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The band was taking a break midway through the gig in the football clubhouse in Stowmarket. The first set had gone well but Nick didn’t have the heart to drift up to the bar with its crush of girls excitedly ordering drinks. His stomach was too raw. He’d had more than enough to drink the previous evening, what with his cocktail bar brush off and split with Gacela. The rest of the band were chatting to Jason’s brother and hanging around the low platform crowded with speakers, amps, keyboard, drums and guitars. Nick craved his own company and wandered outside with a bottle of water.
A large roughly gravelled car park filled the space between the long wooden clubhouse and road. He ambled to his car and leaned against it in the darkness, diluted by arc lamps and passing car headlights. He knew there was no point in checking his mobile again. She wasn’t going to call.
With a sudden compulsive need to know he pulled his mobile from his pocket and checked again for new messages and missed calls. There was nothing from Gacela. The disappointment cut deep, just as deep as the last time he’d looked. But there was something from Matt.
‘Now what’s he’s up to?’ he murmured and opened the text.
Nick – you must come quick. My scooter is crashte. I am at... Nick skimmed across the details.
Had Matt had a smash, an accident? But what could he do? He was part way through the gig and there was no way he could leave. He looked at the location again. Trust Matt to use the postcode as a locater. He opened his Google maps app, and for once had signal. What was the postcode? Damn, he’d forgotten. He flicked and pressed to get back to the text.
‘Hell, Matt. You know I can’t reel off letter and number sequences like you.’
This time he concentrated harder. He held the start of the sequence in his mind as he went back into the Google maps app. ‘It’s a Hadleigh postcode! Why the hell couldn’t you just say somewhere in Hadleigh?’
Oh God, but Matt must have damaged his scooter. And he was in Hadleigh. What if he’d gone to that dodgy garage place?
Nick’s emotions unravelled. ‘I can’t deal with this now,’ he breathed. He pressed his finger on Matt’s message, chose the more option and forwarded it to Chrissie. He pressed her automatic dial number, barely able to wait for her to answer.
‘Hi Nick.’ She sounded surprised.
‘Chrissie? I-I’ve just forwarded you a message from Matt. Look I can’t deal with it now. I’m in the middle of a gig.’
‘Yes something just pinged on my phone, but I can’t open it while I’m on the call. Is it important? Has something happened?’
‘I don’t know. Can I just leave it to you? I’ll call you after the gig. OK?’
•••
‘Is everything all right?’ Clive asked as he carried coffee into their cosy living room.
Chrissie sat on the snug two-seater sofa and concentrated on her phone. ‘I don’t know. Nick’s forwarded me a text from Matt but it seems a bit odd. What do you think?’ She handed him her phone with the text message open for him to read.
‘So you think this is odd? You do know that Matt and odd go hand in hand don’t you?’
‘Hmm, but this is odder than usual.’
‘Nick – you must come quick. My scooter is crashte,’ he read out slowly.
‘Exactly, it just isn’t Matt’s style, Clive. And crashte? Is that a typo or deliberately spelled with a T and an E? I’ll get my laptop.’
It didn’t take her a moment to fetch her laptop from the narrow pine table in the kitchen. ‘You see, I think....’ She let her words drift as she sat down again, flipped up the screen and typed post code identifier in the search box.
‘This is interesting. It’s in Hadleigh, or rather a bit outside Hadleigh, more towards Polstead,’ she muttered.
‘What? What have you found? Oh no, the bloody fool. He’s given the postcode for the car body repair place. The one we’ve had our suspicions about.’
‘Really? So that’s where it is. Hey, I’ve just had a thought.’ She typed crashte into the search box, ‘I was right, it’s a bloody Dutch word. A slip of the tongue for crashed, if you’re Dutch.’
Clive’s phone shrilled with a sudden ringtone.
‘What?’ Clive stood up and paced around as he took the call.
Chrissie watched, anxiety taking hold. She didn’t need to ask, it was obvious something serious was happening.
He ended the call. ‘We’ve had a tipoff. I’ve got to go, Chrissie. Don’t call me, I’ll call you. Radio silence, and all that. This is big.’
‘What? Hey, for God’s sake be careful,’ she called after him. But it was too late; the front door had already slammed.
•••
Matt sat on the concrete floor inside one of the paint spray and curing units. It had felt like forever. Maisie sat clinging to him.
‘I don’t think you ought to have hit Leon with me helmet, Mais,’ he murmured.
‘Why not? He had it comin’.’
‘Yeah, but the thing is, you go smashin’ around with me helmet and well, it can damage its structure.’
‘Can it?’
‘Yeah. An’ now he’s got me helmet. Thank blog me scooter’s with us in here. I’d be worryin’ he were goin’ to ride away on it. You know, steal it.’
‘Ride it? How about we ram the doors and break out on it?’
‘Coz we aint got no scammin’ keys, Mais. Leon’s kept ’em. He’s locked me scooter, top-box, everythin’. All we got is scammin’ maskin’ tape hangin’ off the front plate.’
They lapsed into silence. The bruising on the back of Matt’s calf ached and his shoulders and ribs hurt from fighting the Vespa when he’d tried to stop its fall. He felt empty, drained of emotion. If Maisie hadn’t been clinging to him, he’d have curled into a ball and escaped into his world of comic-strip heroes.
‘What d’you think Leon’s doin’?’ Maisie asked.
‘I reckon he’ll be callin’ Holland. Askin’ for orders.’
‘Do you think he’s goin’ to kill us?’
Matt’s stomach lurched. He couldn’t answer.
‘What’s that grill for?’ she said.
A strip of metal grating ran the length of the floor. Matt had noticed it when they were thrown into the chamber, but he’d been too distressed to check it out. He stood up and walked over to look more closely. It was about nine inches wide, and if he peered through it he could see a steel channel running beneath, about four inches deep.
‘I reckon it’s either for water or it’s ductin’. Floor ductin’. And that up there,’ he pointed at a large box unit, like an air conditioning unit high on one wall, ‘I reckon that blows in air. Then it’s sucked out through the ductin’ on the floor down here.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I reckon it’s for ventilation. Takes away all them paint fumes, an’ if the air’s warmed by them units up there, it’ll be drawn down past whatever they’re workin’ on. Helps with the dryin’.’
‘What’s paint curin’ then, Matt?’
‘I reckon it’s about paint hardenin’ as well as dryin’, but I aint really sure, Mais.’ He didn’t want talk about heat and temperature or think about ovens. Fan assisted ovens.
‘Gacela’s a sneaky bitch,’ Maisie said and stood up to take a peek through the viewing window. ‘I can’t see her out there. I can’t really see anythin’ out there. What d’you think she’d doin’?’
‘I don’t know, Mais.’
‘Just wait till I get me hands on her.’
Crack! Crack! Boom! Brutal sound tore through the silence. It came out of nowhere, heart-stopping, visceral, terrifying.
Maisie screamed and threw herself at Matt. The lights cut out. They dropped to the ground.
‘What’s goin’ on?’
‘Shush, Mais. Keep quiet.’
Matt held onto her, a crouching bear hug of panic. He closed his eyes and shut out the darkness. And waited, heart pounding.
Sounds from the main part of the repair warehouse travelled through the walls of the chamber. Matt strained to hear, listening for voices, but all he picked up were vibrations and dull thuds.
Someone, something rattled the chamber door. His guts twisted. Maisie whimpered. He held his breath. There was a clunk right outside, then scratching as whatever had been used to jam the door handle was detached. The door opened. Matt steeled himself for a blinding shaft of light. There was nothing, just darkness. They clung to each other. He heard footsteps, slow, measured, relentless. They headed straight for him.
‘Police! Hands in the air where I can see them,’ a voice hissed, distorted.
Maisie disentangled her arm from his while Matt held his hands high.
‘Names!’ the voice demanded.
‘Matt Finch.’ His eyes stung.
‘Yeah, an’ I’m Maisie,’ she coughed.
‘I’ve got ’em. Last package complete, Sir.’
The lights flashed on. Matt blinked at a man dressed in black and wearing a flak jacket, helmet, night vision goggles and breathing mask. He held an automatic weapon.
‘What’s goin’ on, Matt?’ Maisie whimpered.
‘It’s scamming tear gas getting’ in,’ Matt wheezed and rubbed at his eyes, while his nose streamed. ‘Shut the fraggin’ door, can you!’
