Full Circle

By Ian Mulville

When their past catches up with them, two lifelong friends become embroiled in a violent gangland double-cross and have a life-defining choice to make: stay and face the consequences, or separate and make a run for it. Pursued across Europe by ruthless criminals and the law, theyre exposed to an unrelenting stream of challenges and threats unimaginable in their previously mundane lives.

Whilst one of them attempts to shed the past, seeking the quiet life, the other is lured towards the gangland underworld, with devastating consequences for everyone involved.

As events spiral out of control, they each cling to one last hope: a pledge they made before separating. It will take all their strength, resourcefulness and luck to survive, as theyre propelled towards their fate.

Will they ever achieve redemption?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491700747

Ian Mulville

Ian Mulville has a Master’s degree in Human Resources, and a successful career in this field.  He’s travelled the world for both work and leisure, and now lives with his family in Queensland, Australia.  Full Circle is his debut novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

A re you the Man with the Van?

That’s how it started. Two rings of the phone, followed by those seven words. No introduction.

I am indeed. What can I do for you?

D’you know Reecey? the voice on the phone continued.

Yeah, I know him. Little bloke with a dodgy tache.

Of course Dave Williams knew Reecey, from way back. Widely known as Greasy Reecey, John Reece was everyone’s favourite petty crim, the guy you went to down the pub for counterfeit DVDs, cheap cigarettes, a pack of Viagra, or the occasional e. Or the occasional forty-six-inch plasma TV, Dave thought as he gazed absentmindedly around the cluttered room.

Right. So you’ve got a Transit van. What are you doing tonight?

This caught Dave off guard. Though he had nothing planned outside of his constant quest to find the shortest distance between two pints, he smelt money if something was that urgent.

I’ve… got a couple of things on. What did you have in mind?

Booze run for a wedding. Calais and back. Regular bloke’s let us down. Wedding’s tomorrow in Northampton. It’s all set up; you just have to drive over and show them an invoice, and they’ll stick a pallet in the back of the truck. Easy.

How much you offering?

There was a pause.

I’m offering you your freedom.

Come again? Dave said, thinking maybe he’d misheard. Unconsciously, he tugged at his left earlobe, a habit since childhood.

Another pause.

Listen closely, the voice continued. I know what you did seventeen years ago.

Somewhere in the depths of Dave’s mind, a dusty synapse was trying to make a connection. A nervous tingle travelled the length of his spine, sending a tremor through his bowels. Just as the connection clicked—No, it couldn’t be—the voice continued:

Think about it. Are you there yet? September twenty-first. Nine thirty-five p.m. It was a Tuesday.

The phone hit the floor two seconds before Dave’s arse did. His knees had buckled, toppling him backwards so quickly that he’d barely managed to jerk his hands out to break his fall.

A nightmare from half his life ago, long since buried in his memory, had just been thrust front and centre into his consciousness.

Dave stared vacantly at the ceiling, his coccyx throbbing, the phone by his side. Never a word had been spoken about that night. How could anyone else possibly know about it? Yet such details—the precise date and time—were enough to convince him this person did.

If the full events ever emerged, he could be put away for a very long time. And not only him.

You still there? The tinny voice came from the handset, interrupting his spinning thoughts.

Dave croaked a response.

So we understand each other? You do this favour for me, and it all goes away again.

The voice gave Dave a brief explanation of how he had come by the information and how he’d hand over the evidence when the job was complete.

There was no point in playing dumb, acting tough, or trying to negotiate; whoever this guy was, he had Dave nailed.

Dave said he’d bring a mate to share the driving, and the voice agreed.

I’ll send you the tickets, wedding details, the invoice, and a map for the booze shop. Somebody will drop them round this afternoon. I know the address.

After giving the man the details about the vehicle and driving partner, Dave asked, How do I know it’ll end there?

You’ll have to trust me, won’t you? Call it honour among thieves, I don’t give a shit. With that, the voice was gone.

Dave had never even found out his name. And he didn’t know—couldn’t possibly have known—that the call would be the first leg in a journey of destruction which would tear not only his life but the lives of everyone around him apart.

CHAPTER TWO

S till lying on his back in the living room, his eyes screwed shut, Dave desperately tried to block it all out, but it was futile; Pandora’s box had been wrenched open, and the scene replayed over and over in full high definition on the back of his eyelids.

It had all started as a bit of a joke between Dave and his best friend, Rob: a dare that had got out of hand. There was no real risk, just a little petty crime, a bit of a laugh. They’d been sixteen.

Algernon Pryce-Barclay, known as Algy or APB, had been the local paedo. All the local kids knew to steer clear of him. The older ones would let him buy them treats and then make an excuse and scarper before the payback came. He’d been viewed as harmless, just a sad old perv trying to buy a thrill. Nobody considered him to be a sexual predator, though that’s exactly what he had been.

Algy would hang out in the park, using his dog as an excuse to be there, and ask the boys—only ever the boys—whether they wanted to come round and watch some TV. There’d be tea and biscuits, and then maybe some cigarettes, a little alcohol, a risqué movie. Eventually, he’d chance his arm. In hindsight, it had been classic grooming.

Both Dave and Rob had been disgusted by the whole routine when the other boys first told them about it. Nobody ever admitted offering any services, but they all seemed to know that money was on the table if they’d been willing to be felt up. With the kids’ in-built aversion to the police, reporting Algy had never been an option.

It’d been Dave who’d come up with the idea of blackmailing him.

We could take photos. Catch him in the act.

"Oh yeah? How’re we gonna do that? I ain’t offering him my arse," Rob said.

Why not burgle him then? Try to find his camera, or at least some photos. He’s bound to have some. Even if he catches us, he’s not going to report us, is he?

And so, over the course of a couple of days, they’d talked themselves into it.

*   *   *

APB lived in a quiet side street adjacent to the park. At about nine o’clock one September evening, after sharing a bottle of cider for some Dutch courage, Dave and Rob squeezed through the hedge at the foot of APB’s garden and worked their way through the shadows to the back of the house.

They’d worn dark clothing and gloves, pretending they knew what they were doing. Dave led, though in reality he was petrified, and secretly hoped Rob would back out. He glanced nervously back at Rob, whose face was a picture of fear, his shoulders hunched up tight. It was by far the biggest risk either of them had taken.

It was a humid autumn evening, and several of the windows on the upper floor were cracked open, but those at ground level were all closed. Dave and Rob tried the patio doors and the kitchen door, but both were locked. Dave pointed to a drainpipe and then to Rob, who frowned and shook his head in response; he wasn’t keen on shinning up drainpipes.

They worked their way around to the side of the house, where they found a small window open to the downstairs bathroom with a larger window below it.

You’ll get through that, Dave whispered, sizing up Rob’s much-lighter frame. I’ll give you a leg-up.

No way; it’s too small.

Come on, give it a try. Dave cupped his palms to lift Rob up.

With a struggle, Rob managed to get as far in as his waist. Then, stretching downwards, he unhooked the latch of the window below. Dave pulled him out again and then silently inched the lower window open. Dave went through first and eased himself over the cistern, next to the toilet bowl, and onto the floor as quietly as he could. The confined space amplified the tiniest sound.

Dave opened the door a crack and peered down the dimly lit hallway. A muted TV flicked blue lights onto the wall. He stepped out, and Rob followed. Dave went forward and looked gingerly into the lounge. It was empty, and so was the kitchen.

They hadn’t decided quite what they were looking for, but Dave thought they might have more luck upstairs, so he started up the staircase, stepping carefully on the outside of the treads to minimise creaks. Rob followed in his shadow after a few steps.

Dave paused at the top of the stairs. Muffled sounds came from the first bedroom on the right. Creeping past it, Dave listened at the second bedroom door. Hearing nothing, he turned the handle and pushed it slowly open. A muted orange streetlight shone through the net curtains, illuminating a dressing table and a chest of drawers under the window.

They both went to work searching the drawers, but neither found anything of value – no rolls of film, no incriminating photos. No sign of a camera.

Leaving that room, with Rob in the lead, they tried the room opposite. A large picture window overlooked the rear garden, and the room had been set up as an artist’s studio with several easels and canvasses stacked up against the walls. Again, they didn’t find anything incriminating.

Let’s go, Rob said, his eyes darting about the room. Nothing here. He was getting anxious.

As he turned to leave, Dave put a hand on his shoulder. Wait. Look at this.

Moonlight shone through the gloom and settled on one of the canvasses. It was a small charcoal sketch of a naked boy from the rear.

Dirty bastard, Dave whispered. A good start, but it’s not enough. We need photos. Anyway, let’s get out of here. This place makes me feel dirty. We’ll come back when we know he’s out.

Rob sighed in relief.

Dave stepped out of the room and onto the landing. As he did, the door to the bedroom at the top of the stairs opened, spilling light into the hallway. He froze like a startled rabbit, and Rob walked straight into his back. A figure emerged from the bedroom fiddling with a dressing-gown cord. APB.

It all happened so quickly.

Dave ran for the stairs, pushing past Algy and knocking him off balance. Rob immediately followed him, brushing past Algy on the inside. Algy, startled by the two intruders, tottered, trying to regain his balance.

Dave hesitated for a split second at the foot of the stairs before running for the kitchen with Rob hot on his heels.

Then they heard it.

A distressed cry followed by series of thumps and grunts on the stairs and finally a single loud thud—a body landing at the foot of the stairs.

Rob didn’t look back. He sprinted out the kitchen door after Dave, straight down the length of the garden, and through the hole in the hedge.

Without stopping, they ran across the park, through the woods, and up the railway embankment to the abandoned workmen’s hut they’d used as a hideout since they were kids.

There they collapsed, with their backs against the rough concrete walls, panting and sweating. It was a good two minutes before either of them spoke.

Fuck. We killed him, Dave said, still out of breath.

No we didn’t. I barely touched him, and neither did you. He’s just some doddery old twat who fell down the stairs.

What if he’s still alive? He saw us. What if somebody saw us legging it afterwards? Maybe we’ve left him there bleeding to death or unconscious.

Listen, Rob said, we were never there. Okay? Let’s get that into our heads straight away. We were right here all evening. We got stoned and fell asleep. That’s the story, and we stick to it.

Dave was shocked by Rob’s detached tone. But what about footprints and stuff? What about clues?

"We both wore gloves, so there’ll be no prints, but we need to lose these shoes. Our alibi is each other. If one of us gets pulled in, we just continue to deny it. We were here, all evening. The end."

Dave was close to tears. Fuck, Mum will kill me, he said, his voice breaking, the bravado gone.

Say your bag was stolen from the gym or something, Rob suggested.

Shouldn’t we go back, just to check? I mean, the poor bloke could be lying there paralysed or something.

No. We were never there. Remember? Rob looked Dave straight in the eye. "I’m telling you, even if you get nicked, I’ll continue to deny it. I was not there."

Rob’s intensity scared Dave. He spoke calmly and evenly, not a trace of panic or doubt.

After a pause, Rob said, Look, he was a pervy old bastard who got what he deserved. Nobody will miss him.

But we left the kitchen door wide open, and the toilet window. They’re going to start sniffing around.

So let them sniff. Nobody saw us, and why’s that? Because we weren’t there.

*   *   *

The next few days and weeks were tense. Dave and Rob didn’t see each other. They just kept their heads down and followed the reports in the local paper. Algy’s body wasn’t found for a week, after a neighbour noticed a strange smell coming from the house.

Rob and Dave needn’t have worried: the police didn’t suspect foul play, and the coroner recorded the death as accidental.

Case closed.

The boys had breathed a huge sigh of relief and put the incident behind them along with their other youthful indiscretions. Dave desperately wanted – needed – to believe that they hadn’t actually caused his death, but his nightmares for years afterwards reminded him differently.

And now that nightmare had returned.

CHAPTER THREE

A fter heaving himself up from the living room floor, Dave splashed some water on his face, lit another cigarette, and called Rob at the gym.

Dave didn’t reveal the full contents of the call. He believed it was his shit to deal with; he’d been enough of a burden on Rob over the years, so he’d try to deal with this thing himself.

I think I’ll be okay, he continued, but I might need someone to share the driving. Come on, mate, it’ll be a laugh. You can get some cheapo booze for yourself. Look, I’ll give you fifty notes just to sit next to me and keep me awake.

Dave realised he’d been drawing on his cigarette so hard that he’d been smoking the filter. After a hacking cough, he stubbed it out.

Rob really did have plans for that evening: going to watch a Spider-Man movie. He also mentioned that he was expected back in the gym for an afternoon shift the following day. The cash would come in handy, though, he had to admit, and Dave was right, it would be a bit of a laugh, so he agreed.

We should leave at six, maybe even five. Give ourselves plenty of time, Rob said.

Should we tell anyone? Dave asked.

What do you mean? Why shouldn’t we?

I don’t know. Just a thought. Not that I have anyone to tell…

It’s not dodgy, is it? I mean, you’ve told me everything?

Dave swallowed hard. He knew he should come clean, but he was determined to deal with the blackmail on his own. He’d already complicated matters by inviting Rob along, but he really did need somebody to help navigate and share the driving, and Rob was the only person he could think of who’d be available at such short notice.

Dave? Rob picked up on the hesitation.

Of course I’ve told you everything. It’s all legal. So long as the alcohol is for personal use, it’s all legit. They’re dropping off the tickets and the wedding invitations later. It’s a real wedding, and we’re guests. We’ll get the details for the reception, and I’m supposedly mates with the groom. Customs can check it out. No problem.

Then why shouldn’t we mention the job to anyone?

No reason. Forget it. I was just thinking out loud. Tell whoever you want.

Rob said that if anyone asked him in the next six hours what he was up to that evening, he’d tell them. Nobody asked.

CHAPTER FOUR

M id-morning on a cold, damp November day, Dave stood in his frayed and stained decade-old dressing gown staring out the kitchen window into the gloomy middle distance.

One hand clutched a mug of tea and the other was down his boxer shorts. As usual, he’d boiled the kettle, poured the water into the mug containing the tea bag, dunked the bag fifteen or twenty times, and then taken it out by its string and carried it over to the pedal bin, leaving a trail of drips across the kitchen counter, the floor, and the bin.

How that had driven Sue crazy. She’d pleaded with him to please, please take the cup to the bin and then take the teabag out over the bin.

As the steam from the kettle fogged up the window, he took his hand out of his pants and drew a big pair of breasts in the condensation. He was such a kid.

Smirking, he rubbed his artwork off and lit his third smoke of the day. A Star Wars DVD followed by three hours of Halo with Rob had dragged on into the early hours, and Dave felt groggy from lack of sleep. Or was it the half-bottle of Jack Daniels?

Opening the kitchen window a crack as a concession to Rob, who hated him smoking in the flat, he’d shivered as a blast of cold air hit him, but at least it blew some of the cobwebs out of his head.

He’d glanced over at the dusty weight bench in the corner, which had followed him around since he’d left school. Scratching his hairy belly, he thought, Today? Nah.

Oasis’s Cigarettes & Alcohol pumped out of the speakers. Nature hadn’t endowed Dave with golden vocal chords to start with, and a pack of Silk Cut a day for the past fifteen-odd years hadn’t exactly helped his case, but that didn’t stop him singing along enthusiastically in his deep, flat voice. The lyrics were particularly appropriate to his circumstances.

So, what’s on my busy agenda for this fine Friday? he’d thought. Then the phone rang and the voice shattered his day. That had been thirty minutes ago.

*   *   *

Dave put the phone down after his talk with Rob and slumped on the sofa, the hand holding his cigarette trembling. He knew he should be doing something, anything, but wasn’t sure what; he was numb.

*   *   *

In his early thirties, Dave was stuck in neutral. Divorced, lodging with a mate, and permanently skint, he was unfit, unhealthy, and incredibly bitter. His burdens were visible in his body: he stood slightly stooped, had deep frown lines, and was going prematurely grey. He looked much older than his years.

Hadn’t he always been the lucky one, the popular one, the life and soul of the party? Now it seemed like all his mates had secure jobs, nice houses, wives, and kids. They were all drifting away from him, moving on, moving forward; he still had the handbrake on. Worse, sometimes he felt that the handbrake had failed and he was careering backwards down a steep hill.

It was increasingly difficult to get any of the lads to come out for a beer and a curry, even on a weekend, and it had been months since he’d been to a club. Thank God for Rob.

Good old reliable Rob. He was still up for it. They’d been through a lot together and each of them understood how the other thought. They shared the same taste in women, music, alcohol, games, and drugs. And much more. They’d lived, played, partied, holidayed, and got into trouble together, had a history. They were a team.

When Dave’s life had started to go pear-shaped a couple of years back, he’d set himself up as the Man with a Van. Rob had lent him the money for the van, and Dave had been able to pay it all back within six months.

But there was something else, something more. Dave owed Rob. It had never been mentioned, and if it had, Rob would have said, Hey, you’d have done the same for me, but Dave still felt the huge debt. Rob had saved him. From himself.

CHAPTER FIVE

T he package had arrived at three, delivered by a grumpy, thuggish-looking man who didn’t introduce himself. Dave guessed he was the voice on the phone; though he hadn’t expected a choirboy, the man had made him even more uneasy, if that was possible. He could tell a mile off that this man was trouble. In Dave ’ s mind, tatts on the neck were never a good sign, especially poorly drawn ones.

He decided that he still wouldn’t mention the man’s threat to Rob. By the following morning it would all be over, and he could go back into denial again.

The paperwork was all there in the envelope, together with a big note scrawled in marker pen, saying, Don’t forget your passport.

The van was full of fuel, and he had checked the tyres and was raring to go, eager to get this mission over with. If it all worked out, then he’d finally be able to clear some of the debt he owed Rob, regain some of his self-esteem, and get out of this malaise.

Somehow he managed to view the phone call, which had been a nightmare, in a more positive light. This could work, you know, he told himself.

By around four thirty, the sun had gone down behind a blanket of dark grey clouds, and it was already fully dark by the time Dave and Rob headed out at five. Rob had made a couple of flasks of coffee and grabbed a handful of CDs. He’d be the navigator and would only take over if Dave started to flag.

A light rain spattered the windscreen; further rain was forecast. As expected, the M25 was choked with Friday evening traffic, but it thinned out as soon as they turned onto the M20, travelling south-east.

They made good time to Dover and arrived early for their crossing, which was uneventful.

*   *   *

Once in France, they didn’t adjust their watches for the one-hour time difference. They followed the map straight from the ferry terminal to the hypermarket all of twenty-five minutes away.

Rob went in carrying the invoice and headed for the Services Clients counter as directed on his instruction sheet. The assistant spoke perfect English. In fact, wait a minute, she was English. Under the glaring lights, she checked his ID and directed him to loading bay 10 at the rear of the complex.

Bays 1 to 5 were full, with vehicles reversed up to the ramps, which were at car rather than truck height. All the cars and vans had English licence plates. Bay 10 was at the far end of the ramp. No people were in sight down there, and empty beer cartons and plastic were strewn around. A single orange sodium lamp flickered above the bay number.

Rob opened up the tall rear doors of the van and guided Dave in as close to the edge of the docking bay as he could. Rob then said he’d find someone to help them.

Putting his head through the plastic flexi-doors to the warehouse, Rob saw pallet after pallet of alcohol lined up into the distance, all shrink-wrapped and labelled. It all looked very well organised.

Stepping inside, Rob shouted, Hello? and waited. After a few moments a pot-bellied, unshaven man wearing stained overalls shuffled out from between the pallets, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He growled some unintelligible French, then realised Rob couldn’t understand and snatched the invoice from his hands.

He looked the invoice over, paused, and then held Rob’s eye for a few seconds. The man then grunted and gestured for Rob to wait outside, not turning his back until he was out through the doors to the ramp.

The rain was heavier now, but at least they were sheltered on the loading ramp. So much for being organised; it seemed to take forever for their pallet to arrive at the loading bay. Other cars arrived, were filled, and departed whilst they waited. Rob went back inside and shouted for the Frenchman a few more times, to no effect.

Just as he was about to return to the service desk, at last, a forklift pushed its way through the flexi-doors onto their section of ramp and, without pausing, drove straight up to the back of the van. The driver inserted the pallet, lowered it, and nudged it farther into the van with the forklift’s tines.

The driver then reversed, spun around, and headed back towards the warehouse in one swift action, nearly running Rob over and forcing him to jump out of the way. The forklift driver had said not a word and made no eye contact.

Oi, mate! Oi! Dave shouted after him, but he’d already been swallowed up by the plastic doors.

Is that it? Rob said. Don’t we have to sign something? Do we get to check it’s all here?

No idea. I have another copy of the invoice, for Customs. I s’pose we could do a quick check.

I think we’d better. There’s ten grand’s worth of booze here. Least we can do is make sure we got the right pallet.

Peering through the shrink-wrap in the dimly lit interior of the van, they checked for the first six or eight items on the invoice and found them without any trouble.

I reckon we’re good, Dave said. Let’s hit the road or we’ll miss the ferry.

With Dave driving, they headed back to the port at Calais. A gale was brewing over the Channel; they were in for a rocky crossing. The ferry lurched slightly at the quay and loading took longer than expected. It finally departed forty-five minutes late.

Rob and Dave arrived back in Dover at two in the morning, and they nervously queued under the sickly glare of a thousand sodium lights in the Goods to Declare lane. The Customs officers took a cursory glance at the invoice and a quick look into the rear of the van before waving them through. Rob and Dave were back on the road within fifteen minutes.

Allowing for a brekkie stop and a pee break, we should be there around five thirty, six, Rob said. Are you still okay to drive?

Yeah. Pour us a coffee, though, would you? We’ll pull in somewhere in an hour or so.

The rain had turned into a steady downpour driven by gusts of wind, and Dave switched the windscreen wipers to maximum. The windows kept fogging up, and it was slow going. They rejoined the M20, heading for the M25, which would take them around the very edges of London and then on to Northampton.

With the weather continuing to worsen, after less than an hour of very slow going Rob spotted a sign for a service station up ahead, and he and Dave agreed that it was a good time for a stop. The rain blew horizontally in sheets, and the wind buffeted the van.

Dave pulled up as close to the entrance as he could, which wasn’t close enough. It seemed that everyone on the road had decided to pull in out of the torrential rain. He and Rob still had a fair way to run to the main entrance and were both drenched by the time they made it.

Upon entering, they were hit by a wall of fluorescent lights and the smell of grease, and every sound seemed to be amplified tenfold.

I’m busting for a piss. We might as well make this the brekkie stop too, yeah? Dave said. It’s on me.

After visiting the toilets, they bypassed the queues at the fast-food outlets and made their way to the steamy so-called restaurant at the far end of the building, where both decided on the full English breakfast.

Five minutes after joining the queue, Dave got fidgety and said, I left my fags and phone in the van. I’ll have a quick one and see you back here. Here’s the money; will you order for both of us? If it arrives, can you ask them to stick mine under the heat lamp for me? Rob nodded and Dave left.

*   *   *

Eventually Rob reached the counter, placed his order, paid, and went in search of a table carrying his plastic order number.

His low expectations were fully met when, ten minutes later, their plates arrived. Congealed beans sat alongside a limp sausage, three greasy mushrooms, and two rubbery fried eggs. What he guessed was the bacon looked suspiciously like deep-fried roadkill, but the tea was strong, hot, and sweet, which was some kind of upside.

Rob watched the entrance, but there was still no sign of Dave, so he sent his plate back and tucked in. He’d only taken a few forkfuls of his meal when Dave finally returned, completely sodden, and stood opposite him.

We need to go, Dave said blankly, still standing.

Rob looked up at him, wondering why he hadn’t sat down. Something was wrong.

Your meal’s at the counter, it’s… are you alright?

Dave was deathly white, his wet clothes clinging to him. He was trembling and looked close to tears.

Jesus. What’s happened? Where’s your jacket? Talk to me, mate.

We need to go, Dave repeated. Now. Don’t make a fuss. He turned unsteadily and headed for the exit as if in a trance.

But what about… ? Rob grabbed his coat, took a final slurp of tea, and followed.

Without checking to see whether Rob was behind him, Dave continued his slow, deliberate walk to the main exit and back out into the deluge.

Rob caught up with him and grabbed his arm. "Mate, for fuck’s sake, what’s going on? You’re scaring me. What is it?"

There was no reaction, no response. Dave just walked towards the van, seemingly oblivious to the wind-whipped rain, whilst Rob hunkered under his jacket. Dave opened the driver’s door.

You okay to drive? Rob asked.

Still he was ignored, and the door slammed shut in his face. He ran around to the passenger side and jumped in. The instant the door shut, Dave broke down, gripping the steering wheel and banging his head against it, groaning. No real words came out, only a stream of anguished sobs and grunts.

"Dave, Dave! You have to tell me what’s happened. Take some deep breaths. That’s it. Something bad’s happened. I get it. I get it. Try to calm yourself. Now. What happened?"

After a minute or so, the longest minute in Rob’s life, Dave gradually came out of his hysteria. He stared straight ahead into the fogged-up windscreen.

At last he spoke.

CHAPTER SIX

I ’m fucked, Dave said simply, and the groaning started again. Rob leaned across as far as he could to put his arm around Dave. He was scared. Very scared.

It’s okay; it’s okay, Rob said, knowing it wasn’t. We can work it out. Whatever it is, we can work it out. But you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. Please, Dave, what is it?

Still staring at the windscreen, Dave said in a low voice, "I killed him, Rob. I fucking killed him. But not the other one, that wasn’t me, I swear it. He was already dead. And now they’re gonna kill me. Don’t let them kill me, Rob. Promise, don’t let them kill me!" He turned to look at Rob.

Now it was Rob who was speechless. Dave had been gone for twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five, and he’d killed someone? Two people? Who? How? Why? He couldn’t digest it and stared dumbly at Dave.

Dave spoke again. I only meant to stun him so I could, I don’t know, tie him up or something, maybe question him. He groaned and punched the steering wheel and dashboard. "What have I done? What have I done?"

Dave, it’s okay. It was an accident. We’ll sort it. It’s okay. But you have to tell me everything from the beginning. Can you do that? Please? You said something about another one?

They stared at each other, the tears streaming down Dave’s face, Rob’s hand squeezing his shoulder. The rain hammered on the roof loudly. Finally, Dave’s breathing slowed down and the sobs subsided.

He told the story.

*   *   *

From the time they’d parked the van, entered the service station, used the bathroom, gone to the restaurant, and queued to the time Dave returned to the van would have been twenty minutes, no more; maybe only fifteen.

As Dave had approached the van, he’d noticed that the boot of the car parked next to it was open with the boot light glowing. This had barely registered as he walked around the van. He’d stopped dead: the sliding cargo door at the side of the van was open.

Oh shit, we’ve been broken into, flashed in his mind when a figure stepped backwards out of the van. He placed a heavy, dark holdall on the ground and then leaned into the van again.

All Dave knew was that he needed to stop the man, to incapacitate him until he could figure out what was going on and get help from Rob, the police, whoever. Acting on instinct, Dave took hold of the door handle and, with a roar, slid the door into the man’s body with all his might, aiming for his shoulders.

But the man had moved backwards half a step and started to straighten up. The sliding door had slammed into his head full force, the momentum crushing his skull against the door frame. He went limp and fell sideways out of the van, his head hitting the tarmac with a sickening thud.

Blood mingled with the puddles. So much blood. Dave felt a crushing pressure on his chest, and his vision went blurry.

In a daze, he leaned over the man, who lay on his back, head twisted at an awkward angle. Rain poured into his open mouth. Even though Dave knew instinctively that the man was dead, he still went through the motions and put a palm an inch from his nose. No breath. Feeling his neck, he found no pulse either.

Standing there in the rain, his life flashed before him – and then his future.

You didn’t use reasonable force, a judge would say. Manslaughter. Fifteen years.

Is this what it’s all come down to? Dave thought. He shivered violently.

His knees began to give way again, and he leaned against the van for support. He was unable to move for what seemed like an age. Only when some people exited the building in the distance and he realised that they might be able to see him did his survival instinct take over.

Pulling the van door back, he saw another heavy bag just inside the doorway. Pushing it roughly back into the van, he picked up the rain-soaked bag next to the body and slid that one inside too. Bloody hell was it heavy.

Next, he grabbed the lifeless body under the arms, stepped into the doorway, and heaved it backwards into the van. It, he thought. Moments earlier it had been him.

Pushing the body off him, Dave slid the door shut and sat in the darkness for a moment.

He fumbled for the interior light and flicked it on. What he saw sent him leaping backwards into the side of the van and scrambling into the corner, transfixed.

Sitting upright with its back against the pallet of alcohol, next to the corpse which Dave had just dragged in, was a second corpse, a cartoonish bullet hole in its forehead.

It looked so fake that for the briefest moment Dave thought he’d been set up, pranked. But no. In the dim light he realised with horror that his own jacket and hands were now soaked in blood. He’d never seen a real dead body before, and suddenly he’d been confronted with two.

This can’t be happening; this can’t be happening; this can’t be happening.

Yet it was.

Once again his body wouldn’t move. The wind rocked the van, the rain still pounding on the roof. He blinked. They were still there. Two bodies. Lots of blood. It wasn’t some ghoulish nightmare.

How was any of this his fault? It wasn’t. Surely the Court would see that he’d innocently stumbled into a crime scene and had acted in self-defence? Allowing himself a sigh of relief, he reasoned that somehow the second body might actually get him off the hook.

Unless, of course, the Court believed that he’d killed both of them for some reason. Fuck.

His eyes were drawn to the bags, still glistening from the rain.

Oh God, please don’t let there be more bodies inside, he thought. They were certainly heavy enough.

Patting one of them, Dave found the contents to be