Tom hastily made his way back to the Whistling Pig, feeling more sober than when he’d rushed after Maynard in an attempt to placate the situation.
How he wished he’d never bothered.
Sweat poured down his face as he skittered across the road and slammed back through the doors of the pub.
Fuck. Had they seen him? Those bastards had near on run him over at the alleyway, so they must have, but they hadn’t stopped… And if they hadn’t stopped, they didn’t know who he was, which was good at least.
‘Another Jack Daniel’s,’ Tom barked at the barman. ‘A large one.’
They couldn’t have seen him. It was okay. And he was glad about that because he knew who they were.
That was a Stoker driving that van. A fucking Stoker. Although it was dusk and Tom had been initially more concerned by not becoming roadkill, he’d got enough of a glance through the driver’s window to recognise those eyes which he’d spotted a mile off. It was a Stoker and they’d got Maynard.
Slugging the double whisky down his throat in one go, Tom immediately handed his glass back to the barman. ‘Same again,’ he muttered.
He was in the shit, pure and simple.
Fucked. Finito.
Well, that was it then. Now it was only a matter of time before they came for him. Bollocks.
Sweat drenched the collar of Tom’s grubby polo shirt. He’d been so close to pulling everything off. So close.
Wait! Being as Maynard had been lifted rather than him, then Stoker must think he was the one behind everything?
A grin slid across Tom’s raddled face. It was plausible, so there was still a chance.
He frowned. Or should he leg it? He could leg it right now before they caught up with him.
Nodding his thanks to the barman for the refill, Tom pulled a fiver from his pocket and chucked it on the bar, double-checking his little stash wasn’t caught in the crumpled bank note. That would be the final insult. The way things were going, he’d need all of his gear tonight.
He stumbled back to his table, brushing off the girls’ attention. ‘Fuck off a minute, will you?’ he hissed. ‘I need to think.’
Sitting on the rickety stool, Tom glared at the bloke still playing something hideous on the Bontempi. So, should he go? Disappear back up to Macclesfield?
Tom frowned. No. He’d already jumped ship once and wasn’t doing it again. If he couldn’t get what he was owed, then he may as well throw himself off a cliff for all the good it would do him otherwise. He wasn’t upping and leaving Birmingham for the second time because of them, the Reynolds and John Maynard. The next time he left this city would be of his own choosing, not anyone else’s.
Think logically, Tom, he thought, reminding himself that it wasn’t him in the back of the Stokers’ van.
For the time being, the best thing he could do was to sit tight, keep his head down and wait. As long as Maynard kept his trap shut, it would be okay. But would he keep his trap shut?
It was doubtful, the piece of shit, but being as for now at least, the Stokers believed it was Maynard and Maynard alone behind the trouble, then with any luck they’d finish him without hearing a word he’d got to say.
If Maynard failed to show up over the next couple of days, then it looked like his prayers had been answered. Tom grinned and chucked his fresh drink into his mouth. In the meantime, it was business as usual.
Turning to the two young girls, he made a point of staring at their chests, rather than their faces. ‘Fancy another drink, girls? Then we’ll discuss what night you’re going to start working at my club.’
Watching the girls nodding eagerly, Tom pushed himself to his feet. He’d get these two little sluts another couple of half lagers and then go and treat himself to one of these nice rocks in the bogs. Life was too short for unnecessary worry.
John struggled as much as possible as he was manhandled out of the back of the van, but it was to no avail. Trussed by the wrist and ankles, he could do little to protect himself as his head bounced off the tailgate, then thumped onto the concrete of the floor below.
Determined not to give these bastards the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain or even as much as wince, he stoically kept his face impassively blank, refusing to show the pain when the skin ripped from his knees and elbows as he was dragged face down and deposited in front of the metal doors of the building.
John’s eyes darted around in the dark night, seeing the cavernous bulk of a warehouse looming out of the shadows before him. He knew he was finished, but whatever happened, he would not make this easy for them.
‘Come on, wanker,’ Andrew growled, kicking Maynard in the ribs. Between him and Neil, they hefted the man to his feet and dragged him through the heavy doors Seb had just unlocked. This was the fun bit.
Flicking on one of the fluorescent overhead lights, Seb dragged a rickety looking chair into the centre of the cold space. ‘Secure him to this.’
‘You think this bullshit will help, you bunch of overgrown wasters?’ John spat.
Swinging around, Seb delivered a meaty right hook to John’s face. ‘Shut it, Maynard!’
Spitting out a tooth and a gob full of blood, John sneered. ‘Thought you wanted answers?’
Seb’s adrenaline pumped wildly. He’d love nothing more than to batter this prick to the other side of morning, but he had to wait. He’d promised himself he’d give Sam the chance to hear this and he was a man of his word.
He glanced at Andrew and Neil, now finished securing Maynard’s wrists and ankles to the chair with heavy-duty cable ties.
Andrew rolled his sleeves up and cracked his knuckles impatiently. ‘Right, can I get started? The first thing I want to know is why he killed our Gary.’
‘Yeah,’ Neil agreed, pushing himself into Maynard’s face. ‘Why did you kill our brother, you cunt?’
Seb watched Maynard’s bloodied face break into a grin – possibly the first time he’d ever seen the man smile.
‘Oh, your brother now, is it? And there was the rest of the world thinking you didn’t believe he had anything to do with you!’ Maynard’s eyes twinkled maliciously. ‘That’s certainly what he thought the last time I spoke to him.’ He looked from Andrew to Neil slowly. ‘Quite happy to spill the shit about what a bunch of cunts you lot are.’
Neil’s eyes narrowed as his fist smashed into Maynard’s cheek, knocking the chair with the man still attached onto its back. ‘You pointless fu…’
‘Enough!’ Seb yelled, unceremoniously dragging the chair and Maynard upright. ‘There’ll be no more questions tonight.’
‘You what?’ Andrew cried, spinning around to face Seb. He wanted more than anything to release some of his devastating guilt, even it was only a small percentage of what weighed heavily.
‘Oh, look!’ Maynard laughed, overriding the grinding pain of his smashed cheek bone. ‘You’d best all get off home to eat your din-dins with Mummy.’
‘We need to kill this twat, Seb,’ Neil growled through clenched teeth.
‘I hate to disappoint you, boys, but I didn’t kill your little brother,’ John added.
‘Fuck off,’ Andrew spat. ‘It was you.’ His head twisted to face Seb. ‘I’m doing him. I want the truth.’ He lurched towards Maynard.
‘We’ll get the truth,’ Seb said calmly, even though the urge to rip Maynard limb from limb was overwhelming. Pulling Andrew’s arm, he moved in front and faced Maynard. He scanned the man’s already half-smashed face, imagining how he’d look once he was finished tomorrow. That alone brought a giddy sense of satisfaction.
Putting his hands in his jeans pockets, he took a casual laidback stance as he walked around Maynard. ‘You might think you’re clever,’ Seb said slowly. ‘But you’re not. Not really…’
Seb pulled a long piece of cloth from his pocket and from behind, took Maynard unawares, effortlessly winding the material around his face, pushing it into his mouth.
Ignoring Maynard’s muffled protests, Seb tied the cloth tighter than needed around the back of the man’s head, making sure as much hair got snagged within the knot as possible for added irritation.
Standing back in front of Maynard once more, Seb grinned easily, his bright smile in utter contrast with the bottomless hate and disdain harboured in his crystal-clear green eyes. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’
He glowed internally, witnessing the inner rage and impotent frustration Maynard’s eyes screamed, his muffled rantings pointless. ‘See, bruvs? We no longer need to listen to his bullshit.’
Seb grinned at Andrew and Neil who stood primed, watching with interest. ‘Mr Maynard here requires a slightly different approach than our standard way of interrogation.’ He pulled a small packet from his pocket, within it a tiny bottle with a dropper. ‘We won’t waste any more energy on our “friend” here until he’s had a long, hard think about how beneficial it will be to tell us the truth about his dealings and what he’s done.’
He bent level with Maynard’s face, ignoring the rabid hate in the man’s eyes. ‘And by that, I mean everything.’ He turned to his brothers once again. ‘And what better way to do that but to help him look at things in an in-depth way?’
Clapping his hands together, Seb turned to Neil. ‘Come and hold his eyes open.’
For the first time since being grabbed, slung into the van and trussed up in a warehouse did Maynard exhibit any hint of fear. He jerked the chair left to right, his gaze darting around the room.
Seb relished the panic loud and clear in Maynard’s eyes as he unscrewed the small glass bottle in front of his face and released the dropper. ‘Yes, this will aid Mr Maynard plenty,’ he said, stepping forward.
‘Nnnn!’ Maynard squawked, thrashing his head from side to side.
Seb jerked his head in Andrew’s direction, who gleefully grabbed Maynard’s head, holding it perfectly still.
‘Tilt it back,’ Seb muttered, inspecting the amount of liquid in the glass dropper. He glanced to Neil. ‘Eyelids?’
With Maynard’s head tilted back, held firmly by Andrew’s massive hands, his eyes bulged as Neil pulled his eyelids open. His panicked gaze darted between the men. He knew what this was and it would fuck his head over big time.
‘NNNN!’ he wailed once more but could do nothing as Seb squirted the liquid from the dropper in one eye and then the other.
Feeling the liquid LSD burn his eyeballs to be quickly absorbed into his blood vessels, John realised with mounting dread that all he could do was somehow get through the long waking nightmare that would rapidly follow.