Camberwell
Margaret Wilson spooned sugar into the two mugs and then walked to the back door. “Tea, dear!” she called down the immaculately tended garden. The neat, bright green lawn, bordered on both sides by beds of multi-colored flowers, only extended about twenty feet before it ended in George’s dark-stained wooden shed. It was a tiny patch of nature in their city street, but it was George’s pride and joy.
Margaret frowned when no answering call came. The window of the shed reflected the slightly overcast sky, acting more like a mirror, and she couldn’t see any movement inside. The gate in the red brick wall behind the shed, which led out onto their narrow back lane, was closed, so George hadn’t stepped out there to the bins.
She shook her head and smiled to herself. Poor old fellow, his hearing was beginning to fail. She’d noticed him regularly nudging the volume up on the television in the evenings, casting sidelong glances at her to see if she noticed. Her nose was usually buried in a book and she pretended to be oblivious.
She picked up the mugs and headed along the flagstone path, like stepping stones through the grass. The shed door was slightly ajar and she nudged it open with one foot, careful not to spill the tea.
“Made you a cuppa, dear,” she said. Her scream of horror drowned the crash of the mugs smashing against the concrete footing of the shed. Hot tea splashed over her feet and legs. She ignored the distant pain of the scalding liquid and stared wide-eyed into the barrel of the pistol leveled at her face, not two feet from her nose. Behind it was a hard-faced man, teeth bared in a grimace, and behind him sat George, tied into the chair in front of his wooden desk, black masking tape pressed tightly over his mouth. His eyes were wide and terrified above the gag and he moved his head left and right in impotent denial. Muffled grunts and groans made it through, but no words.
Margaret stood motionless but for the trembling that racked her entire body. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was suddenly too dry to accomplish such a simple task.
The man’s grimace turned into a mean smile. “Very good of you to save me a trip up to the house. No need to sneak in now.”
“What do you want?” Margaret’s voice wavered on the verge of tears. George’s wide eyes narrowed in empathetic pain.
The man moved aside from the door and gestured with the gun. “Do come inside.”
George shook his head more vigorously, but what choice did she have? If she tried to run the man might shoot her anyway. And he was young and fit, would easily overtake her if she bolted. She wouldn’t even make it to the back door, despite the distance across the garden being so small. She stepped inside and the man pointed to a pile of plastic sacks of fertilizer. It was a ridiculous amount for such a small garden.
“It’ll take you years to use all that!” she had said the day George brought it all home from the garden center.
“But it was on sale, dear,” he had replied. “I simply couldn’t ignore a bargain like that. It was less than half price.”
Margaret sat and shook her head at the ridiculous train of thought, remembering such pointless minutiae of life. Then again, that was real life, wasn’t it? All those little things, those seemingly insignificant interactions that actually made up the vast majority of every day lived.
“What do you want?” she asked again. “Money? We don’t have much, but you can have it. Please, just don’t hurt us.”
“I don’t need your money. Information is what I’m after.”
Margaret nodded slightly. She had assumed that would be the case. Danny’s disappearance, then the strange visit from Rose Black and her friend the day before. Something very strange was going on, and she and George had inadvertently stumbled right into the middle of it. Or perhaps it had stumbled right into the middle of them. “Information?” she asked.
“The whereabouts of Rose Black and her friend.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know...” Margaret’s voice choked into silence as the man surged forward and pressed the gun barrel hard into her sternum. It was cold through her light blouse, and he ground it painfully into the bone.
“You see, I think you do know, Mrs. Wilson. And I am absolutely certain you will tell me.”
Margaret shook her head, adrenaline pulsing up, her heart slamming against her ribs. “But I really don’t know...”
“We know she was here yesterday,” the man shouted, spittle flying from his lips.
Margaret flinched, clutched her hands together. “Yes, she was here yesterday. But I couldn’t help them and I don’t know where they went. I don’t know where they are!” Her voice rose shrill in panic.
The man leaned closer, his breath stale and redolent with old tobacco and coffee. “I think you do, and I think you’ll be telling me. How are you at dealing with pain?” He lowered the gun barrel to press against her kneecap.
Margaret began to cry, muttering, “No, no, no.”
George’s muffled protestations grew louder, more violent. He rocked the chair he was tied to as he thrashed.
The armed man spun to face him, pressed his gun to George’s knee and George suddenly stilled. “Or how are you at watching your loved ones bleed?” he wondered. “Now I’ll ask you again. Where is Rose Black?”