Balls

  There was a buzz of excitement in the small van. They had agreed to wait half an hour, for Paul to relax and be off guard, and just in case his bodyguard should return for some reason – because he needed some money, or because he had forgotten his joss sticks. Thirty minutes.

  The door bell rang. There was a pause. It rang again.

  ‘Susie,’

  called Jill from the kitchen. Reluctantly Susie got up to answer the door. Her brother remained mesmerised by his favourite TV programme, mouth hanging open, oblivious to everything.

  Susie opened the door to find three balaclava clad youths jostling for positions on the doorstep. She wanted to scream, but was literally dumbstruck. Before she could react a hand grasped her, while another covered her mouth. One of the youths fiddled with some masking tape and she was silenced. They were in.

  ‘Who is it? Susie? Robbie?’

  Bobby had his knife in his hand. He stalked into the kitchen and grabbed Jill by the neck, threatening her with the knife. Meanwhile Tommy and Danny immobilised the kids, wrapping them up in the tape and throwing them on the sofa.

  But there was no sign of Paul.

  Say nothing. That had been Chris Morton's most energetic command. Say nothing and they will not be able to recognise your voice should it all go wrong. So far they had followed that rule to the letter. But now? How can you ask 'where the fuck is he?' by sign language, especially if all your victim can see is your eyes?

  Danny decided to improvise. He left Tommy to mind the children, then went into the kitchen where Bobby looked as if he was about to do to Jill what he had done to Mr. Swan.

  ‘Where is he?’

  He asked in a gruff, gangland voice.

  Jill only wanted to scream. She was only concerned about her children, where were her children, were they alright? Don't harm them, I beg you, do what you want to me, but promise me you'll leave the kids alone. Unfortunately she tried to say all this with her eyes, because just like her daughter, no sound came from her throat.

  Bobby followed Danny's lead and demanded, in an almost unintelligible grunt

  ‘Where is he? The nutter?’

  This frightened Jill even more and she struggled to get free. Bobby waved the knife in front of her and repeated the question.

  ‘Where the fuck is he?’

  She tried to answer with a jerk of her head. The garden. He went out through the back gate. He's gone. He got a phone call and had to leave. I want to see my children! But all she can manage is a thin whine.

  ‘Check the garden, I'll go upstairs.’

  Bobby jerked open wardrobe doors, looked under the beds, hunted high and low. Nothing. Back in the kitchen he let Danny know he had found no sign of Paul. And you? Danny grunted that he hadn't been able to check the garden yet as he had had to watch over Jill, tape her mouth. True enough. So he checked the garden while Bobby took over.

  Bobby grabbed Jill by the neck again. He could have thrusted the knife into her at any moment, but he didn't. Why not? Perhaps because she was so concerned about her children, begging with her eyes to be allowed to see them, and that touched the sensitive part of his soul – the motherly love that had been so missing from his own childhood. Perhaps because if he killed her he would feel obliged to kill the kids, too, and that was going a bit too far. Or maybe he just couldn't be bothered. He decided to wrap her in masking tape instead.

  Danny came back empty handed. Now what?

  Improvise.

  Chris Morton sneaked up closer with the van. They were taking a little longer than he had expected, but he was still calm. Then they stumbled out into the street. Three of them. And they were carrying something wrapped in a sheet. He was not sure what or who it was, but it was certainly not Paul Kavanagh. They wrenched open the back door of the van and threw their booty in. Tommy and Danny climbed in beside it, while Bobby jumped in the passenger seat and yelled

  ‘Let's get the fuck out of here!’

  Chris roared off.

  ‘What happened? Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on!’

  ‘He wasn't there.’

  ‘What? He must have been, we saw him go in and we didn't see him come out. What the fuck have you done?’

  It sounded like an accusation, so Danny called out from the back.

  ‘It's true, Dad, he wasn't there. We searched the whole place. Nothing.’

  ‘So we got the kid instead,’

  explained Bobby with a triumphant grin.

  Why Robbie? Why not Jill, or Susie? Because Bobby had had to decide quickly, so he had thought about who should be saved. He had seen the films, and it was always the same - women and children first. Then the sick, the elderly, the disabled, gays, and ethnic minorities. The healthy white male was inevitably the last one into the lifeboat. Robbie it was.

  ‘The kid? What fucking kid? What are we supposed to do with a fucking kid? It was the weirdo we wanted, not his fucking.... his fucking nephew or whatever he is. For Christ's sake!’

  ‘We can hold them to ransom,’

  suggested Tommy.

  ‘Chris banged the wheel.’

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

  He needed to think, but there wasn't time. The van sped on relentlessly to its arranged destination, the kidnapped boy in the back - the plan was being followed despite the hitch. Once the bowling ball leaves our hand it rolls relentlessly along the alley and will not stop till it strikes the pins.

 

  They picked their way through the suburbs of Burton, twisting and turning in a deliberately roundabout route specially designed for the occasion. What if their victim had a remarkable memory and a keen ear, being able to recreate the journey to the hideout in his mind's eye? Left, left, right, through a tunnel, past a noisy factory, stuck in a traffic jam. The fact that they had now kidnapped a child instead of an adult made no difference, they would stick to the original plan. They swung round the roundabout again, this time in the opposite direction. He'd have to be a bloody genius to follow this. Eventually they took the rutted side road up to the empty warehouse where they had set up their HQ.

  It was perfect for their intentions. The small industrial estate was off the beaten track, but not unused, so a small van arriving late evening would not be an unusual event. One of a line of six identical warehouses, it was flanked on one side by a packaging company and on the other by a footwear storeroom. Inside there was a dividing wall marking off an area which had been used for office space, and there was a washroom and toilet, too. Trudy had given him the keys. He had made copies and returned them, then got in and changed the locks. Trudy had temporarily removed the property from the estate agent's list, so no-one should be inquiring for a while. It would be reinstated immediately should anything go wrong.

  Tommy and Danny leapt out. They were concerned that their bundle hadn't moved much, hadn't put up much of a struggle, but were loath to take the sheet off him in case he recognised something. Chris told them to hurry, to get the kid into position without delay. Robbie was rudely lugged into the warehouse and thrown upon a mattress kept in the corner of what was once the office space. They all put their balaclavas on and ripped the sheet off his face. He was a strange colour, and seemed to have passed out.

  ‘The tape!’

  Yelled Tommy, and quickly pulled a strip off the boy's nose.

  ‘His mouth too! Get it off his fucking mouth too!’

  Screamed Chris. Robbie's face was freed. They were not sure what to do next, and all stood around nervously. Had they killed him? Should they give him the kiss of life? Or pound his chest? Would they rather he was alive or dead? It was not a question they had asked themselves before. Alive, surely, as if he died, then they were murderers. Well, Bobby already was, and he didn't seem to mind, but the others?

  To their relief Robbie took in a long draught of air and after a few coughs and splutters started to breath normally. They marched out, locking the office door behind them.

  ‘Get rid of the van. Don't forget
to wipe it clean first, then torch it.’

  Ordered Cris.

  ‘Why should I have to clean it if I'm going to burn it?’

  Bobby wanted to know

  ‘Because the forensic boys will know your fucking shoe size by tomorrow afternoon if you don't, that's why.’

  Knowing the Burton police that was probably an exaggeration, but Bobby was convinced.

  ‘Take the boys with you. I'll stay here tonight, then we follow the rota system, ok? Now go!’

  He went back into the warehouse through the small door cut into the the larger garage doors. The sound of Robbie whimpering came from the office. He desperately needed to think, or at least to think well. He felt like a laboratory rat in a maze, chasing around looking for the way out. Because he assumed that there was a way out, there must be a way out. Shit, what was he supposed to do with a kid? The idea had been to capture a Kavanagh, a grown up, responsible, fully fledged Kavanagh, someone who knew why he had been abducted, why he was being punished. Above all someone who knew what was coming to him, someone who realised that his immediate future was one of pain and fear. This person should acknowledge the crime committed, apologise, and beg for forgiveness. It was the only way to put an end to this, for wrongs to be righted, for history to be placated. Only then could the captors decide whether to carry out the sentence in full or be magnanimous.

  But what did a child know of his father's sins?

  The nation was up in arms. At first Paul's castration had been a bit of a giggle. The hunt for his missing gonads had been fun for a while, as had the biblical nonsense, and most people had enjoyed his arrogant brother's downfall. Then, in a strange twist, Mr. Swan had been murdered and everyone had been shocked by Kenneth's unlikely implication. But the abduction of an innocent child by a gang of masked men, with no apparent motive, had added intrigue and mystery. And indignation and horror.

  The Burton police were no longer alone and could now, with mixed feelings, count on the inestimable aid of their colleagues from the larger cities. This time there would be no leaping to conclusions, no destruction of invaluable evidence. They would take their time, comb the crime scene meticulously, re-enact events, leave no hair unturned. And wait for the ransom demand. Because although they kept an open mind and excluded no hypothesis, it was as clear as day that the gang involved was after the Sect's money. They had tried to coerce Swan, but he had refused, paying for that with his life. Now this new means of extortion. Albanians probably. But officially (apart from the mandatory 'we will not rest until the culprits are brought to justice' bit), no comment.

  Ken had smashed his reading lamp and badly damaged other government materials on hearing the news. According to the psychiatrist it was a casebook example of impotent rage. Given the circumstances the matter would be overlooked. He was to be stabilised (read sedated), and from there on in any information about the kidnapping was to be screened and tailored to meet his mental needs.

  Which coincidentally was the same tried and trusted treatment that both Jill and her daughter Susie were receiving – drugs and lies.

  After their attackers had fled with Robbie, the two had managed to crawl to each other, free themselves and raise the alarm. The police had arrived, the girls had given a garbled and hasty account of events, then collapsed. Ever since then they had been under observation, cruising through the days in a state of semi oblivion. Which was probably the wisest decision, as it avoided Jill from dwelling on the fact that her son had been kidnapped and her estranged husband falsely accused of murder. She also needed to stop thinking about the fact that it was not her son Robbie that the gang had been looking for, but her self-castrated brother-in-law boss. This conviction she had relayed to the police, but they had not shown much interest. To them it didn't matter much exactly who had been abducted, it could have been any of those present, the motive remained the same. Cash.

  Roadblocks were set up on all routes out of town, the railway and bus stations had more men in uniform than clients and staff together, even a helicopter was brought in. It flew overhead for the first few days, noisily announcing its presence as it swooped over the parks and gardens of Burton town. Did they really hope to spot the kidnappers from up there, perhaps as the frightened wrongdoers made a desperate dash for it across the fields? Or was it more a show of strength, a flexing of muscle? Was it a gesture designed for the criminals, or for the press?

  Daphne and Ronald were aghast. Truly aghast. This was the real thing, this was danger, this was life or death. Put beside Robbie's kidnapping their petty concerns paled into insignificance.

  Ron had been working on his indignation when he had heard the news. He had been preparing a confrontation with his wife, and with Quigley, over what he took to be a very serious issue. How dare they slander his father in such a way? Who were they to go poking their noses into his family's past? Had they no respect? Why had he not been consulted, or at least informed? He had also been toying with the idea of accusing them both of treachery, but was not convinced that he should overdo the knife in the back bit, Daphne would just heave a heavy sigh. Heard it too many times. But he had been determined to have his say. Now, after this, he would have to keep it to himself.

  Daphne too had been humbled by this unexpected tragedy. She could see now that she had been mistaken in giving so much importance to things that didn't really matter, at least not compared to recent events. Quilted jackets, for example, had always managed to irritate her, as had cheerless check out girls and their ghastly make up. Men with stubble, brightly coloured cushions, loud radios, the others in a queue..... the list was extensive. Now she acknowledged that this was all no more than her own particular brand of, well, yes, let's be blunt, snobbery. Or rather a question of taste, of personal opinion. Either way nothing transcendental. The lesson learnt, she proudly concluded that next to poor Robbie's abduction her manias and preferences were mere trifles.

  She took her husband's hands in hers and regarded him earnestly.

  ‘Jill says they were really after Paul, and I believe her. We need to speak to him, to get together. I have sent him a copy of.... Anyway, he's coming round this afternoon, so we can thrash it out amongst us.’

  Given him a copy? Slanderers! Who are we to judge? On what flimsy evidence?

  ‘This afternoon. Fine.’

  Trudy needed something to hurl, to smash, but the only thing at hand was a bag of sliced bread. It would have to do. She threw it with all her rage at the window over the sink, where it flopped noiselessly onto the taps, spilling part of its content into the soapy water. She wanted to blame somebody or something – Paul for slipping off without a word, Bobby for his wild improvisation, Danny and Tommy for not stopping him, Chris for being so stupid as to let Bobby in on what was after all a family issue. Or life in general for conspiring against her over and over again. At moments like these she cared not what foul expletives or cruel comments left her twisted, frothing lips. And to hell with the neighbours, too. It was like being drunk. She could rant and spew, break things, dirty her clothes, scream and cry, accuse and abuse, anything was admissible. Eventually, if she didn't manage to calm herself, Chris would intervene. He would have his own moment of fury, then smack (you never punch a woman) Trudy about the head until she stopped fighting back, until she fell to the floor in a pool of tears, dragging down with her whatever object happened to be at hand. The boys had seen it all before and knew the process, even having their own little fits every so often. Once over there would be a day or so of sullen silence, the daily routine would be conducted via monosyllables, but soon enough all would be forgotten. There was no need for forgiveness because losing your rag is natural and happens to everyone.

  Through the ear splitting screams, the destruction of the kitchen and the swearing a message of sorts emerged. Basically they had screwed it. They had gone out hunting deer and had returned with a rabbit. What were they supposed to say to Catherine? Look, we've kidnapped a kid. Wreak your long awaited revenge on him. How co
uld they be so stupid?

  Then she lost her thread a little and started pulling at her hair and screaming 'get rid of it, kill it, kill it, kill it!' It was at this moment that her husband felt obliged to apply treatment. It was also the moment Catherine chose to appear in the doorway.

  News of the kidnapping found Dr. Flynch patrolling the neighbourhood, notebook in hand. What he had discovered so far was not what he had expected, and was not to his liking. He had assumed that the Prior family would run a discreet life, provoking compassion and pity from their neighbours. Surely anyone who had learnt of her terrible fate would be sympathetic and understanding? He knew from his experience that she would maintain a low profile, going out as little as possible and never mentioning her ordeal to anyone other than a very close friend or relative. He assumed that those who knew her story would answer him in whispers, as if afraid that Catherine would overhear them, or perhaps as a form of respect, as in churches or libraries. Others, kept in ignorance, would shrug and have very little to offer. Oh her, they would say, oh we don't see her very much at all. She keeps herself to herself.