Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (17 page)

Bridger was
sitting opposite Joseph who was smiling from ear to ear and sitting
back with his hands behind his head, not a care in the world. The
small black object on the table in front of them was resting
quietly, waiting to give up its secret. He was temporarily lost for
words.

He looked over
at the door and then to the red button on the wall. Joseph followed
his gaze.

"It won't do
you any good, the screws have locked the door and the button, the
screws have been told to ignore it for a while as well" Joseph said
quietly, "And I wouldn't be looking to use your own phone to call
for help..., not until you've spoken to him. Big J pointed at the
inanimate cell phone lying on the polished surface.  

Bridger
stood up and pushed the red button anyway, this ended now. He was
too busy to have a convicted criminal messing him
around.

Joseph smiled,
"Typical fucking copper, always so impulsive, always needing the
upper hand. Well let’s see shall we, how long will you give it
until you realise that they won't come?"

Bridger
looked at his watch; he knew from experience that the officer on
duty would be only a short distance down the hall, sitting in a
small office head down in a daily paper or magazine. He would have
heard the bell and normally would be in the room within about 30
seconds. He looked at his watch again, time was ticking by and no
one had come.

"This pretty
much amounts to kidnap, Joseph..., you do know that?”

Joseph just
shrugged, pulled out a hand rolled cigarette and lit up in front of
him, inhaling deeply before blowing smoke in his direction. The
distinctive smell of cannabis filled the small claustrophobic
room.

The
smile on Joseph's face said it all. "Prison is a fucking
supermarket Mr Bridger; you can get whatever you want here, drugs,
information, and violence. You just have to know the right people,
and in here I am the right people".

Bridger was
amazed at his stupidity. How did Joseph think he was going to get
away with this? What was he trying to achieve?

"What's all
this...." The question cut short by the ringing of the phone. The
vibrations making it move across the polished surface.

Bridger stared
at the phone for a moment; not wanting to answer it and listen to
what he knew in his gut would not be good news.

"I'd answer it
if I was you, he's an impatient man, and he is also on a bit of
tight time frame due to his circumstances being similar to my
own".

Bridger
reluctantly picked up the phone and accepted the call. The caller
ID was blocked.

"Do you know
who this is?” the voice was male, calm and confident.

"Should I?"
Bridger was in no mood for games.

“
I guess
not..., I don't remember you either. Mind you, I have been in this
shithole for nearly twenty years. I'm David McLaren, President in
exile, incarcerated at the pleasure of the Government
pretend".

"So Mr
McLaren, maybe you could tell me what this is all about, your man
here is committing an offence by keeping me here against my will as
I'm sure you’re aware". Bridger's mind was working overtime, trying
to get back on top of things.

David remained
silent, but he let out a small laugh.

Bridger was
unsure how to play this new twist so decided to just go with it and
see where it led. He did not feel threatened at this stage, as he
was quite capable of holding his own if it came to a fight; all he
would have to do is hold him off until help arrived. He just hoped
it would not come to that and if it did that help would actually
come.

"All in good
time, but first we need to lay down some ground rules. You will
stay and listen to what we have to tell you and nobody gets hurt".
The subtle menace in David McLaren’s voice was unmistakable. "There
are a couple of things we need to accomplish today and to ensure
that happens I have taken out a little insurance".

Bridger looked
at Joseph sitting smugly across the table from him, he would not be
able to hear what McLaren was saying on the other side of the phone
but he already knew how this was supposed to play out.

"Mr McLaren we
are in a prison full of prison guards, it won't be long before they
come checking on us and then this little charade will be over".

Bridger heard
a slight chuckle on the other end of the phone.

"Mr Bridger,
you are in a prison full of prisoners and it is us that run the
show, the guards are just referees, employed to keep people like me
at the top and all the others in line. You can also buy off the
guards. Every man has his price. You would be well advised to
listen to what we have to say".

Bridger looked
at the phone in his hand; this had obviously been set up, for
whatever reason. They searched prisoners before and after visits
with the public for this very reason. One or more of the guards
this morning obviously had a hand in providing the cellphone. He
suddenly felt as if he had no choice.

"Okay, say
what you have to say", Bridger said, quietly.

"It would be
remiss of me not to give your host the first right of reply", David
said, reasonably "He has something he would like to clear up with
you before we get down to our business. After all, he was the one
who managed to get you there; I just saw an opportunity to get in
on the action. So with that in mind I will cut this connection and
call back in, let us say... Five minutes? That should give you
enough time to adjust to your position". McLaren cut the connection
leaving a silent space.

Bridger had to
fight back a slight feeling of panic as the closeness of the four
walls felt like they were restricting his breathing.

She
opened her eyes but could not see; instead, images of a broken man
were floating around inside her head, bloodied and bruised. His
face looked at her with dark eyes, pleading for help. She tried to
reach out but her arms were floating and she could not control
their movement. Something was wrong, the man started to cry, blood
leaked from his eyes like tears. Cuts were appearing on his face as
if like magic until his face was one big bloody mess. It frightened
her.

She shook her
head trying to distort the image. This could not be real. He was an
apparition. A face leapt out of the bloody mess leaving a blank
space, it came towards her clearly in focus, a familiar face
without a head, the devils mask.

The face was
calling her name, over and over; the sound went from frightened to
pitiful before fading to nothing. Still she could not see.

The
image of the body in her eyes started convulsing in front of her as
if being attacked by an invisible force; the black hole where his
face should be was deep and endless, drawing her in. She could see
right into the core of his being. She felt every painful emotion of
his torture as if she was inside him. Then in a puff of smoke, he
was gone, leaving her empty.

Her eyes
finally focused on four walls, peeling wallpaper, yellow stained
ceiling. A sad knowing entered her thoughts. She felt her body
going cold, her limbs stiffening, growing heavy. The room started
to spin; the floor was trying to take her beneath its wooden
strength, submitting her to the horrors below.

She could
smell mould, mildew, dirt, the smell of death, the scent was
overpowering, invading every pore in her body. The weight increased
pressing on her, forcing her further down, she could feel the worms
crawling beneath her. It was going to bury her alive; the worms
were going to have her.

Another
face appeared in her vision, an ugly face, a face that had no ounce
of compassion. It looked at her with contempt, a look that told her
that it was going to do as it pleased. She knew this face, a memory
flashing in her brain giving her even more fear. She had seen him
before.

A sharp pain
erupted from her arm and she recoiled into herself but something
held her arm tight. She tried to focus and saw a strong hand
gripping her forearm; she looked down at an ugly needle sticking
from her bicep topped by a plastic syringe filled with hate. The
face smiled, he released the pressure on her arm.

The face
spoke. "There you go, just a little top up, get you in the mood; it
didn't look like you were enjoying your first dose".

She could feel
a tingling in her arm where the needle had entered her skin, a warm
feeling spreading around the puncture wound like an infection, the
worms below scurried back into the dank earth, leaving her floating
on a cloud of nothingness.

Her body
convulsed as the drugs transported themselves around her vascular
system before slamming into her brain. A euphoric feeling radiated
from the base of her cerebral cortex outwards, engulfing her body
in a wave of pleasure that she had never felt before. Clarity
invaded her consciousness, everything was sharp and in focus, a
heightened state of excitement.

The feeling
was a polar opposite to what she saw in her false clarity. In the
room with her, she saw Detective John Mouller tied to a chair in
the corner of the room, his head was down, his eyes closed. Blood
was spotting on the floor below as he bled from his nose and
mouth.

Joseph Kingi
junior was standing above her smiling, a smile that did not reach
his cold eyes. One hand was clasping the used syringe, with the
other he reached out and put two fingers between her lips stroking
around the edges delicately before forcing them into her mouth
making her gag involuntarily.

He
looked at her with sick eyes, portraying not lust but a need for
control, a power he could only feel when he took what he
wanted.

"Soon..." he
said, before turning and walking from the room.

Jo
Williamson's drug induced brain could not find the fear it needed,
the deceptively euphoric feeling winning out as she watched the
door close on their stinking prison cell.  Then her brain
spiralled downwards once more and the demons returned.

"First of all
I think we should show each other a measure of trust", Joseph Kingi
senior said recognising his queue as Bridger looked at the now
silent phone in his hands. Joseph's voice sounded calm and
reasonable, "I will show you something that might upset you, but I
trust you not to overreact."

Bridger's own
cell phone beeped in his pocket. Joseph smiled maliciously.

"I've still
got your number Mike…, from the old days," he said, seeing the
question in Bridger's eyes. "I've had someone send you a
picture..., open it and have a look".

Bridger retrieved his phone and saw the
'New Message'
icon. He scrolled
through the options selecting 'Open Message'. A small image
appeared on his screen, the wretched sight of a young woman lying
on a rank mattress in a small room he did not recognise. The image
of the woman was vaguely familiar although the image quality was
too poor to see clearly.

"See anyone
you know?” he said quietly.

Bridger tried
to enlarge the picture to make it clearer, and then he noticed
another person in the corner of the frame, his arms bound to a
chair and he looked to be in a bad way. He did not need to adjust
the settings to know who it was, he would recognise the flashy
shirt and tie that John Mouller always wore anywhere.

The
synapses in his brain joined the dots and sparked a flash of
recognition; if that was John Mouller, then the female had to be Jo
Williamson.

"What the fuck
is this?" Bridger spat out angrily.

"It's just an
insurance of sorts; they sort of got caught up in this at the last
minute you could say, just icing on the cake really. We will not
harm them if you do as I ask. There are a few outstanding problems
I need you to solve".

The situation
Bridger thought he was in had just morphed into something
infinitely more urgent, it wasn't just him in this situation it was
two colleagues as well, and they looked to be in worse shape than
he was.

"Where are
they?" Bridger could not make out anything but blurry images of
yellowing wallpaper behind his captive workmates.

"That's not
your concern, suffice to say that they will be released unharmed
once we have completed our business". Joseph held his palms
together as if praying, elbows on the table, fingers tapping
against each other.

"What you have
done is detain me here against my will and kidnap my two
colleagues, both very serious offences, whatever happens here today
you or your mate on the phone aren't going to get away with it, no
matter what business you think you have with me. I suggest you let
my colleagues go then we may be able to start filling in the hole
you are digging for yourself". It was Bridger's last throw of the
dice; he did not really think he could reason with him.

"I think
you're mistaking me for someone who gives a shit Mr Bridger."
Joseph sneered and sat back against his chair as if regarding his
prey. He did not look to Bridger like a person who thought he would
spend the next large part of his life behind bars.

“
I don’t
know where they are either, before you ask, that part has nothing
to do with me…”

Bridger could
not believe what he was hearing from this piece of filth. Both
Kingi and McLaren were arrogant men in his eyes; they had both
played the game by their own rules and lost. He was not about to
let either of them dictate how this was going to play out.

Holding his
phone in his left hand, he lowered it below the table as if placing
it in his trouser pocket. With his thumb, he blindly moved around
the screen in an attempt to send out a message. He knew roughly,
where the forward message icon was, and when he pushed it, he knew
it came up with a recipient’s box. It would be a random selection
but he hoped whomever it ended up with would know what to do. He
did not have many numbers stored in the phone and most of those
were work colleagues anyway. Blindly pressing send, the picture
disappeared off the screen and pinged into another phone somewhere
on the outside of the big concrete walls.