Killing for Keeps

For Oli

May you always feel that tingle

T
he third blow sent Terry Allen crashing to the floor, striking his head on the toilet bowl on the way down. He blacked out. For how long, he couldn’t be sure. When he
came to, he didn’t know where he was, much less how he came to be there. It took a moment before he could focus, a moment longer to register what he was looking at: his broken watch stopped
at 01:34, spent tab ends, discarded condoms, gum, the odd dead insect, a flash of red – the sole of a high-heeled shoe.

Grant’s club was heaving as usual, the seedier side of what Newcastle had to offer on a Friday night. Thumping music kicked its way through the walls into the gents. Just feet away, a
punter was banging a local hooker up against the wall, too busy getting his end away to pay him any attention. There were some things worth turning a blind eye for. That tart for sure. She’d
sell her soul for a line of coke. Terry had been there himself when his lass was in a strop and he was consigned to the spare room.

The music stopped suddenly and with it the vibration through the floor. The punter shagging the whore withdrew. Shoving her away, he told her to get lost in a voice Terry thought he recognized
but couldn’t place. When she held out her hand for payment, the man cuffed her hard with the back of his hand, splitting her lip wide open. Giving him a mouthful, she got the same again, then
scooped up her bag and disappeared.

Zipping up his flies, the man turned, a smirk crossing his ugly face as his gaze fell on Terry.

Terry closed his eyes, felt his stomach lurch. Now he remembered how he’d ended up on the floor and why it was so important to get the hell out of there. But his left cheek was stuck fast
against cold tiles ingrained with muck. He was, quite literally, frozen to the spot, unable to summon the energy to fight. Despite an attempt to push them away, images scrolled through his mind,
striking terror into him: pliers, hammers, blowtorches and chainsaws . . .

Friday the thirteenth was about to live up to its reputation.

Startled by the sound of splashing water, he turned his head to see where it was coming from. Not quick enough. A size-ten boot pressed down on his neck – a warning to stay put. Terry
complied, senses on high alert. Then it began, as he knew it would, a blow to the back, delivered with such ferocity that he heard bones crack, the air forced from his lungs. As warm liquid made
its way down the inside of his new Versace shirt, Terry braced himself. But it wasn’t blood trickling across his skin and pooling beneath him. He was being pissed on.

As the boot left his neck, a hand as big as a shovel grabbed him from behind. He was yanked to his feet and spun round, bringing him face-to-face with two pairs of the coldest eyes he’d
ever seen: the O’Kane brothers – Glasgow’s finest – a pair with a penchant for torture. He could see they meant business.

Craig O’Kane leaned in close. ‘Give him up, Terry.’

Terry moistened his fat lip. ‘Fuck off.’

Spitting in Craig’s face was only inviting further punishment, but Terry had standards, a reputation to uphold. These heavies had just crossed an invisible line. There was no way he could
let that go. He was scared. Undoubtedly. But he’d rather die than let them know he was in the least bit intimidated. Despite their obvious advantage over him, he feigned indifference.

Wiping Terry’s blood and snot from his face, Craig nodded to his brother.

Finn didn’t need telling twice. Raising a baseball bat high above his head, an evil glint in his eye, he brought it down hard on Terry’s shoulder. Then he paused for a moment, a
broad smile on his face as he savoured the sight of his victim clutching himself in agony, before hitting him again.

Terry cried out as a succession of blows rained down on him, each one harder than the last. On the deck now, he curled up into a ball, using his good arm to protect his head from the worst of
it, taking full-on kicks to the body from both men. He knew he’d be wasting his breath begging them to stop. There would be no mercy from these two. Craig and Finn O’Kane were hell-bent
on getting what they came for. Despite the pain, Terry was equally determined they would go home empty-handed.

Suddenly the blows stopped, but there was no respite from the terror. Terry knew all too well the consequences of going up against the O’Kanes. He’d seen the damage they could do
when riled, the hideous injuries they had inflicted on those stupid enough to get on the wrong side of them: shattered bones, amputations, burns – even blindness for one poor sod. Resisting
them was suicide.

Terry shivered, listening to them panting after their exertions, wondering what was coming next.

Whatever it was, he couldn’t let his brother go the same way.

‘Get the bolt cutters,’ Finn said.

D
avid Prentice had been a security guard for over twenty-five years, nearly half his life. He’d worked on the Silverlink Industrial Estate the last ten. In all that time
there had never been a single incident on his watch. Nights were a pain, but he wasn’t complaining. His line of work was, more or less, money for old rope. A piece of piss, in fact, allowing
him time to study digital photography with the OU.

What was not to like?

Lifting his head from his prospectus, he took a long drag on his cigarette, rechecking his monitors. Perfect. Nothing to suggest he’d have to make the boring journey round the perimeter
fence at five, no unusual sightings to report in the logbook. It was still. Quiet. He yawned. He’d be home and hosed by six-fifteen. Except . . .

Something wasn’t quite right.

Prentice peered again at the monitors. The last one he looked at showed a van straddling the main gate. It wasn’t there before. Pushing buttons on a keyboard, Prentice zoomed in on the
vehicle, its driver’s door wide open – no sign of its owner. The van was parked on the access road, so technically not his problem, but it soon would be if the idiot who’d left it
there didn’t get it shifted. Half an hour from now, delivery wagons were scheduled to arrive. Prentice imagined them backed up all the way to the coast road, waiting to get in.

Panicking, he rewound the footage.

A short while ago, he’d eaten his bait and taken a quick slash. He’d been out of his chair only a matter of minutes. In that time, two sets of headlights had approached the main gate
at high speed: the mystery van and a light-coloured Range Rover following close behind. Prentice began to sweat as he viewed the screen. The two vehicles pulled up sharply. The van door flew open
and a figure sprinted from one vehicle to the other. Before the door of the four-by-four was even closed, it was driven away at high speed, resulting in rear-wheel spin. It disappeared, leaving a
plume of smoke in its wake.

What the hell was all that about?

Pulling on his uniform jacket, Prentice picked up his torch and went to investigate. As he walked to the exit, it occurred to him that what he’d seen might have been a diversionary tactic,
a ruse to make him take his eye off the ball. The guy he’d seen running from the van and his accomplice could be parked around the back, ready to ram-raid the place. To be on the safe side,
he returned to his office, rechecking his monitors, paying particular attention to the perimeter fence.

Satisfied that there was nothing untoward at the rear, he made his way outside. As he hurried towards the main gate, a distance of around a hundred metres, his eyes nervously scanned the
delivery yard. It was a beautifully clear morning. Not yet light. Eerily quiet. No sign of anyone, suspicious or otherwise. His breathing slowed, returning to normal. Probably some daft kids
messing around in a stolen vehicle. They had little discipline these days and fewer boundaries. What the parents were up to was anyone’s guess.

Digging inside his pocket, Prentice took out his master key, then thought better of it and put it back, deciding to remain on site, call the police and set the monkey on their backs, as his late
wife used to say.

They’re paid a damn sight more than you.

Mrs P was right – they were.

Intent on getting away home on the dot of six, Prentice looked up, the flap-flap of the company flag above drawing his attention. The only other sound was the soft purr from the van’s
engine as he neared the main gate. Switching on his torch, he aimed it at the open driver’s door. The vehicle was a newish Mercedes. Along the side panel, a sign spelled out a company name:
HARDY’S ROOFERS. Beneath it, a website address and contact details were picked out in bold black lettering.

As he fumbled in his pocket for his mobile, Prentice decided it would be quicker and easier to contact the company direct rather than calling the law. The police would no doubt insist on a
forensic examination and all sorts of other bollocks before the vehicle could be moved, leaving him stuck on site till lunchtime. Not to mention the shit he’d be in with his boss if he
arrived to find the entrance blocked off.

The number rang out unanswered. He scanned the van again, moving the torch-beam to the rear wheels where something glistened, thick and shiny like oil, dripping on to the road below, pooling
beneath the vehicle.

Oh Jesus!

Prentice ran.

I
t had been a hell of a night in the A & E department of the Royal Victoria Infirmary. Since midnight there had been a steady stream of walking wounded, as well as
emergency admissions brought in by ambulance, some with blue lights flashing and sirens screaming, the whole works. At last count, a hundred-plus cases had been booked in: heart attacks, strokes, a
small child rushed in with meningitis, casualties from multiple RTAs. Bursting at the seams, the department had coped – but only just. Then it all went quiet.

Totally spent, Senior House Officer Valerie Armstrong glanced around the waiting room, sipping cold tea she’d been given half an hour ago, relieved to have survived the general mayhem in
the run-up to the August bank holiday weekend. Apart from one confused old man who’d just taken a seat, there wasn’t another punter in sight. The place looked as if it had been burgled:
wheelchairs abandoned at the door, chairs tipped over, food wrappers and polystyrene cups discarded everywhere, a baby’s nappy dumped on the floor next to, of all things, an empty vodka
bottle. She couldn’t remember a night like it.

Behind a thick glass screen to her left, the department’s twenty-year-old temporary receptionist looked done in. Louise was leaning on the counter, head propped up in the palm of her right
hand, ID clipped to the pocket of a tight-fitting white shirt, a pretty silver chain around her neck.

Stifling a yawn, she took in the clock on the wall.

‘What time you due to knock off?’ she asked.

Valerie checked her watch. ‘’Bout an hour and a half,’ she said. ‘I’m ready to crash.’

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed an unattended patient lying on a trolley in the corridor, just his head showing above the covers. To be fair to Louise, he was only partially visible
from where she was sitting. But still . . .

The SHO pointed at the trolley. ‘Whose patient?’

The girl shrugged. ‘Maybe Dr Suri’s . . . or Dr Templeton’s.’

She was blatantly guessing.

Valerie didn’t think much to either suggestion. Both doctors were long gone. She’d passed them in the corridor as she came back in after collecting her breakfast from her car. On
call since midday, they’d had their coats on and were on the way out of the building.

‘No,’ she said. ‘They’ve gone off duty.’

‘Roger’s then?’
Another guess.

A staff nurse appeared, a manila folder under her arm, calling out to the old man. As the two shuffled off behind a brightly coloured curtain, Valerie glanced at a box on the wall where patient
records were kept for those awaiting treatment. Curiously, it was empty. Her eyes shifted from the box to the man on the trolley, then back to Louise.

She tried not to sound cross. ‘Any idea how long he’s been waiting?’

‘I’m sorry, no.’ Louise looked worried.

Valerie attempted a smile of reassurance.

If in doubt, ask the patient.

She set off to do just that. But as she drew closer, her steps faltered, an inexplicable feeling of dread eating its way into her subconscious. Seized by panic, she stopped short of the trolley
and glanced nervously over her shoulder at reception. Louise barely acknowledged her. Valerie’s gaze shifted back to the patient. Steeling herself, she stepped forward, placed index and
middle fingers on his neck. His skin was cold to the touch. No pulse. No need to call for the crash team. He was as dead as a stone.