The Dying Place (17 page)

‘That’s all for now,’ the press officer said, interrupting before Murphy had chance to say anything further. ‘We’d like to reiterate the importance of any information that anyone may have …’

Murphy tuned out as the press liaison officer wrapped things up. The sun was still up, but the sounds of the traffic behind him heading out of the city centre told him the day was drawing to a close. Cars heading towards the Mersey tunnels, over to the Wirral, away from the non-stop nature of town.

Once back inside, the press officer giving him a reassuring nod as if to say
well done, no screw-up this time
, Murphy loosened his tie once more, riding up the lift alone, trying to work out what the next moves should be.

The lift doors opened and the short trip down the corridor towards the incident room was uninterrupted and quiet.

Too quiet.

Murphy pushed his way through the double doors, expecting to be hit by a cacophony of noise, frowning when stillness greeted him.

Everyone was looking towards someone at the end of the room. He peered over a few heads which were in the way and saw her sitting at a desk that wasn’t her own, holding the phone to her ear. Rossi turned, catching his eye as he looked over, the hand she was holding up for quiet becoming a gesture for him to come towards her.

‘Okay … No, that’s fine … We can send a car for you if that’s better …? It’s important that you do come in though Ian, you understand …? Okay, good …’

Murphy whispered into Brannon’s ear, who was leaning on the desk behind the one Rossi was sitting at. ‘What’s going on?’

‘One of our guys is on the phone. Rossi is talking him through handing himself in.’

Murphy sighed. A breakthrough. Then something jarred at him.

‘
One
of them? How many are there?’

Rossi turned to him then, first placing a finger to her lips to shush him, then turning it to an open palm.

It took Murphy a few seconds – then he realised.

Five of them. Five.

The Farm

Three Days Ago

Goldie had noticed Dean had started going south after Bootle had been let go a few weeks earlier. Goldie thought it was because Dean assumed that as he was the first one to have arrived in there, he’d be the first one out; Dean had started changing from that moment.

Not that Goldie hadn’t been pissed off himself that they’d let Bootle go. Shocked at first, then just angry. There was also the two new lads to work out at the same time. Mikey, a younger lad from Garston who hadn’t said much. Tyler, another loudmouth Goldie imagined would have to be put in his place before too long.

Dean paced up and down the Dorm more often. Sometimes talking to himself under his breath. Goldie could never work out what he was saying, but none of it sounded good.

That morning, Goldie had tried talking to him for the last time. ‘I’m sure you’ll be out soon, mate. They’re just trying to mess with us a bit. You really think Bootle was being the best out of all of us?’

Dean had stopped at the end of Goldie’s bed where he was sitting up in the middle, legs crossed. ‘It doesn’t matter what we do,’ Dean had replied. ‘They’re going to keep us here forever. I bet he wasn’t even let go, like. We’re just animals to them. I can’t take it any more.’

‘Don’t talk like that. We’re gettin’ out of here, we’ve just gotta be patient.’

Dean had turned away and carried on pacing. Goldie tried speaking to him again, but it was no use. There was no getting through to him after that. All day he was just winding himself up. Goldie was worried. And not just about Dean. When they’d finally taken the bandage off his hand, the skin where his little finger had been was now turning an odd colour. Not healing properly.

The pain had gone now. Just a weird sense of loss every time he used his left hand. Nothing felt the same any more.

That evening was when it happened.

Goldie was being led back to the Dorm, after going first, as usual, that evening. His muscles in agony after the exercises and then the beating, his mind turning over the possibilities of what might happen soon.

Bootle had been let go. Was getting on well, according to Alpha. They had people keeping an eye on him apparently. It was the first time Goldie had heard any of them mention people on the outside who might be involved, and at first hearing, he’d instantly been sceptical. Then he thought about what he’d gone through in the months he’d been there. There was no way they could set something up like this and keep it sustained without outside help, surely? It wouldn’t have shocked him if this was some sort of official programme from the government or something.

He smiled to himself as Omega coughed behind him. Remembered how in his first few days Craig had thought it was some kind of reality show, like on BBC Three or ITV2 or something. Bad Lads’ Bootcamp, he’d called it. Maybe even some kind of Ross Kemp programme for Sky. Bootle reckoned one of his mates was on the gangs show he did, but Goldie had laughed at him, saying the show was full of dickheads who wouldn’t know a proper gang if it came up and bottled them on the street.

It didn’t matter that they’d had guns trained on them from the beginning. Craig thought they were fake. The whole thing was a set-up, he said. To make good telly; to make them out to be worse than they were and fix them.

Even Goldie showing him where they’d lopped off his finger didn’t make him flinch.

It was Craig’s first time on the rack that had shut him up. He didn’t think they’d allow torture to go on the telly.

Goldie was feeling as good as was possible in the hell he’d been going through the past few months. For the first time, he could see an end in sight – the real possibility of being free again.

Shouts from up ahead made him stop in his tracks. He turned around to see Omega tense, his shotgun trained on his back.

‘Keep walking,’ Omega said after a few more seconds of silence. The shouting had stopped, so Goldie shrugged and carried on walking. The noise struck up again, followed by the opening of the door to the Dorm and the sight of Gamma flying outwards.

Goldie became aware of the gun jutting into his back after a short period, but at first his attention was solely on the open door and what lay beyond.

‘Get in there, now,’ Omega said, teeth clenched so Goldie imagined the spit flying onto his clean T-shirt.

Goldie kept walking, faster now, eager to see what was going on. As they reached the Dorm, Gamma was getting back to her feet, brushing down her black cargo pants. Her balaclava had slipped a little, so Goldie watched as she readjusted it so the eyeholes were in line.

‘That little bastard is dead,’ Gamma said, as she picked up the gun which had fallen beside her.

Omega pushed Goldie inside, where the scene was laid out for him. Dean struggling with Tango on the floor, Tango’s gun lying a few feet away. Goldie allowed himself to be forced further into the room, not taking his eyes off the scene which was unfolding in front of him. He sat down on the edge of his bed, tearing his gaze away from what he thought was about to turn into a bad situation, to see Craig kneeling, hands gripping the frame of the bed, ready to jump up.

‘Don’t,’ Goldie said, shaking his head. It was enough for Craig to loosen his grip a little.

Dean had forced Tango onto the ground, his hands around the bigger man’s neck, when Gamma raised her shotgun, smashing into the back of Dean’s skull. The thumping sound seemed to echo around the Dorm. Dean didn’t move for a second or two, but Goldie knew he’d lost his grip around Tango’s neck as he heard the man start swearing and coughing.

Gamma booted Dean in the ribcage, which finally saw him teeter over and fall to the floor. Goldie hoped Dean was already out cold as he watched Gamma start again, kicking and stamping on his prone body, the sounds making Goldie feel sick. Tango joined in then, still on his knees as he punched Dean in the face.

Omega stood back, both hands on his rifle as he watched it happen in front of him. Goldie couldn’t tell what his facial expression was behind the black mask of the balaclava but wanted to believe it matched the horror of his own. Then he remembered his severed finger and Omega’s lack of action when it happened. Imagined a grin beneath the mask instead.

In the doorway, a shadow fell over the man and woman beating the teenager. First Gamma stopped, backing away, then she nudged Tango with her foot.

‘Stop.’

Tango turned to see Alpha at the doorway.

‘What’s going on here?’ Alpha said, his voice loud and echoing off the walls.

‘He tried to escape,’ Tango said, his words almost lost behind a mumble. ‘He hurt Gamma.’

‘Really? Is that right.’

Goldie stared at the men and woman standing over the still body of Dean. The lad from Norris Green.

‘In that case … lads, I want you to watch very carefully,’ Alpha said, the end of his sentence delivered in the direction of the other four teenagers in the room.

Alpha gripped Dean’s T-shirt and lifted him up into a sitting position. His head lolled slightly but then righted, making Goldie sigh a little with relief.

‘You think there’s a way out of here without our say-so, do you? Well, I’m sure a bit of time on the rack will sort that out.’

Goldie heard rather than saw the gob being hoicked up, and winced before Dean had even spat in Alpha’s face.

‘Fuck you,’ Dean hissed. ‘Just a bunch of fuckin’ torturers and pussies. Can’t take us one-on-one, so you get guns and force us to live like this. You’re not hard men or soldiers. You’re nothing but shit.’

Goldie realised he’d been holding his breath as Dean spoke, watching as Alpha wiped at his eyes. Dean had spat directly into that area, the only part which wasn’t covered.

A good shot – or a bad one, considering how you looked at it.

Alpha didn’t speak. Kept a loose grip on Dean’s T-shirt with one hand, but nothing else.

Then Dean’s voice boomed around the Dorm room.

‘Come ’ead then! If you’re ’ard enough, take me now, one-on-one.’

Alpha moved quicker than Goldie had ever seen before. With the hand which had been gripping Dean’s T-shirt, he shifted up his neck, the other whipping from the side and directly into the temple of Dean’s head. Then he got to his feet and stamped on Dean’s stomach, almost flipping the teenager over with the force. Alpha stepped backwards and Tango and Gamma took the chance to continue again, aiming kicks, boots, stamps into Dean’s body as he just shook on the floor.

Goldie made to move, but caught the darkened eyes of Omega and froze. His body trembled as he imagined crossing the room, covering Dean’s body with his own. Saving him.

Instead, he watched, as did Craig, Mikey from Garston and the new lad from their own beds, as Alpha took something from his belt loop and pushed away Tango and Gamma.

Alpha grabbed Dean’s hair and pulled him up into a sitting position before moving behind him.

Goldie learnt something that day.

It takes a long time to choke someone to death. It wasn’t quick like in films or telly. It takes a good few minutes. Time stretched, as he couldn’t turn his head away. He heard someone retch and throw up from the other side of the room, but he didn’t stop watching as Alpha stole Dean’s life.

When it was done, nothing more was said. Just a nod to Tango and Gamma from Alpha, who took the now-still body of Dean and dragged him outside.

Goldie sat in the same position, having watched them kill someone he’d spent almost every minute of his life with for the past six months. Not a friend, not family. Nothing like that. But they were something.

And he couldn’t help but think that he was next.

PART TWO

15

Sally Hughes was going to bury her son.

Her own child.

There’d be a funeral, in which people would pretend that a glorious young life had been taken from them. A future snuffed out too soon.

It wouldn’t even be a burial, she thought. She couldn’t afford that. Her son would be cremated. His ashes scattered somewhere or kept in an urn on the mantelpiece.

Her son would become an ornament.

She could put it somewhere. His favourite place, maybe. Except his favourite place was probably some park or cemetery where he could get pissed or stoned with his mates.

Probably not something she could share with people.

She was going to be one of those mums who turned up on morning TV. On the couch, being consoled by someone who used to talk to a puppet when she was younger. Fake sincerity, plastered-on concern … for around five minutes, before they had a grand old laugh with the latest reality TV star.

They’d talk about her behind her back. All those who lived around her. That was without question. She’d heard of those parents who were blamed for everything that happened to their kids. She’d be in the papers as the mum who neglected her son and he’d ended up dead. A life on benefits which led to her kids being brought up wrongly, before finally paying for her laziness.

It wasn’t like that.

She used to be different.

It had been three
days since those two detectives had arrived at her door, changing her life forever. She bet they’d already forgotten about her, leaving her with some stupid woman who kept asking if she was okay. Family liaison or something. Pointless waste of space. Of course she wasn’t okay. Her son had been murdered, with God only knew what happening to him in the months before that.

She’d have to live with the knowledge that she’d never find out. Not for sure. She wouldn’t know how her son would have been feeling. Had he been afraid, frightened? Had he been tortured?

Had he been expecting to be saved by the one person who had always been there for him?

She’d done nothing. Not when he’d disappeared. Just sat on her arse in front of the TV, expecting him to show up. To walk brazenly through the door wanting his tea. Not caring that she’d been worried sick.

So she hadn’t bothered. He was old enough to look after himself, Sally thought.

They’d argued before he left. Her last conversation with her son ended with him telling her she was
a fucking bitch
.