Strong hands gripped Jack’s shoulders and pushed him against the wall. His head banged hard against the brickwork. He had to focus to stop his knees from buckling, the night turning into colour-filled speckles of light. The smell of stale cigarettes filled Jack’s nostrils and spittle flecked his cheeks as his captor got up close, a forearm pushed against his throat.
Jack tried to see past the man, but it was too dark, the speckles fading. Shadows moved around him. There were noises, angry hisses, and a hand was in his pocket, searching. His phone was pulled out and Jack’s face was lit up by the screen as it was held in front of him. Jack could see a snarl and a shaved head, and the gleam of a silver ring that pierced an eyebrow. Then it went dark again as the phone was dropped to the floor, and the crunch of glass and plastic told Jack that it had been crushed under someone’s foot.
He was about to protest when he was pulled away from the wall, grabbed by his shirt, and pushed towards the open front door. His arms were pulled up behind him, and his head hit the door frame on the way in. His forehead went numb, and there was the warm trickle of blood in his eye.
Jack tried to struggle against the pain, but he was pushed faster than he could walk, his feet stumbling.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Jack shouted.
There was no response. Jack was thrown forward until he slithered on his knees, smooth across a concrete floor, his hands breaking his fall. He looked up as he landed. Wheel clamps were piled up in a corner, next to a small white van and a stack of clamping warning signs. But it was what was in the middle of the floor that made Jack gasp. It was what he had seen through the window, but it was clearer now, closer.
There was a man tied to a chair, his ankles bound around the chair legs, his hands behind his back. He was skinny, his shirt ripped open, and Jack could see the outline of his ribs. His legs were exposed, and they were red and blistered. It was his face that attracted Jack’s attention though. It was swollen and bloodied. His mouth was just a red shadow, and through his grimace Jack saw gaps where there had been teeth not long before. The man’s eyes were virtually closed by vivid purple swelling around them. Blood ran down both cheeks and pooled around the base of his neck, soaking his shirt.
Don Roberts was in front of him, sitting in a chair, leaning forward, his feet tapping on the floor, making soft clicks as the prisoner moaned.
Jack’s gut churned, fear making sweat prickle onto his face.
Then Jack saw something else that made him close his eyes and wish that he had called the police before poking around.
There was a clothes iron plugged into an extension cord, steam belching out as it reached the top temperature, the orange light still showing. Jack looked again at the figure strapped to the chair, and this time he spotted a triangular blister on his chest, red and inflamed. Next to the iron was a kettle, wisps of steam just visible from the spout. Jack knew now why his legs were blistered.
Jack looked at Don. ‘You’ve gone far enough,’ he shouted. ‘Call the police. You’ve had some revenge.’
Don’s feet stopped tapping, and someone cleared their throat behind him. Don Roberts got to his feet and walked right up to Jack. His arms were by his side as he looked down. There was blood on his knuckles and some smears across his shirt.
‘There is no such thing as far enough,’ Don answered, his voice deep and angry.
‘Let the police handle it,’ Jack said.
Don shook his head. ‘Would they do this?’ he said, and went back to the steaming iron. He picked it up and held it close to the man’s face, who tried to squirm away. He couldn’t, he was bound too tightly.
‘No!’ Jack shouted, which mixed in with the man’s scream, but the sounds faded as Jack’s head was banged against the concrete. Everything faded. Sounds. Vision. Don’s movements seemed slower, as if there was a time-lag, but then Jack’s vision cleared just in time to see Don press the iron against the man’s chest.
He bucked and screeched with pain. Jack tried to bury his face in the floor, unable to watch.
The screams quietened down into a gasping sob, and Jack looked up to see Don putting the iron down. Hands gripped Jack and pulled him up, and then he was dragged back towards the end of the room. He was thrown onto a chair, and a voice said, ‘If you move, you take his place.’
Jack looked around at his captors. There was Don, with a few of his goons, and then he saw Mike Corley against the wall. He was wearing the same expression as Don: anger mixed with hatred and revenge.
‘Why are you here?’ Jack said to Mike Corley. ‘You’re a policeman for Christ’s sake.’
Mike glared at him and said, ‘If you ever lose a daughter, tell me what you would do. And if it’s something different, you’re no man.’
Jack looked along the wall and saw David Hoyle. He didn’t look so brash and confident anymore.
‘What’s wrong, David?’ Jack said, breathing hard. ‘Revenge for Angel too sweet for you?’
David Hoyle looked down.
‘You don’t want to be here, I can tell, David,’ Jack shouted. ‘You can end this.’
A hand gripped Jack’s hair and pulled it back. He grimaced with pain and heard the click of footsteps again. As his head was thrown forward, he saw Don Roberts standing in front of him.
‘Why did you come here?’ Don said.
‘To stop this,’ Jack said, between sharp breaths.
‘You should have stayed away. You’ve put me at risk,’ Don said. ‘I can’t allow that to happen.’
Jack looked around the group, looking for a sign that he wasn’t in danger, but everyone looked angry.
‘What, you’re going to kill me?’ Jack said.
Don didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked towards the man in the chair. When he got close, he pulled his fist back and punched him hard on the jaw. The man’s chin hung slack as blood spewed out of his mouth.
Jack looked towards David Hoyle. ‘How are you going to defend this?’ Jack shouted, before he felt the sharp sting of a slap across his face.
Hoyle just cast his eyes to the ground. He wasn’t enjoying this.
Jack looked back at Don. ‘How do you know it was him?’ Jack said. ‘What if you’re torturing an innocent man?’
Don shook his head. ‘But I’m not.’
‘The police don’t know who he is. What makes you so sure you’ve got it right?’
Don crouched down in front of Jack. ‘Let’s just say that at least one police officer knows who he is.’
‘What do you mean?’
Don grinned, although the brightness never got to his eyes. ‘A little birdie made a call,’ he said, and creaked back to his feet.
Jack closed his eyes. Rachel Mason. He had guessed right. She had been closest, pinned underneath him in that derelict factory. It all clicked into place. So she had recognised him but not told her colleagues. Rachel had chosen vengeance, not justice.
‘My girlfriend knows where I am,’ Jack blurted out.
Don turned round. ‘Why should I care?’
‘I told her that I was just checking it out,’ he lied. ‘And you know that she’s a detective on the case.’ Don’s eyes just widened for a moment, a hint of panic. ‘Had you forgotten?’ Jack nodded his head towards the front door. ‘You could check on my phone, except that you’ve smashed it.’
Don looked around at his men, as if he was suddenly unsure what to do.
Then he turned back and pointed to the prisoner. ‘We haven’t got much time,’ Don said. ‘Let’s finish it.’
Jack closed his eyes.