Jack Howarth knelt down between the policewoman and the boy. He smiled in the darkness. As much as he would love to play with the black woman, the boy would fetch a pretty penny on the internet market. Once he was safely away from the police, he would set up business again. It was time to go back to his roots. It was time to become the Child Taker again. The police were scratching about inside number 44, and a muffled scream told him that they were beginning to move things away from the walls. It wouldn’t take them long to find his boltholes, and then the fun would really begin. They would be busy for hours. The time to move was here.
The woman was comatose and the boy was well away, too. He shined his torch into the boy’s face. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and his cheeks looked sunken. He was dehydrated. “Poor boy needs a drink,” Jack smiled. He reached for a bottle of water and twisted off the top before taking a long swig of the cooling liquid himself. The woman twitched and Jack stopped smiling. He slapped her face with the back of his hand, but she didn’t respond. He had bound her hands behind her, and the restraints pushed her breasts outward. He felt her right breast with his hand and squeezed it hard. There was no reaction on her face. The nipple pressed at the material of her woollen jumper, and he pinched it between his finger and thumb, turning it forty-five degrees. He leaned over and licked her face, running his tongue across her cheek and her lips. She smelled of designer perfume, but he couldn’t tell which one. The woman didn’t budge. Jack lost interest and reached for the boy. He pulled his legs toward him and felt for the gag fastened at the back of his skull. Jack pulled the gag down from his face and let it fall loosely around the boy’s neck. He lifted the bottle to his lips and allowed the water to dribble into his mouth. It ran down his cheeks onto the floor. The boy moved and coughed as the liquid reached the back of his throat. His eyes flickered and opened.
“Drink this,” Jack said. His voice was soft and comforting, as if a father was talking to his thirsty son. “Drink it slowly, because your throat will be dry.”
The boy gulped at the liquid and swallowed half the bottle too quickly. He gagged, and the water hurtled back up from his gullet along with thick yellow bile. Jack jumped upwards and backwards at the same time to avoid the stinking vomit. He dropped the torch and scrambled about trying to reclaim it quickly.
“Dirty boy!” he hissed. The boy retched again and began to cry hysterically. He was drugged, frightened and choking. His sobs echoed around the cellar and the retching noise sounded loud in the darkness. “Shut up, you little bastard!” Jack reached for the gag, but warm sticky vomit covered it and he recoiled at the touch. “Dirty boy,” Jack hissed again. “Shut the fuck up or I’ll choke you myself.”
The boy was coming round and his sobs had been getting louder until Jack shouted at him. When he heard the nasty man threatening him, he tried desperately to stop sobbing, but the retching was involuntary, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. The memories of what the man had done to his father and the woman were fresh in his mind. So was the smell of their blood. There had been so much blood, and the sound of their screams replayed in his head. He was terrified, and if the nasty man said shut up, then he had to shut up. Another mouthful of puke gushed from his stomach, and the acid was burning the tender tissue at the back of his nose. His eyes streamed with stinging tears. Mucus dribbled from both nostrils and vomit hung from his chin like a string of melted cheese.
Kisha listened and waited. She opened her eyes but squinted, so that her attacker wouldn’t see them move. Patrick Floyd was hopping about with the torch and the boy was sitting up, vomiting from every orifice on his face. He was crying hysterically and every time he sobbed, he sounded like he was going to choke to death. The noise was getting louder. Patrick snarled at the boy, and he tried desperately to stop making a racket, but Kisha didn’t want him to stop making a noise, in fact she needed him to make as much noise as possible, because he was the only one with the gag removed. She had to decide if there was anyone within earshot before making a decision. The simple fact was that she didn’t have any choice. She rolled on her back and lifted her feet as high in the air as she could. Patrick Floyd caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his attention to Kisha. There was a confused expression on his face as she brought her feet down as hard as she could on the young boy’s spindly legs. Her heels connected with the boy’s knees and the powerful impact smashed them into the stone floor beneath them. His kneecap splintered into four pieces and his femur snapped above the knee joint. The boy screamed like a banshee. It was the kind of high-pitched scream only a child could make. It was the worst noise that Kisha had ever heard in her life, but it didn’t stop her raising her legs again. She swung them upwards as high as her muscles would allow and then smashed her heels into the boy’s shattered bones once more. The boy’s frantic screams reached a new high before Patrick Floyd jumped on her.
Leon squeezed the sesame seed bun together with his fat fingers and Big Mac sauce splurged onto his chubby digits. A tear shaped blob clung to one of the four gold sovereigns he wore. He licked it off, took a huge bite from the sandwich and chewed it with his mouth open. He washed it down with a mouthful of full-fat Coke. “It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” Leon sprayed coke as he spoke.
“Yes, it’s warm,” a hoodlum called Gareth agreed. “How did it go down south?”
“It went good.” Leon wiped his mouth with a fistful of napkins. “Today is just the start, Gar, I’m telling you now that today is just the start. We are going to cream it in, my friend.”
“Nice on, mate, don’t forget me when you’re raking it in,” Gareth laughed and took a bite of his quarter pounder. “Don’t forget me and Monkey, whatever you do!”
“We’re all on this bus together, Gar, all of us.” Leon made a circular motion with his fingers. “Has anyone heard anything from Jackson?” Leon’s face became serious again. His jowls hung loosely from his chin.
“Nothing, mate, but the Dibble were all over his gaff yesterday. I made out that I was knocking on the flat next door and had a good nosey at his place on the way past. It looks like he’s been turned over,” Gareth explained. “Do you think he’s done a runner or been nicked?”
“I would know if he’d been nicked,” Leon frowned, and his fat cheeks wobbled when he shook his head. “And he hasn’t got the bottle to do a runner from me. I’ve always looked after my boys, anyway.” He couldn’t go into the hit on Jinx. Not with Gareth, because he wasn’t far enough up the chain yet. “What time did Deano say he would be here?” he asked. Bread and meat sprayed from his mouth as he spoke. His Ed Hardy watch glistened with diamonds as he checked the time.
“He said eleven,” Monkey replied. It came out as ‘Hesh shaid elevensh’. A brain injury incurred in an illegal boxing match made his speech slurred. His real name was Mickey, but his pronunciation of it sounded like ‘Monkey’, and so the name had stuck. He tried to say, “I heard his kids aren’t too good.” It came out as ‘I hearsh his kidsh aren’t too goosh.’
“Yes, they are sick, real sick. Get me another Big Mac and fries, Monkey.” Leon tossed a twenty-pound note onto the table. “Oh, and a large chocolate milkshake, do you want one?”
Monkey rolled his eyes to the ceiling and frowned. He was used to Leon telling him what to do, but the thought of ordering a milkshake with his speech impediment was daunting. He slid out of the booth and swaggered over to the counter. His black shell suit rustled as he walked. There was a queue at the till, and the lone crewmember was struggling to cope. Monkey noticed that the manager was dealing with a complaint at the drive thru window, and the distraction had caused the front counter service to grind to a halt. Monkey shuffled impatiently from foot to foot, looking down at his sky-blue high-tops nervously. He liked working for Leon, but it always made him nervous, and when he became nervous, his bowels cried out. He could feel his guts cramping and gurgling. His urge to use the toilet was growing stronger by the minute.
Leon had munched his way through his meal, but he was still hungry. “Monkey,” he shouted impatiently. “What’s happening?”
“Fuck knows.” Monkey shrugged. “I need to visit Trevor,” he slurred.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Leon growled. He drained the dregs of the coke noisily from the cup. “Who the fuck is Trevor?”
“I need to visit Trevor, you know what I mean,” Monkey said in a hushed slur.
“I haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re talking about, Monkey.” Leon glared at him. “Who is Trevor?”
Gareth laughed aloud and slapped the table with his hand, “Ha, hilarious, fucking hilarious!”
“What’s so funny?” Leon was paranoid. Gareth was laughing at him. “Who the fuck is Trevor?”
“His family all say that, mate.” Gareth sensed that his boss was edgy. “He wants to have a shit.”
“Are you kidding me?” Leon laughed.
“No way, Leon, I was at his one day and his mum said, ‘where’s Dad?’ Monkey said, ‘he’s gone to see Trevor.’ Then she said, ‘He spends more time on the shitter than he does with me.’ I spat my tea all over the living room!”
“Go and see Trevor, Monkey,” Leon laughed. “I don’t want you shitting your pants today, mate!” His man boobs shook visibly beneath his Ralph Lauren sweatshirt. The material was stretched to breaking point over his belly. Monkey put the twenty-pound note back on the table and headed toward the toilet corridor, embarrassed into silence. He could hear Leon cursing at him as he opened the door. A miserable-looking woman in her fifties opened the fire door which led to the restaurant’s backups, wedging the door open with a red fire extinguisher so that she could carry an armful of balloons through to the dining area. She smelled of cheap perfume and bleach. The doors to the ladies and gents were on the left. The open fire door was directly in front of him, and the disabled toilet was on the right. Monkey always used the disabled toilets when he went to McDonalds, because there was more room and a little more privacy. He pulled the sliding door open, stepped inside and slid it closed behind him. He twisted the handle ninety degrees and the door locked. Someone had left a copy of the Daily Star on top of the sanitary bin, and he smiled as he undid his belt. He glanced at the front page whilst he unzipped his tracksuit bottoms and he wiggled his podgy hips so that he could pull them down. He sat down and began reading yesterday’s news, sighing loudly as the digested ingredients of last night’s vindaloo splattered against the porcelain.
As Monkey emptied his lower intestine, Dean Hines parked his Ford in the restaurant’s car park and turned the engine off. He could see Leon’s massive shape through the window of the store. His blood began to boil as he opened the door and climbed out of the car. “Leon, you fat tosser!” he shouted across the lot toward the store. “You lazy fat fuck. My kids are in hospital and you’re feeding your fat fucking face. I don’t believe you, you useless fat chuffer!”
His boss was oblivious to the abuse. He was making a call and hadn’t noticed Dean arrive. Dean started toward the restaurant in a rage, when the deafening honk of an articulated lorry claxon snapped him back to reality. A McDonald’s delivery truck trundled past him and nearly ran over his feet. He jumped back and waited for it to pass.
Nate Bradley watched Monkey head toward the toilets as the articulated vehicle manoeuvred into the delivery bay. Leon Tanner had his huge back leaning against the window and he could see Dean Hines heading into the restaurant. A third gangster whom he didn’t recognise was eating a burger opposite his boss. Dean didn’t look happy as he opened the dining area door and marched into the restaurant. The back gates of the store opened and two members of staff began dragging empty delivery cages across the drive thru lane toward the lorry. There were a dozen stacks of bun trays stood next to the curb where the wagon stopped. The driver jumped down from the cab and pulled on his safety gloves. He handed the crewmembers the delivery notes and walked to the back of the lorry mumbling something that Nate couldn’t hear. As he glanced back into the restaurant, he could see Dean Hines and Leon arguing. Dean was standing next to the booth, pointing his index finger toward Leon in a stabbing motion. Leon was laughing, which seemed to be infuriating Dean further. Nate made a snap decision to even up the numbers whilst they were busy arguing. He checked his pistol. It was a Walther P22 fitted with a polymer silencer. One click released the ten-bullet magazine, and although he had checked it five times that morning, he checked it again before sliding it into the pistol ready for use. He climbed out of the car and headed unnoticed through the open wooden gates at the back of the store.
The boy’s screams were deafening. Kisha felt the air crushed from her lungs as Patrick Floyd jumped on her chest. His knees rammed into her diaphragm, forcing the breath from her body. “You fucking bitch!” he yelled. “Do you think you’re clever, do you?” She felt his fist smash into her mouth. The gag forced her lips over her teeth and his knuckles split the tender flesh against them. Her front teeth snapped at the root and the exposed nerves seared white-hot. She felt blood running into her mouth. A second blow slammed into her broken nose. She saw lightning flashing across her mind and blinding bolts of pain stunned her brain. The attack was relentless, and he hammered her face and head with both hands. She could hear him screeching like an animal and as each blow struck, her grip on consciousness waned. A fierce blow split the baggy flesh above her left eye and warm blood ran down her face. Another punch hit the eyeball so hard that she thought it had exploded. The punches stopped for a second as her mind drifted away from the brutal onslaught. She felt that she was going to die. Strong hands grabbed her face and his nails dug deep into the flesh on her cheeks. She felt him leaning over, coming closer to her face. She could smell his putrid breath and feel its warmth on her skin. The boy’s screams reached fever pitch and mingled with his as Patrick’s teeth closed around her nose. She wasn’t sure what was happening until he clamped his teeth together in a powerful bite. He shook his head like a rabid dog attacking a rabbit. She felt her skin and gristle tearing as he bit down hard. His teeth cut through the flesh easily, and he twisted his head violently back and to until her nose was ripped from her face. Blood and mucus trickled into her eyes. The pain was incredible. He spat her mangled nose at her face and she felt it slop against her forehead and then slide off onto the floor.
“How funny is that, Bitch?” he yelled. “Hey, how funny is that?” He punched her bloodied face again and then yanked her head toward him. His forehead connected with the gaping hole in the middle of her face, and the sickening thud echoed across the cellar. Her body couldn’t endure anymore, and as he twisted her head to one side and bit into her left ear, her mind shut down completely.