Chris Simms graduated from Newcastle University then travelled round the world before moving to Manchester in 1994. Since then he has worked as a freelance copywriter for advertising agencies throughout the city. The idea for his first novel, Outside the White Lines, came to him one night when broken down on the hard shoulder of a motorway. His latest series features DC Iona Khan and is set in Manchester.
The place is quiet. Always is last thing on a Friday. Guy in a Volvo estate dragging sheets of cardboard out of the boot. An old lady – sixty-five, seventy? – she’s at the railings, dropping all of three jars down into the recycling container for glass. Why drive all the way out to the edge of town for that? Daft old bat, should have used the collection-point at the local supermarket.
I look around the little cabin. These bloody things shouldn’t be here. Mutilated teddies. Heads of decapitated dolls. Action figures with missing limbs. I recognise that one – it was on the telly the other day. Stupid advert: garish and shouty and too fast. Military drums, camera swooping jerkily down from the sky to a close-up of the manikin. Transfigurer, was it? Something like that.
Next to it on the windowsill is a grotesquely-muscled wrestler, face contorted in a snarl. He only has one arm – and that’s been placed round the slender shoulders of a naked female figurine. Her legs make up two thirds of her height, pinched waist and high, jutting breasts. But she has no hair and her eyes are missing. Is it any wonder the country’s going down the pan? Kids playing with this kind of rubbish.
Need to put a message out to the site staff: no collecting items deposited in the containers. This is a council tip, not an opportunity to amass unwanted toys.
The Volvo bloke’s carrying the cardboard towards the wrong container. Imbecile. I fold the copy of the local newspaper on the article about another young adult going missing. ‘Excuse me, sir. That’s for non-recyclable waste.’
He turns to the half-open door of the cabin with a lost look. I step fully out, and zip up my fluorescent tabard. ‘Cardboard goes in number four. The one to your left.’
He’s staring at me like I’m speaking a foreign language.
‘Number four,’ I repeat. ‘To your left – that’s the one for cardboard, sir.’
In the restricted-access area below us, the JCB revs its engine. The vehicle’s cabin has been raised up to its maximum height. The front of it is fitted with a long pair of hydraulic arms that clutch a cast-iron scoop. This allows the driver to reach over into the various containers and rake smooth the piles of debris within. But more often, he simply uses the heavy bucket like a pile-driver, smashing it down to compress everything inside.
The member of the public nods at number four. ‘This one, you say?’
A safe guess, I want to reply, judging by the three-foot-high sign marked with the word ‘cardboard’ attached to the front of it. I incline my head in agreement and he slings his armful of squashed boxes over the railing. They drop down into the container where, in due course, they’ll be battered lower by Rick, the JCB driver.
The vehicle approaches the waste-to-energy container and the scoop hits the mound of bin-liners that have built up in one corner. Plastic bursts and the shrivelled remains of carrots and potatoes tumble out. The bucket lifts and drops again, sending a chicken carcass scurrying down the slope. It comes to rest behind a fading bunch of carnations, as if it’s hiding there. The cloying smell of rotting fruit wafts up. Lorry will be here soon to ferry that lot to the incinerator at the borough’s main site.
I watch as Rick backs the JCB away. There shouldn’t be that silly registration plate propped up behind the vehicle’s windscreen. CD R1C. Not CD now, though. Not since I banned him from listening to music while working. Ear protectors? A valid item, perfectly permissible for a site such as this. Not earphones, though. That’s a safety hazard, plain and simple.
The JCB’s engine growls as he heads off to the container reserved for timber. The one for small household appliances looks a bit full, too. Get that collected first thing tomorrow morning.
The old Cortina passing under the height barrier at the entrance catches my eye. Hey up, it’s them again. Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee. A right pair, these two. Quick glance at my watch: six fifty-five. Always the same. Seconds ahead of when the lorry arrives to take the waste-to-energy container away.
As I walk down the ramp to unlock the main gates in readiness for the lorry turning up, their battered old Cortina stops alongside the container for unwanted clothing. One bag goes in, but the flap isn’t able to close completely. Thing must need emptying, too.
Here comes the lorry, as I knew it would. ‘Evening, Harry,’ I say to the driver as he slows to a halt. ‘How’s things back at base?’
He gives me an awkward glance as I swing the gates open. ‘Same old, same old.’
As he steers the lorry towards the waste-to-energy container, I can see Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee standing at the railings above it. Even though one’s lost most of his black curls, they must be twins. The same jowelly-cheeks and squashed-out bottom lip. Sad, droopy eyes that are devoid of life. Open-mouth-breathers – that’s what Trevor, my ex-policeman friend, calls their type. Both are wearing hideous, cheap-looking leather jackets that end in thick elasticated waistbands. Shapeless jeans tucked into black wellington boots that are caked in manure, or something similar.
Every time they reach over to drop a shoebox-sized package into the container, the waistbands of their leather jackets ride up over their fat stomachs. Tugging them back down in unison, they turn to the boot of their car and repeat the process, avoiding eye-contact with me all the while. Something’s not right about them, I just know it.
The fruit machine lets out a burst of flashing light. Coins chunter into the tray. I look at the young man playing it and sigh. ‘Bloody thing. Why did Dave let them put it in?’
‘Brewery said so,’ Trevor replied. ‘Dave’s hands were tied.’
‘Well, even so. He could have insisted.’ I turn to my friend of over fifty years. Trevor and I schooled together. Two young lads in baggy shorts, our barm-cakes in snap-boxes over our shoulders.
I got a job with the council – or Corporation, as it was once known. Trevor went into the police. Rose to sergeant before retiring last year. Every Friday we meet for a pint, come rain or shine. You need routine in life. Everyone does.
I take a sip of Mild and adjust a beer mat before setting my glass down. ‘Another went missing this week, I see from the local paper.’
‘Another what?’ He sits back, a hand resting on each knee.
‘A lad. Or vulnerable young adult, as they like to call them. Which means one from that council care home in the town. It’s up near the old mill, apparently.’
Trevor is watching my hands. He has an uncomfortable expression on his face. I turn a beer mat over and study its underside. ‘That’s the second one in three months that’s vanished. Gone.’
‘Teenagers like that are always going missing. Dozens disappeared during my time in the job. They run away. We catch them and take them back. They run away again. It’s all a big game.’
‘I haven’t heard of these two being caught.’
Trevor sips on his beer and then passes a knuckle across his moustache, smearing a trace of foam into the bristles. ‘And your thoughts on this are?’
I stare down at my drink then reach across to the neighbouring table for a fresh beer mat. ‘There are these two men who turn up at the tip …’
‘The Glen Hill site?’
There’s an edge in his voice. I don’t need to glance up to know his right eye will have narrowed. ‘That’s correct. This pair, they always show last thing on a Friday. It’s like they wait out on the main road for the lorry that comes from the main processing site.’
‘From Shawcross?’
I nod. ‘Comes to pick up the waste-to-energy container. For the big incinerator they put in there last year.’
‘You told me all about it. Enormous thing.’
I lift my gaze. His arms are crossed and he’s examining the wall above me. ‘Well, anyway. They were there again today. Same routine. Just before the container’s winched onto the back of the lorry, they drop these packages in and are on their way.’
Trevor’s now staring directly at me. The corner of his eye twitches. ‘And?’
‘Last thing on a Friday, Trevor. That’s when staffing levels are at their lowest. Just me and the JCB driver by then – and as soon as the clock hits seven you can’t see him for dust. The main processing site will be the same.’
‘I’m struggling to see why you’re so concerned.’
‘They’re up to something. It’s not normal to have a regular routine for dropping off rubbish. Not domestic, anyway. The contents of that container will go direct into the incinerator – within hours, it’s ash. Nothing survives the temperature in that thing. Not even bones.’ I give him a meaningful look. ‘I know the lazy bunch at the main site won’t be inspecting it. Not last thing on a Friday. They’ll all be clock-watching.’
‘Peter, are you forgetting why you’re now supervising the Glen Hill site and not the main one at Shawcross?’
I feel my teeth clench. I knew he’d bring this up. ‘They were guilty. Just because I didn’t catch them red-handed—’
‘You accused your co-workers of taking backhanders. Formally accused them.’
‘And they were.’
‘But you weren’t able to produce any evidence. You hid yourself on that site for how many nights?’
I say nothing.
‘Not once did you witness them allowing commercial vehicles through. But you ignored me and went ahead with the accusation. Peter, if it wasn’t for your circumstances, you wouldn’t have got away with a formal—’
‘They were doing it!’
The young man at the fruit machine glances over, eyebrows raised. Behind the bar, Dave pauses in the act of hanging up a wine glass. I see a reflection of myself in the mirror on the opposite wall. My temples and cheekbones seem to stand out more sharply than I remember them. There’s a gap between the collar of my shirt and my neck. The knot of my tie looks too big. ‘They were doing it,’ I repeat more quietly, reaching to the next table for another beer mat.
‘Peter, are you … have you been …?’
‘Taking my blood pressure pills? Yes, thank you for asking. I have.’
‘You seem agitated. Was Dr Phillips happy with this latest lot when you last saw him?’
‘He was.’
‘It’s just that when you change medications, there can be side effects. I know with my brother’s blood pressure – when they tried him on a different one it triggered off all kinds of things. Itching, insomnia, all sorts …’
‘I’m fine, Trevor. I lost my wife, that’s all. She had the medical condition, not me.’ The pain of Linda suddenly going is back. ‘Would that it was me,’ I whisper, adjusting the mat’s position on the table.
Trevor places a hand across my forearm. ‘Peter?’
‘I’m fine.’
He doesn’t answer and I look up to see him regarding the table between us. At its centre are eight beer mats. I’ve arranged them in as near to a diamond-shape as possible. But I need a ninth to complete the pattern. There are no more on the next table. It frustrates me, the fact my arrangement is flawed.
Resignedly, Trevor lifts his drink and slides his mat over.
‘Thanks.’ I fit it into place and some of the tightness in my chest recedes.
Trevor clears his throat. ‘These two men who keep showing up. They’re concerning you because …?’
‘You could check with your old colleagues, couldn’t you? I noted down the registration of their vehicle.’
Trevor’s shoulders sag.
‘And there’s this,’ I continue, reaching under the bench to retrieve the plastic bag.
He sends an uneasy glance toward the bar. Dave is nowhere to be seen. ‘What’s in there?’
‘They dropped it off this afternoon – in Oxfam’s clothing container. I managed to pull it back out once I’d closed up.’ Using the tips of my fingers, I open out the crumpled plastic so Trevor can see in. The muscle in the corner of his right eye is going off as he leans forward slightly, arms tightly crossed. ‘What is it?’
‘A men’s top. Not men’s – more a teenager’s. The label says Super Dry. You can tell it’s for a youngster.’ I start to take it out.
‘Leave it be,’ Trevor hisses. His hands are still tucked firmly under his armpits. ‘Put it back on the floor, for Christ’s sake.’
‘What would two men like that have a teenager’s item of clothing for?’ I can see he won’t say another word until it is safely out of sight. I slide it beneath where I’m sitting. ‘Do you want their vehicle’s registration?’
The fingers of his left hand emerge from beneath his right arm. A forefinger taps against his jumper. ‘I’m worried you’re getting fixated again, Peter. Like with your colleagues at the Shawcross site.’
I immediately shake my head. ‘They’re up to something. It’s bloody obvious.’
‘Do you feel unsettled? How often have you been washing your hands lately?’
‘The hand-washing is under control. This isn’t about me.’
He drops a heavy glance at the beer mats. The slight crumpling in the corner of the third one on the right mars the diamond’s appearance. Knowing he’s now scrutinising me, I fight the temptation to turn the mat over. But I know the underside will be nice and smooth. I know it.
‘What’s this registration, then?’ he sighs, reaching for his jacket on the next seat.
But I produce my piece of paper quicker. ‘Here, I wrote it down earlier.’
Five-to-seven. Intently, I watch the approach to the main entrance. They’re normally here by now. Rick is reversing the JCB into its corner and, as the diesel engine chokes to a halt, I hear the puffing hiss of a lorry applying its brakes. Harry, turning into the side road that leads to the site. No Cortina is ahead of him as the lorry comes into view and pulls up beyond the main gate. Where’s the Cortina? Where is it?
‘Boss!’
I blink and look to my right. Rick is leaning out of the JCB’s cab, gesturing to the main gates.
I raise a hand in acknowledgement and extract my set of keys from the jacket behind the cabin’s door. Why didn’t they show? The local paper is open on page five. An update on the missing teenager. A possible sighting over in Liverpool, where his family was originally from. I can’t help feeling irritated. By breaking their routine, the two brothers have disturbed mine.
As I stride down the ramp, I hear Rick’s car starting up over in the spaces reserved for staff vehicles. With him setting off home, my Honda is the last car left.
Once Harry’s driven the lorry through, I walk round to the public entry point. Even as I swing the barriers shut, I’m listening for the sound of their Cortina behind me. But it doesn’t come.
Within minutes, Harry has winched the waste-to-energy container up onto the rear of the lorry. As he drives back out I give him a farewell nod. He doesn’t turn his head. His name was on the list I submitted to the Regional Manager.
After padlocking the main gates, I make my way back up the ramp to the cabin at the far end of the railings. The route takes me past the row of cages for car batteries, oil containers and hazardous chemicals. But it’s the cages that draw my eye. The thick wire mesh and solid hinges of the doors it is now my duty to secure. A person could never break free once shut inside. Especially a young one. I wonder where the twins live: how private their home might be. Did they live alone, the two of them? At the end of an isolated lane like this one? Did it have outbuildings or cellars where a cage like one of these could be concealed?
I continue back to the cabin to get my jacket. The site is now quiet, everything packed away in its place. A group of crows have alighted in the tallest tree in the copse behind the rear fence. The containers have eliminated the problem of vermin, but there’s nothing that can be done about the crows that swoop down the moment the place is free of people. Every dusk they appear, creatures of habit as much as any other. As much as me.
The interior of the cabin is nice and tidy. No plastic flowers in salvaged vases. No silly toys lining the windowsill. No decorations nailed to the walls. Just my notice saying such items are not permitted. Looking over the restricted-access area one last time, I realise I’ve forgotten to tell Rick that his personalised number-plate cannot remain in the JCB’s cab.
‘So.’ I place my pint in the centre of a beer mat and sit back. It’s obvious Trevor has news. There’s a tenseness about him. Stored information that has to come out.
The young man at the fruit machine taps futilely at the plastic buttons before turning round. ‘Dave, this bloody thing’s just swallowed my money.’
The landlord frowns. ‘What did you put in?’
‘Two quid.’
He comes out from behind the bar and also presses a couple of buttons. ‘Strange, thing’s completely dead.’
I make sure no amusement shows on my face.
The young customer nods. ‘Refund button, included.’
Dave’s crouched down and is peering round the back. ‘Bloody plug’s come out. Cleaners, I should think.’
Trevor narrows his eyes at me and I sip innocently at my drink.
‘I had a quiet word,’ he murmurs.
‘And?’
He crosses his arms and raises both shoulders in a slow shrug. It’s his way of saying, I’m not sure. What’s the best choice of saloon car? The slow shrug. Would he recommend the hotel he and Margaret booked in Tenerife? The slow shrug. Pros and cons. Advantages and disadvantages. Good news and bad news.
‘What did you find out?’ I ask.
Trevor gives me an unhappy look. ‘Neither of the missing two lads were wearing a maroon top from Super Dry when they disappeared. Where is the thing, anyway?’
‘In my garage. Safe and sound.’ The news about the top isn’t causing Trevor’s glum expression. ‘What about where they live? Did you get an address?’
He nods.
‘Well?’
‘I’ll tell you on one condition, OK?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll need to tell me, first.’
Suddenly, he looks irritated. And tired. ‘This isn’t you playing bloody Miss Marple. If I tell you this, you agree to leave those two brothers alone …’
‘So they are brothers?’ My mind is like the fruit machine: connections lighting up. The police know about them. Why?
‘Twins. Non-identical. Walter and Stanley Eggerton.’
‘What have they done?’
He leans forward and lowers his voice. ‘They’ve not done anything – which is why you must drop your … suspicions.’
I wait for more.
Trevor takes a good sip of his beer before continuing. ‘They had an older brother called Cedric. Twenty-three years ago, he killed their parents at the farmhouse where they all lived. Up in Northumberland, it was. Walter and Stanley were eleven. Older brother was seventeen. The dad’s Land Rover was found abandoned at the ferry port in Hull. A blood-stained axe was lying across the backseat. The older brother was sentenced in absentia.’
‘My God.’
‘Exactly. The twins moved to the place out near Glen Hill almost nine years ago. Only a few know about the family history – social services and the local police. You’re not either of those.’ He stares at me without blinking. ‘Point taken?’
I fumble for a spare beer mat, pick it up and put it down. I want to ask where Walter and Stanley were when it happened. Did they witness the murders? How come the older brother spared them? But I know Trevor won’t tell me any more, even if he knew. ‘Where is this place they live?’
‘It’s a big cottage. Out past that mill. Very isolated.’
I look up, keeping my thoughts from my face. But Trevor is studying his drink as he adds, ‘They don’t lead the kind of life you or I would class as normal.’
From the battered old Cortina and their Seventies clothes, I could tell that.
‘It’s just the two of them out there, for a start. And loads of dogs, apparently. They breed them in the out buildings. They also take in waifs and strays. The RSPCA have visited a few times following complaints from walkers passing near the property.’
‘Cruelty?’
He gives his slow shrug. ‘Not malicious. More born of ignorance. They’re just not very bright, according to the person I spoke to. The place is a tip. Very badly maintained. But they do their best by the animals; they certainly don’t keep them in any worse conditions than they live in themselves.’
I think about how their wellington boots are always encased in a crust of dried-out muck. Disgusting.
‘Now you know. And last thing, Peter – they buy bones, offal and the like from the two butchers out in Glen Hill. For their kennels. So, the packages they drop off could well contain bones and similar. I don’t know. I just didn’t want you retrieving one like you did that maroon top and jumping to the wrong conclusion.’
‘Bones and similar? Are the kennels out at this farm commercial?’
He cocks his head. ‘I don’t know. Why?’
‘Because if they are, they shouldn’t be dumping refuse at a facility for domestic waste. That’s illegal.’
Trevor’s eyes close for a long second. ‘Peter, you said it’s just a few shoebox-size packages. Be reasonable.’
I wanted to say that was a fine attitude to take for an ex-police officer. Instead I adjusted the positioning of the three beer mats before me. The triangle of space between them wasn’t quite a perfect equilateral.
‘So you’ll let this go now,’ Trevor states. It wasn’t a question: it was an order.
I sit back. ‘I have my responsibilities, Trevor. And ensuring the facility is used correctly is one of them.’
‘You only know what you do because I told you. And I told you on the condition you let it go.’ Two red dots had formed high on his cheeks. ‘That information was passed to me by an old colleague doing me a favour. You cannot act on it.’
I say nothing.
‘White vans pull up outside the entrances to tips all the time. I’ve seen them on a Sunday. People unloading all sorts and carrying it up to the containers. Old sinks, broken tiles, all sorts. You know as well as I do that’s commercial waste.’
‘We’re in the process of clamping down on that type of activity.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Peter. Leave the pair of them alone. Promise me you will.’
‘I can’t do that, Trevor.’
‘You’d bloody better.’ He seizes his coat and stands.
Over half his drink is still on the table. ‘You’ve not finished,’ I say, peering up at him.
He glowers down. ‘Forget it. And forget next Friday, I’ll make other plans.’
‘But how will you get home?’ I ask as he walks away. ‘I drove you out here, remember?’
He waves goodbye to Dave and steps out of the door. I can’t understand. That’s a ten-pound taxi fare, right there. And no meeting up next Friday? That’s over thirty years of tradition, that. Surely he didn’t mean it.
A watched pot never boils, as they say – and Friday seemed to take an age to arrive. When it did, the day started with something that stopped me in my tracks. One of the lads had left a copy of the local paper in the cabin and there it was on page two: another young person had vanished from the council home up near the mill. They’d included a photo of him – fourteen years old, black hair and pimples on his forehead. His eyes were older though. Like they’d watched things happen. Bad things.
The rest of the day crawled by, the arrival of each car a welcome distraction. Old mattresses, their secret stains exposed to the day. Rolled-up carpets, broken cabinets, warped buggies – over the railings they all went. Flocks of magazines, pages flapping as they fell. An aquarium with a tidemark where the level of water once stood. What had lived and died in there? It shattered outwards on hitting the bottom of the container.
The levels of rubbish would gradually rise up and every so often Rick squashed down each container’s contents, the vehicle’s arms whining with the effort of supporting the sheer weight of the great bucket.
Finally, five o’clock arrived and the bulk of the day shift made swiftly for their cars. Six o’clock and just the skeleton crew remained. Six thirty and they started looking hopefully to me for permission to leave a bit early. Only three cars had dropped off in the last twenty minutes. I surveyed the site. The restricted-access area had been swept. Everything was in order. The waste-to-energy container was three-quarters full, the exposed metal of its inner sides moist from where lobbed bags had burst.
All that refuse would be going nowhere tonight. Not if Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee arrived with their usual deposit. ‘Have a good weekend, lads.’
They grunted their thanks and started filing across to their cars.
I settled onto my stool in the cabin.
Five-to-seven and the Cortina appeared. My heart gave a little jump. The lorry was twenty metres behind. The Cortina made its way up the ramp and backed in towards the railings. I watched from the corner of my eye as they climbed out. The one with the full head of hair opened the boot of the car and I could see a layer of boxes inside sitting on a sheet of plastic. Do they think I’m stupid? I make my way down to the main gates as they start dropping packages down.
‘Evening, Harry,’ I say through the chain-link fence. ‘Pick up for the energy-to-waste container is rescheduled. Tomorrow morning, now.’
His eyebrows lift. ‘Since when?’
‘About one minute ago.’
His jaw was set tight as he rammed the gear into reverse. ‘Could have let me know before I set off all the way out here,’ he mutters, eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror as he backs away.
After closing the barriers for the car entrance, I turn on my heel and march up the ramp. Rick had just parked the JCB in its corner. He poked his head out of the cab. ‘Boss?’
‘You can go,’ I say.
The twins were standing at the railings, looking down at me with mouths half-open. The lorry’s engine roared as Harry trundled back toward the main road. ‘Site’s now closed,’ I call out to them. ‘Can you please leave the premises.’
They hesitate and I see the balder one’s eyes shift to the boxes that now lay on top of the bin bags some twelve feet below. Too far for you to reach, I thought triumphantly. But not too far for me and my ladder. ‘Please move your car, we’re closed.’
The curly-haired one looks at his brother, then at the JCB, then at me. He was close to tears. They both were.
‘On your way now,’ I say, copying the tone Dave uses in the Rising Sun at closing time. The interior of the pub flashes up in my mind. Trevor has made no attempt to call me all week. And it’s his turn to drive. Maybe there’d be a message waiting for me at home. Perhaps he’d just show up at the normal time like nothing had happened.
The boot of the Cortina bangs shut and, moments later, they drive slowly past, faces pale behind the windscreen. I watch the vehicle start down the exit ramp then unhitch the cat-ladder from the side of the cabin.
The crows are back, their hunched forms shifting impatiently on their perches. Rick’s car starts up as I lay the aluminium ladder across the railings above the waste-to-energy container. I slide it outwards, letting the feet gradually drop closer to the bumpy surface of bags. I’d judged it just right: the ladder’s hooked ends fitted over the uppermost railing, allowing me to climb across the narrow gap then down the sloping succession of rungs and into the container itself.
The smell seemed to have pooled within the sheer metal walls – a heavy cabbage-like aroma laced every now and again with the sharper notes of rotting meat. By the time I step off the final rung, the sky has been reduced to a rectangle of darkening blue above me. The boxes are to my right. Unsteadily, I make my way across the marshy surface. My foot sinks into a crevice and I have to place a hand onto a bin bag to keep my balance. On the other side of the thin plastic, something cold and lumpy shifts.
The uppermost box is now in reach and I remove the Stanley knife from my tabard. The blade slices through the wrapping of gaffer tape securing its end. I shake it gently and bones cascade out. Not chicken ones; too big. And with ragged fragments of red meat clinging to them. The ends are bloody stumps, sinew and tendons poking out like bad wiring. Cow bones? Sheep? As I open a second box and shake it, the sound of the JCB starts up. Rick. I thought he’d set off home.
A clump of debris drops out. Clots of hair. Black hair. And an ear. A human ear. Oh God. Oh dear God. I twist my torso round, flailing desperately with my arms as I begin to fall. My right hand makes contact with the edge of the ladder and I’m able to drag myself across the slippery surface, kicking and scrabbling with my feet all the while. By the time I make it onto the lowermost rungs, my front is dripping with slime and fragments of food.
Gagging, I climb up a few more rungs and the main part of the site comes into view. Oh, thank God: Rick is still here – back in the JCB. I’m about to shout when I realise he’s talking to a pair of people at the locked main gate. The twins. Their Cortina is parked just outside. Their fingers are hooked in the fencing and they’re nodding eagerly as Rick continues to speak down at them from the vehicle’s cab. Then the curly-haired one sees me and points. Rick looks over and immediately grabs the wheel. The metal bucket raises up, several hundred kilos of cast iron. As the vehicle rapidly approaches the container I’m inside, the twins watch in dead-eyed silence.
I would shout to Rick. Call the police! Those two are murderers! Ring for help! But I know it’s futile. My eyes are glued to the registration plate propped behind the windscreen. I realise the letters spell a name. CD R1C. The family resemblance is suddenly clear. The same pouting bottom lip, the over-hanging cheeks. And I cannot move. Even as he manoeuvres the bucket directly above me and reaches for the lever, I cannot move.