Mops, brushes, and buckets fell to the floor all around him, along with brand-named containers like Flash and CIF Cleaner. As he was about to move, one struck the corner of his eye. He lost his temper and yelled an obscenity.
“Are you okay in there?” shouted Richard Jones from the shop doorway.
Gary allowed the dust to settle before he quickly found his feet, desperate to keep the man from entering.
“I’m fine, but don’t come in. It could be a crime scene.”
As he glanced around, he realized what had caused him to react like a tit: the appearance of his own reflection in a mirror.
Disgusted with himself, he straightened his uniform and ran his hands up and down his body, clearing the wood shavings from his clothes.
Once he’d calmed down, Gary approached the counter. As he glanced down, he saw an A4 sized piece of paper. He could make out writing. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his mobile, using it as a torch. He read a message.
Time to play a game
The clock is ticking
But time’s not on your side
And neither am I
What are you waiting for?
Gary hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on, or whether or not any of what he’d seen was serious. It could be an elaborate prank.
What happened next removed those thoughts. Gary jumped as an old-fashioned monitor on the countertop to his right came to life. What he saw caused his stomach to swell.
He grabbed his police radio and contacted Cragg.
Chapter Six
For Alex Wilson, a number of things happened in rapid succession. A wave of pain coursed through him like an express train, so severe and so shocking that the end result was a loss of control of his bodily functions.
As he fought for composure, he realized something else. He must have been naked, because although he could smell what he’d done, he didn’t feel anything clinging to his body.
With that thought, Alex felt a chill. There was no wind, no draught, but he was still cold.
He came to the conclusion that whatever predicament he was in had nothing to do with Lance Hobson. So maybe it was a rival gang. Perhaps someone had muscled in on his turf, tried to take the drug trade away from them. Happened all the time.
Maybe they had Lance Hobson as well.
Above his head he heard a crashing sound, followed by a bang and a clattering before one final thump sounded out, as if something had fallen onto the floor.
Why? Who was up there? What was up there? Where the fuck was he? A box? A container? Was he in a room, or a cellar?
Alex raised his head, and lots of light suddenly bathed the space he was in. He winced, the pain too much to bear momentarily, blinking furiously a few times his vision finally focused.
The room he was in was long and angular. The bricks were old, but in good condition. The building did not have any damp. It was full of boxes, trade names he recognized: Stanley, Draper, Spear & Jackson.
He realised why the smell had been familiar. He glanced upwards and saw a trapdoor, with steps leading down into the cellar he was in. He was underneath his uncle’s shop, the hardware store in the town.
Why? What was happening? Who had put him here?
His uncle wasn’t capable and would have no reason to. He doubted it was Lance, and he couldn’t think of anyone else who could have done so.
Checking to see if he was, in fact, naked, he was shocked at what had been done to his body.
He had his back to the wall. He noticed he was not standing on the floor, but supported a foot or so above it, crucifixion style. He glanced slowly at his hands and feet, or at least as much as his head would allow from the angle he was at. Each limb had the head of a huge screw protruding from its appendage, and lines of blood trailing to the concrete below him, intermingling with his own waste. That was why he had been allowed a little movement from his arms and legs, but not his hands and feet. He also noticed two plain white envelopes a few inches above each hand.