Robert Young - Gatecrasher

‘You’ve got something I want so hand the thing over and don’t even think about fucking me around,’ Slater had hissed at him through clenched teeth.

Confused, scared and off guard Campbell had spluttered and coughed as he tried to draw proper breath and had managed only a few words in response. ‘I don’t know…’

And then Slater slammed a fist into his other side and Campbell had felt as if his chest were about to collapse.

‘Where is it?’ he snarled but now Campbell really was struggling for breath and answering was beyond him.

‘Right. Pull the car up out front Angie,’ said Slater gesturing toward the door. Then Slater was in his face again, talking still through clenched teeth, spittle hitting Campbell’s cheek. ‘Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance.’

Campbell was brought rudely back to the present as he felt a further jabbing pain in his tender ribcage. Gresham was poking a finger into the bruise and screwing his face up with mock pity. ‘So come on. How did he treat you? Nice was he?’

Campbell stared at Gresham bewildered. Was he seriously expected to answer the question? Gresham stared back, waiting. Campbell gave an uncertain nod, thinking that perhaps it was best to be co-operative.

Gresham held up two fingers. ‘Two lies.’ He shook his head reproachfully. ‘No more.’

And then he backhanded Campbell hard and sharp across the face, opening a cut across his cheekbone. Campbell screwed his face tight as the pain exploded across his cheek, white heat in his eyes. He tasted blood in his mouth.

Eventually, when his vision cleared and the vicious stinging began to subside Campbell found himself looking at the two rings on Gresham’s fingers.

‘Understand?’ Those eyes again. Straight into his. Campbell nodded.

‘Good. Now, the quicker I get answers to my questions — no lies — the quicker we can all be on our way.’

‘Yeah… S-sure.’ Campbell tried to keep the fear from his voice but it emerged as little more than a croak.

‘Lovely. Right. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to lately then, eh? Met anyone interesting recently?’

Thursday. 3am.

After initially playing dumb Campbell had been roughed up by the two of them in a manner that seemed designed as much to intimidate as hurt him but had comfortably achieved both. His fear of what may or may not happen if he did tell them everything he knew was greater though than if he didn’t and for some time he remained silent but for the involuntary sounds of pain as they punched and hit him.

At first they had simply fired questions at him quickly from either side, starting one before he could answer the last. Then they were softer and more relaxed, his friend, trying to coax the information from him. And then the violence returned and the threats, the aggression.

Then, as suddenly as it had started it stopped. Slater had re-tied the ropes on his wrists and replaced the blindfold and then gagged him firmly too, both men in silence as Campbell struggled to breathe through a bloodied nose. He had then heard them walk briskly across the floor and then slam the door and shoot the bolt.

Campbell had seen only the inside of the place, the tiny, creaking window revealing only a dark night outside. It was a typical untidy lock-up. Oil stains on the floor, a battered old workbench covered with various detritus of long use; old newspapers, rags, tools, a can of paint. It could have been anywhere at all. Now he was tied up again and not dressed for the cold, still air that he sat in.

He ached all over and felt dazed and very frightened. He began to shiver. As the minutes piled up into an hour, two, he gave up trying to count them. He began to wonder how, or even if, he would get out of this. To what ends would these men go for their answers? Did they even know as much as he did? Certainly they didn’t seem the types that he had expected to be mixed up in what he had discovered. And more worryingly for Campbell, and the thought that sustained him throughout, was what would they do with him if he did tell them? He was only of any use if he still had something they wanted.

Another thought had occurred to him too; even if he gave them what they wanted, did what he was told, he would still know about them, about the situation. He would still be a witness.

He would still be a threat.

He tried to tell himself that his fear and paranoia were getting out of hand, that he was conjuring monsters from the shadows. But tied and blindfolded and beaten in a filthy, empty outbuilding in god only knew where, his nightmarish visions didn’t seem quite so far fetched anymore. They were becoming a cold, dark reality.

Eventually, even in the uncomfortable position he was in, he began to doze off, exhausted both mentally and physically but was quickly awake again. He had heard something, though through his sleep-haze he did not know what. He began to hear things around him in the dark, scurrying and scratching. A voice. A footstep.

And then after a time that may have been an hour or may have been three, he heard them again. A distant engine sound, he thought but maybe not. Maybe tires. Probably footsteps. Certainly the door.

‘Daniel.’ George was back.

He said nothing.

‘Daniel.’ His voice was soft and calm but there was an edge of malice in it all the same.

Outside he heard water running and the squeak of an old tap.

‘You awake there son?’

Campbell nodded but kept his head bowed. He felt hands on his head and the blindfold was taken off and fell into his lap, the gag followed. Then the ropes were drawn from his wrists. Pulling them instinctively into his chest he saw how much more raw they now were. He hadn’t even realised he had been struggling against them. Still he did not look up.

‘We’ve been back to your house for another look. A bit more time and privacy this time. Very nice place son. Doing alright for yourself. It would be a shame to let that all go to waste.’

He wanted to swear at the other man, to scream his rage into his face and his thoughts raced and raced as he tried desperately to see a way out.

Slater’s looming shadow swept across the space and Campbell saw a bucket of water set at his feet.

He began to panic again and his breathing quickened. What were they going to do to him now? How much more could he take? He could feel his spirits crashing as he knew that he had reached the end. Surely he could not cope with whatever terrible thing they had in mind.

‘We couldn’t find what we were looking for. Shame,’ George said and then Slater handed him something but it was only a movement in the periphery of Campbell’s vision.

He had once read of a torture technique where the victim had a towel thrown over his head which was then doused with cold water. The shock of the cold water would make the victim breath in sharply and the towel, now heavy, wet and clinging, would be sucked hard over the mouth and nostrils.

Slater placed a hand on top of his head and pulled it back until he was looking up at George. In his hand he held a familiar object but it was not a towel. The relief was short-lived. A dark green leather-bound book with a single word embossed in gold across the front.

Addresses.

Campbell didn’t need to ask what they meant.

They didn’t just know where he lived. They now knew where all of his friends and his family lived.

‘OK,’ he whispered.

Thursday. 6.30 am.

He didn’t recognise anything but got his bearings by the postcodes on the street signs. It was early enough for the traffic to be fairly light and for few people to be around but it was getting light now and it had still been dark when they had left.