Numb: A Dark Thriller (2 page)

“Don’t worry, I plan to.”

Towards the end of the carriage, Tullman came to what he hoped would be the last of the dead.

One woman’s face had been obliterated, probably by flying glass. The next body was a child and Tullman looked away as quickly as possible. Children were the worst.

Boy, was his daughter going to get the biggest hug of her life when he got home later!

“Hello!” His voice wobbled as he shouted. He suddenly wanted out of here. Needed to get back outside. He felt the shivers of claustrophobia. Felt the helplessness of being trapped. It was so hot in here and sweat was pouring down his face, steaming up his mask. He was tired and weak and hadn’t eaten since early morning. And the dead around him, God, it was suddenly becoming too much...

One man was headless. Another had glass and metal stuck into his midriff, his insides spilling out onto the floor like offal in a slaughterhouse. One woman had lost an arm and blood had stained the standing water around her a dull red.

Just a little further and then he could head back. Get out of this hell hole. Go home. See his family...

He then came across the bodies of a man and woman. Death had left them in an eternal embrace, the man’s arms locked around her waist, as if to comfort her passage into the afterlife. His face was covered by a huge amount of blood and flaps of ripped flesh had contorted his features into a grotesque Halloween mask. The woman had suffered trauma to her neck and her head was twisted at a strange angle. Again she had those unsettling china doll eyes that stared so intensely at nothing, never to see again.

Tullman shone his light beyond them and was relieved to see only a pile of luggage. It must have spilled from the overhead rails and ended up here at the rear end of the carriage. But at least that was the end of it. No one alive, just as he and everyone else had thought. Time to head back...

But his light then settled on something small and pale in amongst the bags and cases, something with hair and a face, staring out with dead eyes from a gap in the mound of luggage.

Another dead child.

Another waste of a life.

Another nightmare image ready to plague him for many nights to-

“Shit!”

Tullman stumbled back with fright and almost fell over the embraced man and woman, his heart hammering in his chest so hard he felt it might burst.

He took a deep breath, steadied his nerves and shone the light on the face of the child again, hoping his eyes hadn’t played a trick on him.

Twenty seconds later, just as Tullman was about to turn away thinking he had indeed imagined it, the boy blinked a second time.

“Stu!” he called, frantically. “Come here quick!” Then into his radio: “I think I’ve found one. Alert the paramedics!”

Behind him, Robertson hurried through the mess yet Tullman barely heard him approach. He was too transfixed, staring into the light illuminating the child’s face.

The kid blinked again. He was alive!

This wasn’t real, the fire fighter told himself as he began to pull the bags and suitcases away excitedly. It couldn’t be. Something as simple as some spilled luggage couldn’t have provided ample protection to save this boy when everyone else had perished. It was impossible, wasn’t it?

“Hi there, little man,” he said softly as he continued to free the boy from his trapped position. “It’s okay. We’ll get you out of here. Everything will be alright.”

Tullman pulled a heavy duffel bag aside, revealing the boy’s body.

And he froze.

“Oh... oh my God...”

The sight was like a punch to the back of the head, the effect on him different from all the others in here. They were dead, they felt no pain, their suffering was over. But this boy, this poor boy...

Tullman flicked the beam from the boy’s horrendous injuries, injuries visible through ripped and shredded clothing, injuries that he couldn’t imagine someone so young and fragile surviving, and settled the light back on his face. The seasoned fire-fighter suddenly felt very strange, all lightheaded and nauseous and dizzy.

The boy remained still, his face expressionless, as if he had no idea that Tullman was even there. He just stared right through him.

Then he blinked once more, and that was it.

Just as Robertson reached him, Tullman passed out.

PART ONE

1

Riley pulled the Mercedes by the side of the road and stared across at the house.

It was a regular semi-detached, almost identical to every other home in this estate with its grey tiled roof, orange brick facade, council fitted double glazed windows and none of the rooms big enough to swing a cat. Yes, very normal.
Sadly,
very normal.

If it wasn’t for Jimmy Howden sitting in the passenger seat, Riley would have sighed. This was one of the better estates in Thirnbridge. Home to decent people. Not usually the sort Riley had to mix with in his line of work. People who lived around here usually borrowed money from legitimate lenders and not from someone like Mike Nash. The poor sod inside must have been desperate.

“Right, let’s go,” Howden said. He made to unlock his seatbelt but Riley stopped him by slapping a strong hand down on his forearm.

“No, it’s alright. I’ll do this one myself.”

“Eh?” Howden frowned, making his big, pudgy face even uglier than it already was. The thin scar that ran down the right side of his forehead seemed to droop into his eye. “What’re you talking about?”

Riley grabbed the leather carry case from the back seat and quickly re-read the paperwork he pulled out, although ‘paperwork’ was probably the wrong word for the crudely scribbled notes that the regular collector had jotted down after he’d had no luck receiving this month’s payment.

“This bloke’s called Terry Simpson. He’s in his sixties.” Riley felt like letting out that sigh again. “He still owes three grand.”

“Why do you think we’re here, genius?” Howden said, grinning.

Riley chose his next words carefully. This looked like someone he could help. Someone who deserved it.

“This Mr Simpson lives in a decent house in a quiet street. He’s quite old. I don’t think he’s the sort to give us any trouble, and the sight of us two knocking on his door – especially you - might stop his heart.” Riley nodded at Howden, indicating the other man’s large frame and meaty hands.

“You know that doesn’t mean shit,” Howden said, dismissively. He coughed, chewed what had jumped up from his throat, and then swallowed it right back down. “He owes Nash money, and when you owe Nash money and you can’t pay, you might panic and decide to do something stupid like put up a fight.” He unlocked his seatbelt. “So I’ll come with you.”

Riley grabbed Howden’s arm again, stopping him from slipping the seatbelt over his shoulder.

“No.” Riley again thought carefully about what to say. He had to play this casual, like he was doing Howden a favour and not Mr Terry Simpson of 46 Kipling Close. “You might as well leave this one to me. Even if he
does
decide to get a bit lively, he’s old and can’t be that much of a handful. And you never know, he may even have the money this time.”

“He didn’t have it yesterday,” Howden argued. “How’s he gonna get that sort of cash in twenty four hours? Remember, Nash doesn’t like
anyone
taking him for a mug. It doesn’t matter if this bloke’s in his sixties or fucking nineties, if he can’t pay the piper,
we
have to pay him. That’s why Nash sends us when the regular collectors don’t have any luck.”

Riley nodded slowly. Yes, that’s exactly why he and Howden were here today. They were more menacing, more terrifying, and therefore more likely to get blood out of a stone. Howden stood six-three and clocked in at over eighteen stone. Riley was a couple of inches shorter and leaner in build but he still towered over a lot of men, and the sight of them both knocking on the door, dressed as they were in leather jackets and jeans, would surely show the debtor inside that it was time to pay up. But not this time though. Not to a bloke in his sixties. Riley wasn’t having it. Maybe a year or two ago he might have thought differently, back when being on Nash’s payroll was something he was happy to be part of, back when the only people he hurt often deserved it.

But a lot had happened since then.

“Still, you hang back and have a quick smoke,” he said, hoping Howden could be swayed by his forty a day habit. He hadn’t lit up in at least seven minutes and might get the shakes. “Like I said, not much will go down here. Save it for the next job.” He looked at the next name on the crumpled paperwork and thought,
Sorry, Todd Williams of 37 Dyson Drive, hope you’ve got the cash.

Howden paused in his seat. Stared over at the house for a few seconds. Then he shrugged, reached into his leather jacket for his smokes, clamped one between his thick, cracked lips and said, “Be quick, then.”

Riley nodded and climbed from the Merc as Howden lit up.

“Back in two minutes,” he said, carrying the paperwork with him.

“And don’t be too soft with the old bastard if he can’t pay,” Howden said, exhaling a plume of smoke that filled the car almost instantly.

Riley winked as he closed the door.

Fuck you, Howden,
he thought and set off across the road.

2

Terry Simpson was sixty-three, recently unemployed, recently widowed and because of reasons only known to himself had borrowed two thousand pounds from Mike Nash a year ago when no reputable lender would touch him.

Simpson had initially agreed to pay back three thousand in monthly payments of two hundred. But, as is the way with loan-sharking, the payments soon rose to three hundred a month and then to five hundred.

How’s that possible? Read the small print, sir.
Fast Track Loans
reserve the right to increase repayments at short notice. Oh, you didn’t realise when you signed the agreement – tough!

Suddenly Mr Simpson – like so many others – would have found himself in deep shit and in debt for a lot longer than he’d expected.

What most people don’t realise about loan sharking is that it’s not about charging high interest rates to reap back three or four times more than the original amount loaned in a short period of time, but more about trapping the debtor. It’s about creating a system that makes it almost impossible for them to pay off what they owe and forcing them to make reduced payments that barely cover the interest, therefore turning a two or three year loan deal into a long-term regular income for the lender. Using violence is always a last resort but the threat of
potential
violence is very common. Nash didn’t want any of the people who owed him money hurt. He wanted payment. But when people refused to open their wallets then a message had to be sent. Not what you see in films, of course. There are rarely any killings (dead people are worth nothing) and rarely any major beatings. The person still has to be fit to work and earn money and
certainly
not put in hospital where questions might be asked. But they have to be scared into believing that such actions are just around the corner should they fail to co-operate with their initial agreement.

Terry Simpson hadn’t paid this month, not even an amount that would satisfy as a reduced payment. In fact he’d told the regular collector that he wasn’t making any future payments at all because he’d already paid more than originally agreed and was being robbed. Tell Nash he’s getting no more from me, goodbye. So now he had to be scared into finding the funds in future and maybe lose a few belongings in the process. He would’ve been told to expect a visit and at roughly what time. Evening visits were done first as most people were at home in the evening. If Simpson chose to be out, the next visit would be early morning, before seven o’clock. If there was still no answer then the third visit would be in the middle of the night, and there wouldn’t be a knock at the door. Instead, he’d wake up to find a couple of large, dark figures hovering over his bed. If Simpson had any sense, he’d be inside right now ready to sort this mess out one way or another. Hiding wasn’t an option.

Mike Nash always found you in the end.

Riley knocked on the front door and then checked behind him.

The street was empty. Even Howden inside the Merc was hidden from this angle because of the shimmer from the dying sun that dappled the windscreen with golden splodges. That was good. Riley wanted Simpson to think he was alone.

He turned back to the house on seeing movement out the corner of his eye.

A figure had just darted behind the curtains of an upstairs bedroom. A second later, the lock turned in the front door. Simpson couldn’t be in two places at once, and the regular collector had mentioned that the old guy lived alone after losing his wife. So who was in there with him now? It wouldn’t be the police, Riley reassured himself. They wouldn’t get involved with this at such an early stage. Plus Nash would’ve found out before now if Simpson had talked to them. No, whoever was in there wasn’t with the law. Which meant the situation had suddenly changed.

The front door opened and a man with thinning grey hair and reading glasses propped on his nose stepped outside - Terry Simpson himself, Riley guessed. He was short and very thin and his blue and white striped shirt and corduroy trousers hung off his skeletal frame.
He
certainly wasn’t going to be a problem. However, the person or persons upstairs might be. They certainly weren’t in there planning a surprise party.

“I take it you’re here for the money?” Simpson asked, taking in Riley’s size before looking at the paperwork in his hand. There was no emotion in his voice. His tone was flat, almost robotic, as if he’d rehearsed the phrase over and over and was bored with hearing himself say it.

“If you’re Mr Simpson,” Riley said, “then yes, I am.”

Simpson stepped out onto the path and looked in both directions along the street. Saw the street was empty and couldn’t see inside the Merc, Riley hoped. Then he gestured with his head for Riley to follow him inside. Riley did so, but knew something wasn’t right here. Someone else was in the house. Upstairs. And little old Mr Simpson didn’t seem in a panic because he couldn’t pay, nor was he reaching for a wad of notes with relief at getting this over with. It was as if he was strolling back to his armchair to finish his crossword after being disturbed by nothing more frightening than  a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses brandishing a copy of the Watchtower.

Riley closed the front door behind him, locked it, glanced around the hallway and up the stairs and then followed Simpson through a door to his left. The sitting room was rectangular in shape, and the sofa and two armchairs nearly filled the entire space. There was a television in one corner that was switched off and a cabinet containing a few ornaments in another. The walls were papered with a flower design that was probably in fashion in the eighties. The ceiling and skirting could use a touch of fresh gloss and the carpet looked well worn by a million footsteps. The place really could use brightening up but Riley doubted that decorating was on the top of Mr Simpson’s to-do list right now.

Simpson didn’t sit down, nor did he offer Riley a seat. Instead he stood with his back to the fireplace and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Riley stopped in front of him, his body slightly angled to the left. A perfect position.

Behind him, on either side of the room, were two doors; one that they’d just come through and another that led to what was probably the kitchen. Two means of access. He could see the one that led to the kitchen on the periphery of his vision. The one behind him was reflected perfectly in the window at the back of the room. He was ready.

“Have you got the money?” he asked, cutting to the chase. He tried not to show it on his face when he heard a creak of an upstairs floorboard. It was ever so slight and he only heard it because he’d been listening for it.

“I told the regular man that I can’t pay,” Simpson said defiantly, appearing not to have heard the noise or pretending not to. “I’ve already paid double what I borrowed and I’m not paying any more.”

“Are you sure about that?” Riley said as he heard another creak, this time slightly louder than the last. Maybe on the stairs this time. “Because then we’ll have a big problem.”

“Well... tough,” Simpson said and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I can’t pay. Simple as that.”

A noise from the hall.

A shuffle of feet, ever so slight.

Another groan from an old floorboard.

Riley checked the reflection in the window before flicking his eyes in the direction of the kitchen. Both doors were still closed, but he knew they wouldn’t remain that way for long.

“Why did you invite me in if you can’t pay?” he asked.

“Because I didn’t want to do this on my doorstep where the neighbours might see.” Simpson’s voice remained flat, but the little twitch affecting his lower lip showed he was nervous. Then his eyes flicked briefly to the door to the hall and then back to Riley. A dead give away. “I want to make the message clear. I’m not afraid of you and definitely not afraid of your thug boss. I’m not paying anymore. Mike Nash has gotten his last penny from me.”

Time to see where this is going,
Riley thought.

He dropped the paperwork to the floor and balled his hands into fists for effect.

“Well, Mr Simpson,” he said, as menacingly as he could. “You know what has to happen now, don’t you?”

That’s when the opening door reflected in the window.

That’s when a dark shape burst into the room and heavy footsteps pounded the carpet behind Riley.

And that’s when Riley looked into Simpson’s eyes and shook his head.

You silly old fool
.
I was gonna do you a favour.