They bundled us into the back of a car. Blindfolded. Directed by rough hands.
I wondered if we would look suspicious to other drivers. Would anyone notice that something was wrong? I hadn’t seen the car they threw us into. Maybe the windows were tinted. No one seemed to stop us along the way. Not noticing or not caring. We rolled along at what seemed like a normal pace. No sharp turns. No sudden or unexpected bursts of speed.
If I was a movie hero, a John McClane type, I might have made some dumb-ass move, try overpowering the guys with the guns. Maybe wound up rolling out a moving vehicle, holding Mary close to protect her at the car slammed into a wall at speed and burst into an improbably fireball.
All of this, of course while blindfolded. And, if I really was John McClane, shoeless as well.
But I was just an ordinary man in his late thirties. I’d taken my share of violence. And dished some out as well. The truth was, I made a move any of these bastards didn’t like, I’d end up dead. Either with a bullet or just with my neck snapped or throat sliced. The only moves I could make were to keep still and keep cooperative.
The drive took about twenty-five minutes. We were pulled out of the car and on to uneven ground. Forced to walk by men who pushed us around roughly. I nearly went down twice, my feet failing to gain purchase on broken paving slabs.
We were led into a place with bare floors. The rough hands forced us upstairs. I figured the building for residential in design, but currently unoccupied. I didn’t know where we were. Were we still within the city limits?
Finally we were shoved into a room that had been carpeted. Recently. I could see a little beneath the bottom of the blindfold. The carpet had that quality of being freshly laid. No stains, the fibres still strong.
Our blindfolds were ripped off. I blinked a few times. Brought the world back into focus. Got my bearings as best I could. Mary was next to me. Trying to remain stoic. She may have claimed that her greatest fear was that her husband would come home in a body bag; now she was every bit as frightened for her own life.
Did she know who Bako was? Did she know his reputation?
The room was laid out like an office. Big desk. Carpeted floors. Walls hung with prints of city scenes from around the globe. A laptop on the desk humming quietly away. Even a plant. They’d turned a shell of a building into a home away from home with all the unique personality of a Travel Lodge reception.
Behind the desk, a man sat bolt upright in a leather chair. His hands were on the desk, palms down. He had a peculiar expression as he looked at me and Mary Burns: a scientist scrutinizing the subjects of his latest experiment.
He was thin. His face was gaunt; a young Christopher Lee. His eyes were sunk back in his head, giving him a corpse-like appearance. I remembered an undertaker telling me once how after death, the eyes dipped deeper into the skull. How you had to force them up again for funerals to give the illusion of life.
This, then, was the Zombie.
Sharp suit, tie tight round his neck, shirt and jacket fitted impeccably. I imagined he had a row of identical suits all pressed and steamed and ready to go each morning. He probably changed clothes at least three times a day to ensure he always gave off the perfect impression. I’d met men like him before. Most of them in finance.
You finally meet the bogeyman and he looks like the manager of your local bank.
No one had ever seen Bako. As he disappeared into his own legend, so any traces he had left behind vanished as well. All anyone had ever seen were old, blurred photos. They could have been the man in front of me. But maybe not. All the same, this man spoke with the authority of the Zombie. And maybe my doubts came from my recent dealings with Nairn. When people lie to you enough times, you find it hard to believe that anyone is telling the truth.
Bako said, ‘You will not be harmed.’ Heavily accented. But his syntax and grammar were impeccable.
‘That’s reassuring.’
‘I was talking to Mrs Burns.’
I shut my mouth. But it was too late. He smiled. He’d got to me. My first mistake. Certainly wasn’t going to be my last.
‘You will not be harmed,’ he said again, ignoring me. ‘All your husband has to do is agree to work with us. That is all. We will share his operations, his income. He will have a good life. If he does what he is told.’
Mary said nothing.
Bako turned to look at me. Grinned. His teeth were dental-work white. ‘And you, my friend … I know who you are. What you are. You have been working against Burns, have you not? You are a police informant. He has been a fool not to kill you. Maybe he has sentimental feelings?’
I hoped to God that Bako was as much of a fool as the old man.
‘But you are a man whose morality is flexible. I know you, Mr McNee. Have heard about you. You have killed. Broken the laws you once upheld. Perhaps there is hope for you. A place for you.’
He was messing with me. Say yes, and I was a traitor to my old boss. Say no and he would kill me.
As I weighed my options, the door opened. A woman entered. Tall, elegant, long, dark hair brushed straight down her back. In her mid-forties, maybe, but looking good on it. She wore little makeup but her skin was flawless. She walked to Bako, leaned down and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, and then dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
She looked at me as she walked out the room. Her eyes were cold. I thought of lizards, of a snake regarding a small animal as a potential snack.
Bako gestured to one of the three men who had brought us here. The man leaned close while Bako said something that I didn’t understand. The big man laughed.
He walked up to me and said, ‘Come.’
‘Where?’
‘To pub. For drink.’
Everyone in the room laughed. Except Mary.
And me.