The Holdup

Chapter 5

5

They sit me in a chair. A damn uncomfortable one. They cuff my hands behind the chair and remove the hood—a brown sack that smells of old potatoes. They stand in front of me. Three of 'em. Like a country and western band with check shirts, messy long hair and beards.

I look around. The place is a garage. Empty. Brick walls and a concrete floor. It smells of diesel and dust.

"Where's the money?" one of my kidnappers asks. He's tall and rangy, with hair the colour of a red squirrel.

I don't say a word. Catch a punch in the gut for my silence. The guy who delivers it is pig-ugly and fat, with eyes and hair the colour of oil. Despite his size, he hits like a fairy. But I act hurt. Want 'em to think I'm suffering.

"Where's the f*****g money?" the third man says.

He's a blond kid with arms full of tattoos and a mouth half empty of teeth. Looks halfway to space in the eyes, too.

"What money?" I say.

A punch across the jaw from the blonde kid. "You stole from the wrong people, man."

"I didn't steal anything."

Pig Ugly has a deep voice. I can tell underneath all this nonsense he's a nice guy. The shy type. He does his best impression of a tough bastard, stepping in close. "Look, tell us where the money is, or—"

"Or what?" I say.

"Or . . ."

The guy looks at the other two.

"Or some bad s**t," the redhead says.

I can't help laughing. "Bad s**t, eh lads? You doing this for pocket money or what?"

"Shut up and talk," the blonde bloke says.

"Shut up and talk?" I say. "Make your bastard mind up."

The guy looks confused.

"He means talk about what we want you to talk about," the redhead says. "Nothing else."

The blonde one produces a pistol from the waist of his jeans. Holds it side-on. "Your last chance. Where's the f*****g money, man?”

"Tell us or we shoot you right here and now," the redhead says.

"No," I say.

"What do you mean, no?" the redhead says.

"He's got a gun to your head," Pig Ugly says.

"Yeah, so?"

They hesitate. Exchange glances, as if expecting each other to come up with a solution.

"Look, this really isn't working," I say. "How about you tell me something, I tell you something."

"Oh yeah, like what?" the blonde lad says.

"Like who hired you?" I say.

The blonde one pauses. "Uh . . ." He looks at his mates. "s**t, what was his name—?"

"Jesus, you clowns know even less than me," I say. "Clearly I'm wasting my time here. Not gonna get anything out of you at this rate."

"Get out of us?" the redhead says. "We're getting s**t out of you."

"Don't f**k with us, man," the blonde lad says. "We're professionals."

"Professional wankers by the looks of you. Let me guess, they used you because you were local."

Blank looks all-round.

"They paying you in merch?" I ask. "Weed? Coke? Meth?”

No, none of those.

"Wiping off a debt then?” I say.

They share a look. Yeah, that's it.

"Well alright then," I say, dislocating the thumb on my right hand. It's an old torture injury courtesy of a Manchester mob boss. Hurt like a bastard at the time, but it's got me out of one or two scrapes, I can tell you.

I slip my hand out of the cuff.

As the blonde lad leans in close with the gun, I swing a right fist and knock him out cold from my chair. I rise to my feet, grab the chair and break it over the redhead's skull.

He's down and out. Pig Ugly fumbles with his pistol, trying to get the safety off. I stand and wait.

Christ, it's painful to watch.

"Here, give me that," I say, snatching it off him. "Are you left or right footed?" I ask him.

"Huh? Uh, right, I guess."

I remove the safety and shoot him in the left thigh.

The guy drops to the floor, screaming.

"Don't worry, it's a clean shot," I say. "No bones or arteries. You'll be fine."

As the blonde lad stirs, I plant a boot in his face. I walk over to an open pipe on the wall and slide the weapon inside. I search the three men for keys. Come up empty. So I leave 'em there and slide open a heavy steel door. I wander out into a scrap yard, full of rust-bucket shells of cars and mountains of old tyres.

The beat-up old van they abducted me in sits cooking in the sun. It's a furnace inside and smells of heavy weed. I find the key in the ignition, stir the old rumbling engine and drive it out of the yard.