Alex Gray - Sleep like the dead

The Hundi put down the phone, nodding to himself. That was good. The man called Smith had agreed a fee for get ting rid of the girl. Brogan had been a thorn in their flesh and his sister's existence was only bringing more trouble into their world.

He screwed up his eyes. There was no room in his world for sentiment.

This was purely a matter of business. He had nothing against the red-haired woman whose compliance had allowed their new friend, Amit Shafiq, to remain here, part of his thriving business network. Brogan had had his uses too, as a way of laundering money from certain sources. But Brogan himself was a marked man now. And if he ever set foot again in Glasgow… the Hundi's grin widened. Perhaps Mr Smith would be happy to undertake that particular commission for free? The man rubbed his hands together, feeling the heavy rings on his chubby fingers.

It would all work out. Money always made everything work out.

Billy Brogan opened his eyes to see a fan spinning on the pale ceiling, its sweeping rhythm soothing his emerging senses.

Everything he saw was white: walls, ceiling, the vertical blinds keeping daylight from penetrating the room where he lay. He blinked, then felt his fingers touch the cool cotton of the sheet that was covering him. Where was he? I liming his head a fraction, Brogan saw a table against a wall with a large white jug covered in a square of cloth. Above it was a picture of Christ, hand outstretched, lines of yellow radiating from the circle above his head.

Brogan blinked again. This was weirding him out, big time. There was a strange metallic taste in his mouth that made him search around it with the tip of his tongue, feeling a gap where two of his front teeth should have been. He screwed up his eyes as saliva flooded his mouth. His gums were sore and tender, throbbing as though the teeth had been wrenched from his mouth. What the hell had happened to him? He tried to sit up, but as soon as he moved a pain shot through his skull.

Then the memories began to return. That darkened alley, the man in the half-opened doorway…

Billy groaned as much from the ache in his head as from the realisation that he had been taken for a mug. Yet he was here, in a quiet place, alive. And, apart from his missing teeth, still in one piece. He turned his head slowly, fearful of another blast of pain, and saw a door with a sheet of paper attached. It was in some language that Billy couldn't understand. But the familiar symbols required no interpretation. There were little pictures, international hieroglyphics, that showed emergency exits and fire extinguishers. So, he was in some sort of an institution. A hospital, Brogan supposed, raising a hand to touch the place where the pain was worst. He felt the soft padding someone had placed under a swathe of bandage, confirming his suspicions. Somehow he had been rescued from the men who had assaulted him and patched up while he was still unconscious.

Brogan let his hand slide back under the bedclothes, feeling only skin against the sheets. 'Christ!' he exclaimed, then looked guiltily at the picture to his left as though the image had overheard and disapproved. 'Sorry,' he mumbled, reminding himself to say a proper thank you for actually waking to find himself safe from his attackers. But it was a bit of a shock to find himself stark naked, his eyes told the picture.

The room appeared to be empty of any furniture save a small bedside locker, the type that one always found in hospital rooms.

Perhaps his stuff was in there? Steeling himself, Brogan pushed himself into a sitting position, then stopped, panting with the effort, waves of agony shooting through his head. He felt the sweat running in rivulets down his chest and he was glad of the fan's blades swishing round and around, cooling his fevered body.

He had to get up, see if everything was still there.

He turned around in the bed, letting his legs fall into mid-air, feet searching for the floor. With a huge effort, Brogan slid off the bed and tried to stand up. Immediately his legs buckled under him and he slid to the floor, only saving himself from crashing down by grabbing at the sheets. Head pounding, he let himself rest for a few moments, his back against the side of the bed, trembling with a weakness that threatened to overpower him. But he had to see if his things were still there, had to know…

The locker had two compartments; a door and a drawer. Brogan tried pulling at the door but his hands were too damp with sweat and his fingers slid uselessly off the wooden handle. Wiping them on the sheet that had come off the bed, he tried again. The door opened and Brogan's mouth opened in a gasp of dismay. The compartment was completely empty. Shaking now, he pulled at the drawer, praying to any gods that might hear him.

Inside there was only one familiar object. Not his wallet stuffed with dollars, not his passport, only the cheap mobile phone he had bought before leaving Mallorca.

Hands still trembling, Brogan lifted it out and flicked the device open. The battery still showed full. Brogan flicked a gaze at the Christ on the wall. That was something to be thankful for, at least.

He tapped out her number then pressed the green button and waited.

For a few moments Brogan listened as the ringing tone pounded in his head, biting his lips, willing his sister to pick up her phone and answer it. She wasn't there, he thought, dismay making him shiver as he sat there on the tiled floor.

Then the ringing stopped and his face creased in a smile as he anticipated Marianne's hello.

'Who's this?' a voice asked suddenly, making Brogan frown.

Did he know that accent? A shudder went through his body.

No. It couldn't be…

'It's me. It's Billy,' he said slowly, hoping that his instincts about that voice were wrong. `Will you put Marianne on?' He heard his own words come out, thin and reedy, like an old man's.

A chuckle sounded from the line. 'Oh, she's been hoping to speak to you,' the man told him. 'Haven't you, Marianne?'

Brogan heard his sister's muffled reply but he was unable to make out her words.

'Is that you, Stevens?' he asked, suspiciously.

'Who did you think it was, Brogan?' the hit man replied. 'Santa Claus?'

The dealer sat, stunned into silence. How had Stevens managed to find Marianne, of all people? After the pains she had taken to ensure that nobody could find her; these repeated changes of address, her name deleted from that registry file. Nobody but Amit, Brogan reminded himself. Was that how Stevens had located her? 'Hello?' Stevens said, and Brogan heard the man's fingers tapping against the plastic casing of his mobile.

'I'm still here,' Brogan said, resisting the temptation to add 'only just.'

'Well, listen to me, pal, and listen good,' Stevens told him.

Brogan nodded then wished he hadn't, the throbbing in his skull making him feel as though he might pass out if he moved again.

Stevens' voice continued, telling Brogan what he expected him to do, telling him what would happen to Marianne if he failed to comply with his demands. Warning him to keep the police out of it.

Then the man stopped speaking and Brogan heard a small cry in the background.

He winced, trying to imagine what was happening to his sister at the hands of this man, a man he knew to be capable of unimaginable horrors.

'Billy? Billy?' Marianne was sobbing into the phone, her breath coming in short bursts.

'Aye, I'm here,' Brogan said, pulling the crumpled sheet around his shivering form.

'Please,' she cried. 'Please do as he says, Billy,' Marianne begged. 'He… he's got a gun. And he says…' her voice tailed off then returned in a whisper. 'He says he'll kill me if you don't get him that money.'

'Where are you?' Brogan asked, urgently. 'Just tell me where.