The Auctioneer wasn’t moving either. Good. Served him right.
Someone shifted on Stan’s left: Rabbit. Raising himself up off the straw a couple of inches, mask fixed towards the copper. Then further. And further. And finally he was sitting up, the long white ears wobbling.
Nothing happened. No threat. No gunshot. Nothing.
Rabbit eased himself to his feet and crept towards the main door, pausing to nudge Snake with his foot on the way past. She got up and sneaked out too, followed by Tiger and Ox and Rat and Horse, and soon everyone was tiptoeing their way to freedom.
Stan picked himself up and crept across the cattle court, following Number One through the door and into the night.
Rain misted down, glowing in the farm lights. Making everything look slick and yellow, like it was infected.
They gathered in a clump by the door.
Number Two poked his head back into the cattle court, then out again. ‘I think they’re dead. Do you think they’re dead?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Number One paced away a couple of steps. ‘If they’re not now, they soon will be.’ He pulled a Zippo lighter from his pocket. Flicked the lid open and thumbed the wheel, setting up a wee shower of sparks that turned into a wobbly flame. ‘Going to be DNA and all sorts in there.’
Snake marched over and poked him in the chest. Voice all hoity-toity, and sharp. ‘I want my clients’ money back, this auction has been a farce!’
‘Calm, OK?’ Number Three shook his masked head. ‘Nobody’s getting their money back till we’re out of here.’
‘Excuse me?’ Pig put his hand up. ‘Can I have my car keys, please? I’d really like to go home now.’
Snake squared off with Number One. ‘Do I need to remind you that the people I work for—’
Number One’s left hook caught Snake right across the jaw, sending her sprawling. He stood over her, flexing his fist. ‘You want to hang around counting silver till the police get here? Be my guest. The rest of us are torching this place and leaving.’
Pig put his hand up again. ‘So: car keys?’
‘You want some too?’ Number One shook his fist under Pig’s snout.
‘I wasn’t... Sorry.’ Backing away.
‘Didn’t think so.’ He pointed at Number Two. ‘Two: give everyone their car keys and phones. Three: there’s a can of petrol in the boot of the Range Rover, you and Seven...’ He did a quick three-sixty where he stood. ‘Where’s Seven? SEVEN!’
Rat shuddered. ‘Leaving the sinking ship...’
‘Fine. Three and Four: get the petrol splashed around. I want this place up in flames now!’
Stan checked his watch. How long was that, twenty minutes? ‘We’ve really got to get out of here. The cops’ll be on their way.’
‘Then get your finger out and do as you’re told!’
Stan followed the long line of cars, lurching their way down the track. A dense cluster of tail-lights, glowing red into the distance. Still no sign of flashing blue-and-white coming over the hills to cart them all away. Not yet anyway.
His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror.
Flames danced in the open doorway of the cattle court as the damp straw smouldered, then caught. Spreading. The cottage was burning too — and a damn sight faster than the cattle court — sending gouts of orange and yellow roaring up into the drizzly sky. Illuminating the Auctioneer’s Range Rover and Number Five’s filthy four-by-four with the big dog going mental in the boot.
The line of cars reached the junction, each one turning off in the opposite direction to the last: under strict instructions to do the same thing at every junction they came to — one left, one right — dispersing out into the night, to go home and wait for a text about the money.
To wait for a text and hope the cops didn’t come knocking.
Stan tightened his grip on the steering wheel, the pear-drops-and-vinegar scent of unleaded wafting up from his gloved hands. They wouldn’t come. He was safe. That was the point of all the masks and anonymous texts and never using your real name. Even if the cops did manage to pick someone up, they couldn’t inform on anyone else. The only person who knew who they all were was lying dead on the cattle-court floor, with a bullet in his guts. Burning away right now in their DIY crematorium as the flames got rid of the evidence.
And, yes, it was a shame about the dead police officer, but it was too late to worry about that now.
‘Mmmnnnph...’ Warm. Really lovely and warm. For a change.
The world strobed into life, between his heavy eyelids. Cattle court. Yes. He was in a cattle court on a farm somewhere out in the middle of nowhere.
Tired, though. Really, really tired.
Logan frowned.
The floor smouldered, dancing wisps of steam and smoke swirling around each other as they waltzed towards the metal roof.
Over by the main door a stack of hay and a pile of pallets was surrounded by flames. Then a whoomp as one of the wrapped bales went up.
Oh.
Great.
And all the scumbags in the masks were gone too.
Come on: up. On your feet.
Logan dug his heels into the damp straw underneath him... and toppled sideways, in a slow arc, until he was lying on it.
Closed his eyes.
At least he wasn’t cold any more.
Gah! Roberta stumbled on, torch held out in front of her, the other hand clasping a slightly scabby hanky over her nose and mouth. The air in here was solid with smoke. Bitter, dark, greasy smoke that reeked of burning straw, wood, and plastic.
Her torch barely slid through it, making sod-all difference to the complete lack of visibility. All it did was light up more bloody smoke.
A voice bellowed from somewhere outside. ‘GET OUT OF THERE! IT’S NOT SAFE!’
Aye, right.
She kept going, coughing and hacking. What was the point of giving up fags? Probably inhaled about six months’ worth in the last three minutes.
The vast yellow bulk of a combine harvester loomed out of the smoke, its big rotating spiky bits the only things in focus, the rest of it hiding in the billowing darkness.
She hacked up half a lung and staggered around the side.
‘SERGEANT STEEL, DON’T BE AN IDIOT!’
Blah, blah, blah.
Bit late to stop now, wasn’t it? Habit of a lifetime and all that.
Where the goat-buggering hell was—
‘Aaaargh!’ Something tripped her up and Roberta went sprawling, needles slashing at her palms as she hit the concrete. The torch skittered away, spinning across the ground, getting smaller as its beam lighthoused around and around.
She struggled to her knees and crawled after it. Grabbed the thing. Hacked and rattled the other half-lung up.
Great. She’d dropped her hanky.
‘CAN YOU HEAR ME? GET OUT BEFORE YOU KILL YOURSELF!’
Aye, maybe he had a point.
She raised her other arm, burying her nose and mouth in the bend of her elbow. Swung the torch round to see what she’d tripped over...
Bloody hell.
It was a leg. A human leg. And it was attached to an ugly wee man — all trussed up and unconscious. Cable tied to the combine’s steps. Broken nose. The bottom half of his face stained dark red. A strip of duct tape wrapped about his bonce.
Roberta shuffled over and felt for a pulse...
Yup: still alive. For now.
She swung the torch through the smoke again.