As Ginge dragged him, the boy’s face scraped along the ground. The jagged surface made his teeth chatter. Every few meters, he spat mouthfuls of thick blood.
Watching this stimulated a rush of hot saliva that George swallowed. It had a metallic quality to it as if his own mouth was bleeding.
The first genuine smile since they’d returned lit Dean’s face. It turned his dark eyes bright as he watched the boy getting taken to the tower block. Waiting for Ginge and Freddie to vanish into the building, he then turned around and clapped his hands together. “Right lads, you’re free until tomorrow.” Looking over at George, he said, “You’d best get some rest though, big man. You’re on guard duty tonight, and I think our routine is taking its toll on you. Something seems to have got stuck in your thick head, and it’s making you cranky. Maybe some time alone will calm you down. Ravi, Naps, you’re both on too.”
Looking down at the unconscious Naps, his trousers soaked with piss, George then glared at Dean as he followed Ginge into the tower block. Squeezing the can to the point where his hand hurt, he watched the swing door close behind him and muttered, “Cunt.”
Final Straw
“Cunt!” George spat as he paced the length of his flat with his fists balled and his large shoulders locked tight. “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!”
Walking into the kitchen, he shouted, “Cunt!” There was a hint of an echo as the edges of his accusation slipped out into the communal hallway.
Staring at the front door, George shrugged. “Let him fucking hear.” Opening it, the smell of bleach rushing in, George screamed so loud his throat hurt. “Cunt!”
Slamming the door shut afterwards, he stood behind it and waited.
After what must have been about fifteen minutes of standing and staring at the door, George leant his back against the wall and slid down it. Dropping his head into his hands, he looked at the floor. What was he doing here? What did staying with this bunch of degenerates achieve? He needed a plan.
Standing up again, he pulled one of the kitchen drawers open. Despite the night creeping in, there was still enough light to catch the glint of the blade. It may have only been a bread knife, but it was long and sharp and would make light work of a soft stomach. He placed it next to the sink.
Returning to the drawer, he pulled out every sharp implement he could find and stacked them on the side. A bottle of water sat next to the pile he was creating. Looking at it made him aware of the film of dirt on his hands. Other than the occasional splash of urine, they hadn’t seen liquid since he’d taken the man’s life over a week ago. Holding his hands out in front of him, the nails filthy, he carried on. He would only clean them when he knew the killing was done.
Grabbing the broom from next to the front door, he stood on the head and yanked hard. The handle came free. Fishing through his pile of knives, he picked one with a small and straight blade and started whittling the end into a point.
As he chipped away at the broom handle, flakes of wood falling to the floor, George thought about the cupboard in the hall. It had previously held no interest for him, but now a toolbox was exactly what he needed. He set the broom handle down.
Dropping the heavy metal box on the kitchen floor with a crash, he flipped the lid open. It stank of oil. Pulling a hammer out, he then retrieved a hacksaw, pliers, and a long screwdriver. Each one was weighted just right for their particular job. Stabbing, cracking, smashing, cutting. All he needed now was a sledgehammer to knock the cunt’s door in.
Lifting the pliers again, George stretched them as wide as they would open. The pivot was gritty from lack of use, but they still worked. Fingers would fit in easily. Dean’s big toes would be the only things that were too large. The hacksaw would have to deal with them. Unless he found some bolt cutters, that is. The thought made the muscles in George’s hands weak, but he would do whatever it took to get his sister back. When he snapped the pliers shut, they made a satisfying click.
Stopping suddenly, George looked up. There was a creaking sound from outside. Someone was leaving their flat. Tiptoeing over to his front door, he pressed his ear to the cold wood and listened.
“What are you doing, dear?” It was Ravi’s mum.
The pause seemed to last a lifetime. “Um, I’m going out, Mum. I want to see if I can get us some more food.”
Shaking his head, George whispered, “Lying little shit.”
It had nothing to do with timing and everything to do with luck when George popped his door open at exactly the same time as Ravi clicked his shut. The silent hallway would have given him away for sure if it wasn’t for that stroke of fortune.
When the bleach hit him again, George stumbled backwards and rubbed his nose to try and counter the burn. Having not noticed the first time he looked out, George saw the floor was glistening again. The line of blood left from dragging Freddie up the stairs was just a memory now.
Thinking of the stacks of bleach in the downstairs cleaning cupboard, George made a mental note to take some. Plonking Dean in a vat of the stuff would surely loosen his tongue.
Standing in the thick aroma, George listened to the slap of Ravi’s feet against the stairs. When he felt the rush of wind that signalled the outside door being opened, George pulled his own door closed and followed the boy.
Ravi was already out of sight by the time George got outside. The sky was dark blue as the night closed in, but it was still too light for George to tail the boy. He would have to go to the supermarket and hope for the best.
As George slipped out of the complex, he caught Liz’s eye. Swallowing against the smoky air, George turned his back on her and rushed out into the city. There wasn’t long left before nightfall.
Nestled between the kid’s toys and the audio visual section gave George plenty of things to hide behind. He was close enough to hear their conversation but far enough away to be able to escape quickly should he need to. As George listened to the pair, he kept an eye on the fading light. London was a different beast in the evening, and they had to be back for their night shift.
Throwing a flippant arm in the air, the hoodie stepped forwards into Ravi’s personal space. “What’s happened to him?”
“I don’t know, bruv. He’s fine.” He paused. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
“You don’t sound very fucking sure.”
Running a hand through his hair, Ravi looked up at the taller boy. “They tied him up.”
“They what?!”
“They tied him up and threw him in the truck. Then they dragged him into the tower block when we got back.”
Leaning down so their foreheads were touching, the hoodie growled, “You weren’t supposed to take him, bruv.”
George’s heart exploded at the loud crash from Ravi stepping back into the shelves behind him.
After looking around, Ravi dropped his voice to a near whisper, “What do you want me to do? Fight Dean? Besides, we wouldn’t have taken him if he wasn’t so stupid to have been caught.”
George didn’t see the hoodie move, but he saw the knife now pressed against Ravi’s throat. “Say that again. I fucking dare ya.”
Raising his hands, ever the submissive, Ravi said, “I’m on your side, man. Don’t you think that if I wasn’t then I would have led Dean straight to you by now?”
Pulling away, the hoodie slipped his knife back inside his coat. “This is fucked, bruv. We need to get Freddie back.”
“And we will.”
“When?”
“Soon. Trust me.”
Shaking his head, the hoodie pointed at Ravi. “I’m not very comfortable trusting you.”