Numb: A Dark Thriller (3 page)

3

Riley turned to face the figure racing at him and assessed the danger in a split second.

The man was about six-foot tall, was broad shouldered and moved swiftly on powerful looking legs - enough to suggest that he could handle himself in a tussle. He was dressed head to toe in black, his face covered by a balaclava so that only his eyes and mouth were visible, but it was the look in those eyes and the snarl of that mouth that told Riley that this man, whoever he was, intended to use the wooden cosh that was raised above his head and that it wasn’t just there to intimidate the enemy.

But then Riley wasn’t here to be intimidated, he was here to do a job, and that job had now changed. He’d come to collect a simple debt. Now he was in danger of leaving with a fractured skull.

Working for Mike Nash was certainly more eventful than nine ‘til five in an office, at least!

Instead of backing away, Riley stepped forward, his fists held out in front of him.

The man coming at him stopped in his tracks and Riley saw confusion flicker in his eyes. He obviously hadn’t expected this. He’d expected Riley to panic and back off. His plan hadn’t worked out and he now had to think on his feet, and if you weren’t used to this sort of situation then having to think on your feet led to panic. And panic led to mistakes.

Mistake one occurred when the man swung the cosh without getting close enough to his target – which appeared to be Riley’s head - and he missed completely as Riley dodged away and repositioned himself to the side of his attacker. The man’s second and biggest mistake was that after failing with his first assault he took too long to regain his composure and launch another. This gave Riley the chance to ram his forehead into the balaclava clad face, knocking his attacker off balance, and it also gave him the chance to wrestle the cosh out of the man’s hands as he stumbled backwards, obviously hurt. A good hit to the nose was as disabling as a good hit to the nuts. His eyes would water. His head would pound. His thoughts would fog. But after Riley swung the cosh sideways and slammed it against the side of the man’s right knee, the sound like that of a cricket bat on a cork ball going for a six, and after the man’s leg bowed inwards and he collapsed to the floor screaming, Riley guessed the blow to his nose wouldn’t bother him so much anymore.

“No, stop!” Mr Simpson yelled. “Please...”

Then there was another voice, filling the room expletives.

“Fucking bastard!”

Riley turned and saw a second figure coming at him from the doorway to the kitchen. He was dressed identically to the one rolling on the floor clutching his shattered kneecap and had obviously been hiding out there waiting for his mate to make the first move. Maybe if he hadn’t shouted then he might have been able to spring a surprise attack and catch Riley with his back turned. Fucking amateur. Some people just didn’t have a clue when it came to fighting.

This time the weapon was a crowbar, but because his companion hadn’t fared well in the previous attack this one seemed less confident to rush in. Instead, he edged forward gingerly, seeming unsure whether to attack, stand back and defend himself or leg it the hell out of here.

Riley wasn’t so slow to make up
his
mind and marched forward. Sometimes the best form of self-defence was attack. Take the opponent by surprise by showing no fear.

Before he’d gotten halfway the man hurled the crowbar forward. It missed Riley’s head by no more than six inches and slammed into the far wall, chipping the wallpaper and dislodging a painting of a vase and some flowers. Riley didn’t miss, and as the man turned to run the cosh caught him on the right shoulder.

He yelped in pain, the blow spinning him around to face Riley, who quickly repositioned himself for a head shot. He raised the weapon and then thought twice about using it. He had no intention of killing anyone, not even in self defence, and a blow to head could spell the end for this guy. So he dropped it and instead chose to smash his fist into the balaclava, right where he guessed the man’s nose was, once, twice... and then a third time in rapid succession. Two seconds later the man was on the floor, out cold. He would probably come round in a minute or so and wonder what the hell had happened, but apart from a pulped nose and maybe a few loose teeth, there wouldn’t be any permanent damage and so should count himself lucky.

Riley then turned on Terry Simpson who was standing with his mouth hanging open, frozen on the spot in front of the fireplace.

“You stupid old fucker! What the Hell was that about?”

“I... I wanted to-”

Riley didn’t let Simpson finish. He grabbed him by his shirt collar and dragged him closer so that their faces were only inches apart.

“You what? Wanted to teach me a lesson? Smash my brains in? Are you for fucking real? I’m not some troublesome salesman who won’t take no for an answer, and Mike Nash isn’t the sort of bloke who takes kindly to this sort of shit.”

“I don’t care!” Simpson yelled and when the tears followed, Riley released his grip on the older man who sank to his knees. “I don’t care. I just wanted it over... I just wanted it over...”

Riley’s adrenalin rush was soon replaced by a wave of guilt. The old guy was desperate, scared for his life. He couldn’t pay up and instead of running he’d decided to fight, like Howden had suggested. It was a stupid move but he couldn’t be blamed for trying.

“You can’t settle your debt this way,” Riley said, calmly. He looked at the screaming man clutching his knee. Then at the other whose eyes were now flickering and who was grunting like an injured pig. “So who’re the hired muscle?”

“My nephews,” Simpson said, getting to his feet and wiping his damp eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “Please don’t hurt them anymore.”

“I take it that all of this was their idea?”Simpson snorted back snot and nodded.

“They live in Liverpool,” he said. “I was over there a couple of weeks ago for a family party. After a few drinks I told them about the trouble I’ve been having with the repayments. They’d never heard of Mike Nash and they’re both big lads – rugby players - and they said they’d come over here and sort it. I tried to talk them out of it but they wouldn’t let it go. So when I heard you were going to pay me a visit today I called them. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“And what were you planning to do after taking me out?” Riley asked, genuinely interested in how Simpson thought he was going to get away with this. “Nash would just send more people here. Were you going to take them all on?”

“I didn’t want you hurt,” Simpson said. “Not if you were going to leave without starting anything. They were just going to threaten you. Scare you off. The plan was that after we dealt with the situation then I was to go back to Liverpool with them. I was going to move in with their mother, my younger sister. She has a spare room. She’s divorced and would like the company. This is a council house. I could just leave and Nash wouldn’t find me.”

“So why didn’t you just leave before I was due to come here?”

Simpson shook his head. He looked embarrassed.

“I wanted to, but my nephews were angry after I told them about the threats against me. I guess they wanted a little payback, even if it was just a verbal warning to leave me alone. You can understand that, can’t you?”

Riley didn’t answer. Instead he walked to the man with busted kneecap and pulled off the balaclava. He looked about twenty, twenty-one. Fair-haired and blue eyed. Probably only shaved once a month. He was a big lad but he still had the face of a kid. Blood was pooling from both nostrils and his nose was beginning to bruise. It looked broken but he didn’t seem too concerned about it.

“Please,” he said, clutching his leg. “My knee... call an ambulance...”

Riley put his finger to his lips and ordered the lad to be silent. Then he pulled out his mobile phone.

“What are you going to do?” Simpson asked, panicking.

“Be quiet,” Riley told him as he waited for the call to connect. Then, when Howden answered, he said, “Everything’s alright. Just getting the money now. Yeah, the bloke has it. Give me five minutes.” Then he hung up and put his phone back in his pocket.

“Why did you say that I had the money?” Simpson asked, confused.

“You owe three thousand, two hundred, Mr Simpson,” Riley said, picking up the paperwork he’d dropped earlier. “This has to be paid today or we’ll have to take a lower payment, maybe some belongings, and then interest will be charged and you’ll be even deeper in the shit.”Simpson sniffed his nose again and lowered his head.

“I told you that I don’t have anything,” he said, quietly. “So do what you have to do.”

Riley nodded. Yes, he would. He would overlook the little thing with the two nephews for starters. If the situation was reversed, and he found out an elderly relative was getting fleeced for everything he had, he’d have done the same thing. It shouldn’t be held against them – even if they had fucked it up.

“You got any alcohol in here, Mr Simpson?” he asked.

The question seemed to take the older man by surprise.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Booze,” Riley said. “Spirits, preferably.”

“There’s a bottle of cheap whisky in the cupboard behind you.”

“Cheap’s okay. It’s not for me.”

Riley found the bottle, unscrewed the top and handed it to the screaming, semi-crippled nephew. The other one still wasn’t fully awake yet and the only liquid he’d be able to handle would be through a drip.

“Drink as much as you can,” he said. “It’ll help the pain a little.”

The lad hesitated but eventually began to slurp down the amber fluid straight from the bottle. Riley then turned back to Simpson, put his hand in his inside pocket and pulled out a wad of cash totalling five grand.

“I’m going to offer you a deal,” he said. “You have two choices. The first is that I go back to my boss and tell him that you can’t pay and explain everything that’s happened here this afternoon. Then there will be consequences – I think you understand what I mean by that?”Simpson nodded as he wiped his damp eyes. “The second is that
I
pay Nash what you owe and you pay
me
back.”

Simpson looked like he was about to burst out laughing.

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” he said. “How will that help me? I can’t afford to pay Nash so how can I pay you?”

“How much can you afford a month?” Riley asked. “
Comfortably
afford a month?”

Simpson shrugged. Then said: “Two hundred, like agreed. I have a small private pension. I get a few benefits and help with the rent and council tax on this place. Yes, two hundred.”

“Right,” Riley said. “You pay two hundred month and the debt’s cleared in eighteen months.”“What about interest?”

“No interest. I’m doing you a favour. I pay Nash today and he’ll think you cleared your debt fair and square. He’ll not bother you again, I promise. Then I’ll stop by on the first of every month to collect my money and when it’s paid back you’ll not see me again either.”

Simpson stared at the money in Riley’s hands. The nephew with the fresh limp continued to drink. The other had rolled on his side and had started to groan and mumble like he had the world’s worst hangover.

“How do I know I can trust you?” Simpson finally asked.

“Look,” Riley said, wanting this over with. “I could call Nash now and tell him what’s gone on. Within half an hour ten of his men would be round here and you and your nephews would never be seen again and they’d take whatever they could from your house to get what you owe. But I don’t want that.” He separated three thousand two hundred in twenty pound notes from the bundle he held and showed them to Simpson. “So, what do you say?”

Simpson took a long breath. Then he glanced from one nephew to the other. And then he nodded.

“Good,” Riley said. “Got an envelope?”

“A what?”“An envelope – for the money. It’ll look better.”

“Yeah, I think I have one in one of the kitchen drawers.”

“Get it.”

A minute later, when Simpson returned from the kitchen with a small brown envelope, Riley wrote
PAID UP
in big letters across Simpson’s paperwork and bundled the cash inside the envelope. Receipts for the customer weren’t required.

“I’ll tell Nash you’re square.” Riley then looked at the two nephews. The one drinking was a little quieter now but his face was still contorted in pain. The other had pulled off his balaclava and was sitting up. His face was red with blood from his top lip to his chin and he was staring around like he didn’t know where he was. “As for them, have them finish off that whisky and then call an ambulance. Tell the paramedics they were drunk and had a scuffle and fell down the stairs. Don’t tell them what’s gone on here.”

“I won’t.”

“Make sure they stick to the story. If Nash finds out what’s gone on here he’ll be pissed. Then
I’ll
be pissed and pay you another visit.” An idle threat, but one that had to be made.

“They’ll stick to the story,” Simpson said. “I don’t think they’d want their mother to know the plan they had. She thought they were just coming to pick me up. She thought I just didn’t want to live on my own since Marie died. She didn’t know about the trouble or anything.”