Authors: Robert Wilson
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #General, #Mystery & Detective
âThe help for when you're late.'
âPike didn't say anything about ... help.'
âI know he didn't, but I couldn't carry her on my own and she went nuts when she came round.'
âWhere is she?' asked Skin.
âIn the back room.'
âHow
is she?' asked Dan.
âHaven't looked for the last fifteen minutes,' said the cabbie. âShe was asleep.'
âDid you use chloroform on her?'asked Dan.
âI had to. She went nuts. Must be claustrophobic or something.'
Dan kept glancing up the corridor at the two illegals, who were talking.
âI'm going to have to call Pike,' said Skin.
âFucking hell,' said Dan, under his breath.
Skin pulled Dan out with him, made the phone call, had a muttered conversation, Dan waiting, looking as if he wanted a piss. Skin hung up, drew a finger across his neck. Dan felt his guts shudder, mouthed: âFuck'.
They eased out the silenced hand guns from inside their black coats, went back into the house, holding them down by their sides.
âWhat the fuck is this?' said the cabbie, seeing them immediately.
âWake the girl. Get her ready,' said Skin, taking him by the arm, pushing him up the corridor.
âReady for what?'
âTo go. What do you think?'
âWhat are you going to do with the guns?' he asked.
âYou didn't follow the fucking instructions,' said Skin, red lips from within the black cloth hole. âNow we've got our orders. Wake the girl.'
âFor fuck's sake,' said the cabbie.
âJust do it,' said Skin, and pushed the cabbie towards the bedroom door.
The illegals turned and stood as Skin and Dan came in, to have their expectations suddenly reduced to a small black hole in a fat barrel, which kept coming until it was the eye's whole universe. White latex hands collared them, hauled them away from their chairs. They kicked the illegals to their knees, denting the undulating lino floor, the fat barrels pressed hard into the fuzz of their shorn heads. The illegals looked up, eyes desperate, lips drawn bloodless across their teeth, breathing quick as they realised their true value in the system that had brought them to the black, glittering mouth of the insatiable metropolis. Skin and Dan pulled the ligatures from their pockets, slipped the guns back inside their coats and looped the cords over the shorn heads of the men kneeling before them, tightened them around their necks. The cabbie closed the bedroom door behind him.
Alyshia was still asleep. The noise from the next room woke her. The fear came alive in her as soon as she saw the cabbie. The whites of her eyes quivered at the edges as she looked at the door. The animal noise of a terrible struggle came through it. She started as something thudded against the other side. The cabbie held onto his head with both hands, looking at the ceiling.
âWhat's going on?' she asked, her voice barely audible.
The cabbie didn't answer. Through the grunting and gasping of effort came the noise of heels clawing against lino. Then a rigid, pent-up silence, followed by a collapse. The cabbie let his hands drop to his sides, shook his head. Alyshia, back against the wall, stared unblinking at the door. No sound.
âAll right,' said the cabbie, who couldn't wait any longer. âLet's get you out of here.'
He opened the door. The room had filled with a shocking stink.
âNot yet, you fucking moron,' said Skin.
Alyshia saw the hooded men, looked down at the dead illegals' swollen faces, their new horror masks. She vomited. The cabbie pulled her back into the room.
âGet her cleaned up,' said Skin. âGot anything we can roll these two up in?'
âIn the garage,' said the cabbie. âThere's some plastic tarps.'
Dan left the room, staggered to the garage, dazed by what he'd just done. He came back with the tarpaulins. They rolled the illegals into them, secured them at both ends, coughing against the stink in the room. They took them into the garage. Dan went out the back and down the side of the house, checked the street. Empty. He tapped on the garage, opened the rear of the transit. They lifted the bodies into the back, closed the doors, went back for the girl.
The cabbie had opened the window in the room and the stink was leaving, but slowly, because of the thickness of the blinds.
âShouldn't have done that 'n' all,' said Skin. âYou're not paying attention to the fucking instructions.'
âYes, well, I didn't know that was on the cards, did I?' said the cabbie. âYou got my money?'
Skin handed him a fat envelope. They went into the bedroom. Alyshia's skirt and blouse were on the floor, streaked with vomit and topped by a brown blur of tights. She looked up from the bed in bra and knickers, the fear streaming out of her.
âYou got the alarm code to her flat?' asked Dan.
The cabbie shook his head, counting the money. Skin and Dan looked to Alyshia. She gave them the code. Skin made a call, gave the number, hung up.
âGet us a plastic bag for her things,' said Dan.
The cabbie went to the kitchen, came back with a bag, put Alyshia's discarded clothes in it. Dan removed a small black box from his pocket, took out a capped syringe filled with a clear liquid. Alyshia pressed herself against the wall and whimpered as he flicked the air out of it, eased off the cap.
âYou done this before?' asked the cabbie, looking over Dan's shoulder.
âFirst time,' said Dan, rolling his eyes.
âI'll be quiet,' said Alyshia. âJust don't...'
âThis'll keep you nice and relaxed,' said Dan, and then to the cabbie, who was now looking at him intently: âYou fancy a vodkatini 'n' all?'
âWho's going to clean this shit up?'
âThere wouldn't have been any shit to clear up,' said Skin, hooded face up close to the cabbie's, âif you'd done what you was fucking told.'
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R
OBERT
W
ILSON
is the author of numerous novels, including
A Small Death in Lisbon
and
The Company of Strangers.
A graduate of Oxford University, he has worked in shipping, advertising, and trading in Africa, and has lived in Greece and West Africa.
* SIDA is the French acronym for AIDS.