytail, held in place by a red, sparkling band. The boy was a few years younger and wore a different coloured uniform to his sister, his shirt hanging out from his red jumper. His grey trousers had grass stains on the knees and his shoes were crusted with dried mud. Both of them were sat on the floor in front of the television. The girl looked at them. The boy didn’t. He was too engrossed in the cartoon and didn’t seem to be aware of anything outside the 2D world he was lost in.

“Hello,” the girl said, looking at Riley, a little surprised, a little confused.

A little scared?

“Hi,” said Riley, softly.

Howden didn’t say anything.

When Moore sloped into the room, looking pathetic and rat-like, he quietly begged, “Please, don’t do this in front of my kids.”

Riley didn’t answer, but he promised himself that nothing would happen as long as the girl and boy were in the house. No matter how much of a waster their father was, they didn’t deserve to see his downfall. Every child should think of their father as a hero, as the protector. They should feel safe in his presence and Riley wasn’t going to take that from them.

“You know why we’re here,” Howden said.

“Daddy, who are your friends?” the girl asked.

“We work with your dad,” Riley told her, thinking quickly. “We’re just here to ask him something. Why don’t you two go outside and play?”

“This is our favourite program,” the boy said, his eyes still glued to the screen.

“Why don’t you run along to the shop and buy some sweets then?” Riley tried.

“Yeah!” the boy shouted, finally lured away from the television. “Dad can we have our pocket money? It’s Friday!”

“Oh, err...” Moore tapped his empty pockets and looked embarrassed. “Sorry guys but you mum has the money and she’s getting the groceries in. You’ll have to wait till she gets home.”

“Here.”  Riley pulled out a ten pound note from the wad in his pocket and gave it to the girl. “Take this. Your dad can pay me back.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Howden gave Riley a look as if to say,
you soft bastard!

Riley gave Howden a look back as if to say,
I don’t care what you think, I don’t want them here while we do this!

“Back soon, dad,” the girl said. She kissed his cheek. The boy high-fived him. Then they grabbed their coats and hurried towards the front door.

Riley, Howden and Moore remained silent until they left. It seemed like minutes rather than seconds.

“Look, I haven’t got the money,” Moore said when the front door closed behind his kids. “I just need a little more-”

Howden, obviously not wanting to waste his clenched fists and deciding to liven up his afternoon’s work, didn’t give him time to finish.

He ran forward and punched Moore in the gut. Riley didn’t try and stop him. He couldn’t help everyone. He couldn’t act out of character around any of the boys and make them suspicious. Not yet.

The wind came out of Moore’s mouth in an
oomph!
and before he’d even doubled over Howden had lifted him by his hair and was snarling into his face.

“You’re taking fucking liberties. Nash wants his money. What, have you been blowing your wages down the fucking dog track again?”

“I just-”

Howden jabbed Moore in the guts again and finally let him fall to the floor.

“So you can’t pay what you owe, Mr Moore?” Riley asked, standing over the gasping and pathetic figure. Maybe Moore deserved a beating. He still gambled. He still spent. He needed to be taught a lesson, but not a big one. He had kids. They were the ones who would save him today. Not Riley.

“I... I just need a little more tu... time.”

Howden kicked Moore in the back where his right kidney would be. Nothing that would inflict any major damage but it would probably leave a bruise. At worst Moore would piss blood for a couple of days but no more than that.

“I can get it!” Moore shouted as he curled up in case any more blows came his way. “I’m waiting to hear about a loan application with a couple of American firms. I applied over the internet. If those aren’t accepted then I’ll sell stuff if I have to. Anything. Please, don’t do this. My kids’ll be back soon. Please...”

Howden kicked him twice more and Moore yelped like a wounded puppy before rolling onto his back, gasping for air.

“They’ll be better off without you,” he said. “Fucking waster.”

“What
can
you pay today?” Riley asked.

“Nuh... nothing,” Moore said and quickly curled up again, expecting another flurry of blows upon him.

Howden went for it but Riley held him back. They had to be careful and not hurt him too much. But, like most of Nash’s heavies, Howden didn’t usually think that far ahead. Brawn often ruled over brains with that lot.

“Then we need to make other arrangements,” Riley said. “Maybe take a few belongings as part-payment.”

“Anything!” Moore shouted. “Yes, take stuff!”

“Do you have a car?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

Moore pulled his arms away from his head and looked up.