Shadow Box (14 page)

“Yeah,” Dave whispered back. “America.”

The first blow of the cable hurt like hell as it whipped across my legs.

The second of my captors had a length of heavy-duty electric cable wrapped around his fist.

I cried out but couldn’t escape the next blow: my ankles were bound to the chair legs, my wrists taped behind me and I was fixed to the seat by layers of gaffer tape around my chest.

I yelled again as a third blow thrashed across my thighs.

“Feckin’ smarts, doesn’t it?” my interrogator asked. His voice was as even and unthreatening as it had been before. “Perhaps you’ll answer my questions honestly now?”

I nodded, my face contorted with the stinging pain from my legs.

“Now, Martin’s very protective about his daughter. So, I’ll ask you again, did you shag her and nick drugs from her flat?”

“Nothing happened, I swear! She got into bed to put a knife to my throat.” My explanation sounded mealy mouthed.

“So you weren’t telling the truth before. I was right, I can always detect a lie.” He sounded pleased with himself. “And you took something as well?”

“No, I didn’t.”

The cable thrashed across my legs again.

“NO, I DIDN’T!” I screamed.

“Who did?”

“I don’t know. I did see the drugs, but I never touched them.”

“Who did, then?”

“I don’t know, she was burgled.”

“By you?”

Another stinging blow hit my thigh.

“No!” I screamed. “I don’t know who broke in, I don’t.” I felt hot tears trickle down my cheeks.

“Well, who did, then? We take a very dim view of kiddies meddling with our business. Usually we put a bullet through one ankle for a first offence. With that amount of gear, we’d probably do both. You’d never play football again.”

Despite the burning pain in my legs, I felt a cold chill in my gut at the thought of my ankles being smashed by bullets.

“I didn’t take them!” I protested.

“What were all the photos about?”

“I’m a student, I’m doing a photography course. That’s where I met Hannah.”

My interrogator went quiet. Either he had hit a dead end, or he was giving me time to think about my story.

I felt the tape being cut from my wrists and ankles. I panicked that I was going to be taken away.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve not finished with you yet. I’m going to give you a little more time to think about what you’re telling us. I have a hunch that there’s more.”

I was wrenched out of the chair by the second man.

“We’re going for lunch,” my interrogator said.

I realized that I desperately needed to relieve myself.

“I need the toilet,” I said feebly.

“Well, you’re in the right place,” the second voice laughed. Then he bundled me back into the box and slammed the door behind me.

I scrabbled to sit upright. My legs were lifeless – tingling and burning at the same time. I picked at the scraps of tape that were still stuck to me. My bladder was bursting, and as feeling returned to my legs, I struggled to my feet and felt my way to the opposite corner. I loosened my boxers and, supporting myself with a hand against the wall, pissed on the floor, adding another layer to my misery and degradation.

I sat back down and hugged my knees.

I turned my story round in my mind. I could not begin to tell them the truth; any hint that I was working for a British intelligence organization would be certain death. I had to focus on my cover, which, if they chose, could mean certain death anyway. I tried to remember names, places, connections that would make my story credible.

I mulled it over and over in my mind, what I could and couldn’t say, until I had it fixed.

It had to stack up.

Donnie was pleased to see Dave.

He hadn’t had a visit for a couple of days. He was feeling better and bored, but trying to string out his stay by complaining of severe headaches. The nurse was having none of it, and given his status, the ward doctors on their rounds didn’t seem particularly sympathetic, merely prescribing paracetamol.

They wanted rid of him, and it was making him nervous.

He wouldn’t speak to his armed escort on principle. He had filled in
The Sun
crossword without looking at the clues, done the Sudoku without making the numbers add up. No one was going to check. A well-used Martina Cole book from the hospital library lay unread on his bedside cabinet.

“Dave.”

“Don.”

“Good to see you, Dave.”

“You look better, Don.” The turban of bandages had been removed. Dave gave a cursory glance over the stitches that held Donnie’s head together.

“Apparently I’m on the mend. They’re talking about moving me.” Donnie signalled his unease with his eyes.

“We’ve applied for bail, Don.”

The policeman knew better than to show a reaction to their conversation.

“Nice one, Dave. ’Preciate it.”

Ten minutes after Dave’s arrival, two more armed policemen arrived on the ward. One of them, a superior officer, chatted in an undertone to the duty officer, who nodded and left, pleased to be relieved of his duty.

“We’re going to be moving you, Mr Mulvaney,” the officer said.

“Where?” Donnie asked, suddenly anxious.

“Cool it, Don,” Dave said. “It’s fine.”

The second officer took a pair of bolt cutters from a black bag and cut through the ankle cuff that held Donnie to the bed.

“Eh?” Donnie looked around, confused.

The two policemen helped Donnie to his feet. He stood unsteadily while Dave threw an overcoat around his shoulders.

“Can’t I even get dressed?” Donnie pleaded.

“Stow it, Don, just follow the officers,” Dave instructed.

Uncharacteristically meek, Donnie let himself be led barefoot from the ward by the police officers. Nurse Lianti watched him. “Where you going, Mr Donald Duck?”

Dave put his finger to his lips and winked at her.

“Police business,” he said. He flicked his wallet open and showed an American Express card and membership to a gambling club.

Donnie was bundled into a service lift with Dave and the two policemen. Several floors later, they spilled out at the back of the hospital, where, among the bins and incinerators, Dave Slaughter’s BMW was waiting. As soon as they were in, Dave squealed out of the loading bay and shot down Homerton high street and onto the main road out towards Hackney Wick. The police officers in the back laughed, took off their helmets and undid their uniform jackets. Job done. Donnie was confused.

“Get in!” one said.

“Nicely done, gents,” Dave grinned.

“Them uniforms were the dog’s,” the second officer chuckled.

“Mate of mine used to work on
The Bill.
Half inched a dozen of them. All pukka. Apparently they burnt the rest because one or two herberts got ideas for armed robberies,” Dave said.

Donnie gurgled a low chuckle, finally catching on.

“Fake plod? Fuck me, Dave. You got some big brass bollocks.” Donnie turned to the two hired hands in the back. “Fake effin’ plod, fuck my old boots.” Donnie’s laugh turned into a spasm of chesty wheezing.

“Steady on, Don,” Dave said. “You’ll chuck your ring in a minute.”

“Or cough up a gold watch, Dave,” Donnie spluttered, still laughing.

Dave doubled back onto the A13 and headed south through the Blackwall Tunnel. Donnie always felt a sense of relief once he was south of the river. Within five minutes they were outside a pub on the industrial riverfront in Woolwich. Dave and the two fake policemen sank celebratory pints and smoked, while Donnie, still in his pyjamas, stayed in the car with the door open, his bare feet on the pavement. He looked across the Thames and sipped his first beer in some time.

“Enjoying that, Don?” Dave asked.

“Taste of freedom, Dave.”

“Make the most of it while it lasts.”

“Where am I going to hole up, Dave?” Donnie asked.

“You can bunk at mine for a bit till we get you sorted.”

Donnie continued to shake his head in disbelief at the audacity of his release. His fear of another stretch for GBH or worse had grown like a tumour while he was under police guard, and even now he had escaped, he knew his freedom would be short-lived. He wouldn’t be able to hang around on the manor for long. He felt the ground shift beneath his feet all over again.

The door rattled and daylight streamed into the box again. I didn’t know how long I’d been in there; I’d slept and lost track of time.

I was dragged back into the room, legs still not fully functioning, and made to stand.

There was another man with them now, this one in a dark suit. I wondered what additional torment he was there to inflict. All three continued to wear full-face, but then they blindfolded me, most likely so they could take off their masks.

“So, Kieran. How d’you feel after your morning’s work?” the new man asked. “Ready to tell us a little more?” The accent was as unthreatening as that of my first interrogator, but I knew from my earlier beating that this meant nothing.

“I guess you’re hungry, so we bought you a Mars bar.”

A lump of chocolate was put into my hand. My mouth was completely dry. I didn’t want it.

“Eat,” the first man ordered.

A hand guided my own to my mouth. The warm chocolate touched my lips and the sickly smell was strong in my nostrils, making me dry heave.

“Eat.”

I bit off a lump and tried to chew, but the chocolate and toffee turned to glue in my mouth.

“Have some crisps, too.”

A bag of cheese and onion was opened and a fistful of crisps stuffed into my mouth after the Mars bar. Then another, and another. I gagged.

“Ready to talk now?”

I attempted to speak, but the broken crisps and molten chocolate stuck around my throat and teeth, making a sticky noise. I gagged again, spitting chocolatey drool onto the floor. A bottle of water was held to my lips. I sucked on it greedily, flushing down the chocolate and relieving my thirst. Cold water trickled down my chin and neck, making me shiver.

“My colleague here has spoken with Martin Connolly and done a bit of investigating,” the new man said. “We think there’s more to you than meets the eye, Mr Kelly.”

“Lie down,” the second voice told me. His hands pushed me by the shoulders to the floor. I felt a chain being attached to my ankles, then an electronic winch powered up and took the tension. I was hauled up by the chain until I was hanging upside down. My hands were taped behind me again and I felt dizzy as my body circled, suspended by the ankles.

“Comfortable?” my new interrogator asked. I didn’t answer. “So tell us about your family.”

I tried hard to concentrate as the blood pulsed through my head.

“My dad was called Patsy Kelly. He lived in Spain. He was killed last year.”

“Who killed him?”

“We don’t know. Most people think it was my uncle who ordered the killing.”