Payback

  The man left the room, and even though she struggled as hard as she could while her captor thoroughly searched the house, she couldn’t free herself.

  After a lot of banging and crashing, the man finally reappeared and stood over her, a baseball bat in his hand, a sneer on his face. “Found this in the wardrobe,” he said, patting it in his palm. “Just don’t go giving me no reason to use it.”

  He fixed Karla with a stare of such intensity that she shivered and stared down at the floor. The man moved around behind her chair, and she heard the bat thump to the carpet.

  “Your boyfriend’s been busy down in London,” he said. “He’s caused me a lot of trouble. He’s either very good at staying alive, or very, very lucky.” Leaning over, he ran the tips of his fingers down her cheek, then tilted her head back, so he could stare into her eyes. “What say we find out which it is, hmm?” Karla tried to pull away, and he chuckled. “Don’t worry your pretty little head,” he sneered. “You just ain’t my kind of girl.”

  Letting go of her chin, he came around the chair and sat down opposite her, drumming his fingertips on the arms of the chair. Then checking his watch, he leant forward, elbows on knees, hands open as though trying to appease her.

  “Here’s the thing, my pretty. That boyfriend of yours has got something of mine that I want back. So we’re here to do a swop, you see. His belongings for mine.” Steepling his fingers, the man nodded and smiled, then sat back in the chair. “Only fair,” he said.

  Chapter 41

  Frank rode his bike into the garage and turned off the engine. He stayed astride it for a few moments, looking at the blank wall.

  He was tired - so, so tired.

  Tired of thinking about Karla, tired of thinking about Mandy, but most of all, tired of having to fight his rage.

  Leaving the garage, he locked the doors, deciding to phone Karla tonight and tell her that he needed to go back down to London one last time. He’d keep it vague - what were a few more lies amongst the many he’d already told? He had to take the fight to them, otherwise this would never end.

  Frank’s grim mood lightened when he entered the kitchen and spotted Karla’s bag hanging from the back of a chair. She’d come over to see him. Great, that’d make it easier. He hated trying to explain things on the phone.

  As he walked around the table, Frank’s foot hit a screwed up piece of paper. It rolled across the tiles. He picked it up, smoothing it out on the table top. What he read sent him hurrying to the lounge for a stiff drink.

  Throwing open the lounge door, Frank strode in, but froze when he saw the couple sitting waiting for him.

  Karla was trussed up with tape in one of his armchairs.

  A slim man sat on the arm of the chair, holding a long, wicked looking flick-knife to her throat. A small tear of blood had trickled from under the tape covering her mouth.

  The man holding the knife jerked his head for Frank to come farther into the room. “Come in and join the party,” he said. “We’re just about to play a game called, Cut-throat. The rules are pretty simple really, Frankie boy. You give me what I want, or I’ll cut your girlfriend’s fucking throat!”

  “Connie,” Frank breathed between stiff lips.

  “Don’t call me that, Frankie boy. You know how much I hate it.” He pulled Karla’s head further back, emphasising his point.

  “What are you doing here. What do you want?” As he spoke, Frank eased his way towards the cupboard beside the fireplace.

  “Cut the crap and sit down,” Conrad Hunter ordered.

  Frank did just that, glad to be off his feet, because his legs felt close to collapse.

  He tried to reassure Karla with a look that everything was going to be alright, that he’d handle this, but her eyes were wide and glazed, blinking fast. Frank wondered if she was even aware of him right then.

  Conrad Hunter sat with his arm draped around her shoulders, so he could keep the knife at her throat. Apart from the knife and tape, they might have been any ordinary couple cuddling up in a big, soft armchair, ready to watch their favourite film.

  But the film running through Frank’s mind right then was one that ended in tragedy - both him and Karla dead. There was no way that Conrad Hunter could let them live after this little show.

  “Where are they, Frankie boy?”

  “Where are what?”

  “Don’t fuck me around. You know what. The damned photos!”

  Karla’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two men as they talked, her nostrils flaring wide as the point of the knife drew a fresh bead of blood from her skin.

  “Okay! Okay!” Frank shouted, holding up his hand. “Stop it and I’ll get them for you.”

  “Where are they?”

  Frank pointed at the cupboard beside the fireplace, raising his eyebrows. Conrad Hunter nodded for him to proceed and Frank got up, walking to the cupboard, keeping it shielded with his body.

  “Hold it,” Conrad Hunter said.

  Frank froze, his hand on the knob, his heart beating wildly.

  “Don’t try anything stupid, Frankie boy.”

  Keeping his back to Conrad Hunter, Frank allowed himself a small smile, flicking the tip of his tongue over his scar as he took a deep breath and opened the door.

  It stuck fast.

  No! No not now. Please, not now.

  Giving the handle a twist sideways as he pulled, Frank felt the door give and open wide. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, he slid his hand into the cupboard and grasped the object inside.

  Turning, Frank quickly rose to his feet, the gun he’d taken off Cole Bell, pointing at Conrad Hunter’s chest.

  The man just sat there, a big smile still spread across his face - as though he were enjoying some private joke.

  “You haven’t got the balls,” he said.

  Standing up, Conrad Hunter closed the flick knife and slid it into his pocket. Crossing his arms, he raised one eyebrow slightly, as if asking - what now?

  Frank took a steadying breath, feeling cold but in control.

  “You know something, Frankie boy? You’re just like that slut of a daughter of yours. It was a hoot tossing her off that bridge, it really was.”

  The words hit Frank like a punch in the guts.

  “So you did kill her, you bastard,” he breathed, his voice soft and low as the rage gripped him again.

  “So what’re you going to do about it, big man? You haven’t got Jeff to back you up now, have you? Always did protect you, didn’t he? Never could figure that one out. Why he gave you all the cushy jobs like he did. He looked after you like a brother, didn’t he? Like he should have looked after me - me, his real brother. Not some cocksucker like you. What did you do for him that was so special, Frankie boy?”

  The word cocksucker reverberated around Frank’s head.

  Cocksucker. Cocksucker.

  His eyes glazed.

  He was thrown onto a hard bunk, his face bouncing off the metal frame.

  He was pulled to his knees and men pounded into him, taking him from behind, the camera flashing in his face over and over again, synchronising with the shouted words.

  Cocksucker. Cocksucker.

  The bunk vibrated and he was tossed about until his head rang with them.

  COCKSUCKER. COCKSUCKER.

  Finally, as the pain and rage built to a crescendo that Frank thought would surely blow him apart, a train burst through the bunk from below, slamming straight through his body . . .

  And Frank suddenly ran, screaming his rage, rushing across the room, pulling the trigger of the gun over and over again as he went.

  *

  From the moment that Frank had walked into the lounge, Karla had tried to warn him with her eyes.

  The man had searched the cottage from top to bottom, including the cupboard by the fireplace, removing the gun he found there with a knowing twist of his lips.

  “So, Frankie boy,” he’d said quietly, “all prepared were we?” Looking over at her, the man heft
ed the gun in the palm of his hand, a quizzical look on his face as he noticed her expression.

  Karla couldn’t believe her eyes. Frank with a gun! What the hell was he doing with a gun? No, the man must have put it there himself for some reason.

  Karla watched him fiddle with the weapon, heard a snick as something slid out. Catching it in his other hand, he slipped it into his jacket pocket, then put the gun back in the cupboard.

  Then he came and sat on the arm of her chair, looking down at her. She felt the excitement in his body, a sort of tension that brought his eyes alive. After sitting there for some time, he left the room but was soon back, her mobile phone in his hand.

  “So here’s how it goes,” he said. “You’re going to make a call and tell Frankie boy that you’re waiting here for him.”

  He tugged off the tape covering Karla’s mouth, and she gasped as the glue tore at her skin. Taking a deep shuddering breath, she shook her head.

  “No,” she said.

  “No?”

  “No, I won’t do it.”

  The blow took Karla by surprise and her head snapped to one side. For a moment she couldn’t think, but her thoughts quickly cleared when he grabbed her by the hair and forced her head back so he could look into her eyes. She saw only a painful death there.

  “You’ll do what—” The man unexpectedly stopped, cocking his head to one side.

  Then Karla heard it too. The sound of a motorbike coming down the track outside.

  Crossing to the window, the man looked out, nodding, as though happy.

  “Frank, get out! Call the police! Get out!”

  The rest of Karla’s shouted warnings were silenced as the man rushed back to her side and slapped the tape back in place.

  “Shut it, you stupid bitch,” he said, sitting down on the arm of the chair, holding the knife to her neck. “If you want him dead, you’re going the right way about it.”

  The look of shock on Frank’s face when he entered the room made Karla’s heart sink.

  The man told Frank to sit down. He did so, staring at her captor with a look that made her feel uncomfortable.

  The man asked about some photos, and with a nod, Frank indicated that they were in the cupboard. The man nodded back that Frank should get them.

  The next thing Karla knew, Frank was threatening the man with the useless gun.

  As Frank levelled the gun at him, Karla could feel the man chuckling to himself. Then he stood up and began taunting Frank with a foul-mouthed tirade.

  Seeing Frank’s temper rising, Karla struggled against her bonds, trying to call out to him as she saw his finger whitening on the trigger.

  “Please God no,” she pleaded from behind her gag. “No Frank. Don’t. Please don’t.”

  But her pleas were in vain, because Frank seemed to be beyond reason, somewhere else.

  Then suddenly, he was screaming at the top of his voice, charging across the room, repeatedly pulling the trigger as he came.

  If the gun had been loaded, her captor would have gone down under a rain of bullets.

  As it was, he moved behind her chair, then quickly reappeared with the baseball bat. Frank dropped to the floor with a thud as the man struck out, catching him in the arm and ribs. The gun skittered across the hardwood floor, fetching up against the wall next to the open lounge door.

  Taking his time, the man walked across to the gun and picked it up. Slipping in the clip, he clicked a bullet into place, then shook his head. “Do you really take me for such an idiot, Frankie boy?” he said. “You never were the brightest bulb in the pack were you?”

  Frank groaned, sitting up and leaning back against the settee for support. His left arm dangled by his side and Karla wondered whether it was broken.

  “The photos, Frankie boy. Where are the photos?” The gun was steady and pointing straight at Karla’s head.

  “I haven’t got them,” Frank answered helplessly, looking over at Karla with large, sad eyes.

  “Then who the hell has? I’m not going to ask you again.”

  Karla felt her heart freeze as the gun was pressed against her temple. She heard a click and closed her eyes, waiting to die.

  “I have,” a deep voice said from the doorway.

  Karla’s gaze swivelled to the door.

  A big man was standing on the threshold, hands behind his back, his deep blue eyes surveying the room.

  “You got them, then?” Frank whispered, cradling his ribs with his good arm.

  “Jeff,” Conrad Hunter said, his face losing all colour. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I warned you what would happen last time, didn’t I? I told you what I’d do if I caught you fiddling with kiddies again.”

  “But Jeff, I can explain. It’s not what you think. Really it’s not. Those photos you’ve got, they’re old ones, from before.”

  The big man walked into the lounge and stood looking down at Frank.

  “Frank,” he said, with a slight nod of his head.

  “Jeff,” Frank acknowledge with his own nod.

  “So, is this true then? Are these old photos?”

  “He killed my daughter, Jeff. Threw her in front of a fucking train.”

  “You lying bastard!”

  The shout made them all turn. Conrad Hunter was standing with legs apart, gun aimed at Franks chest, his finger already whitening on the trigger.

  “I’ll kill you for that!”

  Nobody saw the big man move, but the next thing anyone knew, the gun went off, the bullet smashing harmlessly through the lounge window.

  Conrad Hunter was down on his knees, clawing at the long bicycle chain that was now wrapped around his neck.

  Jeffrey Hunter held the other end, just as though he were taking his pet dog for a walk.

  Conrad Hunter fell to his side, mouth opening and closing as he struggled for breath, face turning a deep red, lips a light blue.

  Jeffrey Hunter slowly knelt by his brother’s side, picking him up like a child. He kissed him on the forehead, then stood, turning to Frank.

  “He’s my brother,” he said. “I’m sorry but I thought I had no choice at the time. The man was blackmailing him. He was family. I had to protect him.”

  “I know,” Frank said, struggling to his feet.

  Karla was at a loss as to what they were talking about, only able to follow the big man’s steps with tear-filled eyes as he nodded at Frank and left the room, his dead brother in his arms.

  A few seconds later she heard the front door shut with a bang.

  Chapter 42

  It had been almost four years since she’d been kidnapped, but as Karla sat in the bright sunshine, staring out over the loch, she still couldn’t shake the memory of that horrible night from her mind.

  Her daughter ran across the tufty grass chasing a butterfly, screeching in pleasure as she grabbed at it. But it escaped her, fluttering off over the water. Changing direction, she ran straight at Karla, landing in her lap in a heap of childish giggles.

  “Can we go home now mummy?”

  “In a little while darling. Just a few more minutes, I promise.”

  Karla watched as her daughter ran off again, smiling as she nearly fell in the long grass. “Be careful, Mandy,” she called, thinking how like Frank her daughter looked.

  Karla’s smile slowly faded as the yearning filled her stomach yet again - a kind of trembling emptiness that she knows will never be filled. Not really wanting to relive the past, but unable to lock the memories out, she closed her eyes and sighed. But then she’d come up here to do just this, hadn’t she? Every year on this day, she came and sat beside the loch that Frank had loved so much, remembering the last time she’d seen him.

  They’d meet up in a lay-by on the A9 - him on his bike, she in her car. He was already there when she arrived, sitting astride his big machine, looking larger than life in his new leathers and bright blue helmet.

  When he saw her car pull up, he got off his bike and walked over to h
er. She got out of the car and faced him, mouth dry, stomach knotted, realising that this was the last time she would ever see him.

  “Karla—” he began.

  She hushed him with a finger against his mouth, feeling the familiar indented scar on his upper lip. “I’ve made up my mind, Frank,” she said. The hardest words she’d ever uttered - words that left her dead inside.

  He just nodded, a sad smile on his face. “I know,” he answered quietly.

  Fishing in his pocket, he pulled something out and gave it her. “Here, take this,” he said. “I won’t be needing it where I’m going.”

  “What is it?” she asked, opening the envelope and pulling out the cheque inside. Her eyes widened when she saw the amount it was made out for. “But I can’t—”

  “Yes you can. For me, please.”

  And she had agreed.

  Karla had agreed because she’d already felt the first stirrings of life in her belly, and knew that the money would ensure their baby had a good life and education.

  “I still don’t understand,” Frank had called, remounting his bike.

  Karla said nothing, just looked at him with tears misting her eyes.

  “I thought you loved me, Karla. I really thought you loved me.”

  His words wrenched right through her and she felt the first tear roll down her cheek. “I do love you,” she screamed at him in her mind. “I do love you, but I can’t live with a man who could so cold-bloodedly kill someone, no matter what the provocation.”

  Frank blipped the throttle, gave her one last look over his shoulder, and pulled out on to the road. There was little traffic and she stood watching him until he’d grown so small that she could no longer see him.

  Then she’d stood watching the space where he’d disappeared, until her eyes grew too tired to stare any longer.

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  About the Author

  Peter Barns live in the Highlands of Scotland.

  Retired, he now spends his time writing

  and refurbishing houses.