Tim Weaver - Vanished

‘Whatsssssoingon?’ he asked again, his speech slurred.

Spane didn’t respond. He carefully placed the syringe he’d used into the satchel and then brought out a small leather pouch. Drake tried to haul himself up, but his arms had no strength. He couldn’t support himself. Every muscle in his body had liquified. When he tried to use his legs, place them down flat to the floor and manoeuvre himself forward, nothing happened. The whole time Spane calmly unzipped the leather pouch.

‘Whatssssssssssssoingon?’ Drake asked again.

His speech was getting worse by the second.

Spane opened the leather pouch, holding it in the middle like a book. With his left hand he adjusted something, and then looked back at Drake. ‘I’m really glad we have this chance to be alone,’ he said, his voice so soft it was barely audible. He laid the leather pouch down on the sofa as carefully as if it were made from glass, and then parted Drake’s legs. Drake couldn’t do anything about it. He had no reaction. No fight.

Spane moved in closer, positioning himself level with the knees. ‘This is how it’s going to be from now on,’ Spane continued, his voice gentle, almost affectionate. And then he looked up from beneath his brow, his eyes so big and dark they were just holes in his head. A whimper passed up through Drake’s throat; a reflex, like a noise from a cornered animal.

Spane smiled, stood up and went back to his satchel. He rummaged around inside and brought out a wooden bowl about a foot in diameter. He moved back to Drake, pulled him forward so he was doubled over, his head between his legs, and placed the bowl on the floor at his feet. Drake tried to sit up, but nothing happened. He had no power. No muscle. No bone.

‘Leon,’ Drake said, his words blunted and dulled. ‘Leon, pleeeeashe.’

No response.

Then a buzz.

‘My name’s not Leon, you fucking queer.’

Suddenly, Drake felt cold metal at the nape of his neck, travelling up through the centre of his head to the crown. A second later, his hair cascaded past his ears and landed, feather-like, in the bowl.

‘Whaaaaatareyoudooooin?’ Drake slurred.

A pause.

‘I’m shaving your hair, Daddy.’

PART THREE

29

There were a series of empty warehouses three miles away that I’d once used as a place to meet sources. Since leaving the paper, I’d only been back once. That time, I’d brought the person here under cover of darkness. This time, I had two men in the boot of my car and the sun was carving down out of a clear blue sky.

The road leading in was built in a T-shape, the neck barely big enough for two cars to pass. At the end, it opened up: ten warehouses, all in a line, all facing back down the way I’d come. At one end was a disused railway bridge, arches carved into it like big, dark holes bored straight into the earth. As I swung the car around and backed it in against one of the buildings, a smell came in on the breeze. The arches were dumping grounds: metal shells, so rust-covered it was impossible to tell what they’d once been; kitchen appliances stripped to their bones; old cars and machinery reduced to debris.

I grabbed the crowbar from the front seat and then took them in one by one, Gaishe first. He was scared. Out of his depth. He didn’t weigh anything, and he didn’t fight me. I secured him inside, then came back for Wellis. Popping the boot, I stepped back, expecting him to kick out. But he didn’t. The sunlight was strong, angling right into the BMW, and as he moved a hand to his face, shielding his eyes, I grabbed him by his arms and dragged him out, dumping him on the concrete.

He lay there on the floor, looking up.

‘Get to your feet,’ I said, pushing the boot closed.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even move. He just stared up at me, unable to find me at first. Then he pulled into focus and spotted me about two feet away.

‘Get up, you piece of shit.’

He clumsily got to his feet, saying nothing. But at the entrance, as I followed him in, he looked back over his shoulder, eyes feral and aggressive.

Inside was a space about one hundred and eighty feet long. The sun drifted in through the gaps in the windows and brickwork, glinting in the smashed glass scattered across the floor. It stank like a toilet. To my right was an old office area, looking out over the warehouse. There was still some furniture in it: a couple of heavy oak desks and four chairs, picked apart and broken, but still basically usable. Gaishe was tied to one of them with duct tape – wrists to the arms of the chair, ankles to the legs. He looked up as we approached, an odd mixture of fear and relief in his face: fear of what was coming, relief that Wellis was here with him, to share in whatever was planned.

Wellis got to one of the chairs and then looked back at me. ‘You don’t know what the fuck you just stepped into here, Ben. You know that, right?’

I threw him the duct tape. ‘Tie your ankles to the legs of the chair.’

‘Did you hear me?’

‘Tie your ankles to the chair.’

The same expression as before: hostile, his rage barely contained. Then he turned, tiny fragments of glass crunching beneath his bare feet, and dropped into the seat. Once his ankles were secure, I got him to tape one of his wrists down, then I did the other.

‘Let’s start with Sam Wren.’

I perched myself on the edge of one of the desks and put the crowbar down next to me. No response from either of them.

‘Eric?’

Gaishe looked at me.

‘Do you want to tell me about Sam Wren?’

He glanced at Wellis again, but Wellis hadn’t moved an inch. He was just staring at me, the corners of his mouth turned up in the merest hint of a smile.

‘What’s so funny?’

Wellis shrugged.

‘This is all a joke to you?’

He shrugged again. I stepped in closer to him and, as I did, he tried to come at me – teeth bared, fists clenched – forgetting he was tied down. The chair rocked from side to side, teetered on one leg for a second and then toppled over and hit the floor. His head smashed hard against the ground, chips of glass cutting into the dome of his skull, and the coat we’d dressed him in came open. Next to him, Gaishe gasped and pushed back and away, the wheels of the chair carrying him off for about five feet. I dropped to my haunches next to Wellis and looked at him. He was gazing up, blood on his face. I’d get nowhere with him. Threats, torture, none of it would work. A man who lived in the shadows already knew too much about its consequences.

I moved to Gaishe, grabbed his chair and pushed it across the room, away from Wellis. Glass crunched beneath the wheels as we moved. We hit the far wall of the room and I held him there, facing the bricks, unable to see Wellis. ‘What’s going on?’ Gaishe said, a tremor in his voice. I turned back to Wellis. He’d shifted position on the ground and was looking at us. He didn’t have any real affection for Gaishe, nothing with any meaning, and probably didn’t care what happened to him – except Gaishe knew things.

Important things.

I leaned in to Gaishe. ‘Here’s how it’s going to play out, Eric: you’re going to tell me how you know Sam Wren, how he got involved with you two, what happened when he did and how it all ended. You’re going to tell me all that. And when we’re done with that, you’re going to tell me about the girl. The girl you killed.’

Panic in his face, and then a stark realization about what he’d done. After that, his smell hit me: sweat and dirt and cigarette smoke.

I glanced at Wellis.

There was a different expression on his face now. He couldn’t hear what I was saying to Gaishe, couldn’t see Gaishe’s face either. He had no control any more. He couldn’t order Gaishe around. He couldn’t tell him what to say. He couldn’t influence him, or threaten him, or manipulate him. He was helpless.