The Taking of Others

By Augustin B. DaCosta

Detective Inspector Eleanora Sanderson is given the baffling case of six prisoners confined in one prison, all dying within minutes of each other, and now she is ordered to assist the new Superintendent Thomas Speedwell with his ongoing investigations of the viciously efficient and deadly assassin known as ‘The Ghost’

Sutaki Oshiro, a young ex- kamikaze pilot didn’t want to commit enforced suicide, so on his first mission, he deserts. Sixty odd years later, he’s in a waterfront bar in Turkey where he has been staring at something for the past three years…. What and why?

Sam Masters the I.T. Manager at Police Headquarters is on holiday, and he witnesses this bizarre scene in that bar. The result of his observation was momentous and life changing to him, and his crucial mistake changed the lives of many others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Apr 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543490572

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

"So, Eve, just let me get this absolutely right. What you are trying to tell me … no … what you are telling me is that your theory is this is all quite normal, t/hat in the last twelve hours, we have the only six male inmates who just happen to be the most despicable, ‘red file’ murderers—

(RED, Ranked Extremely Dangerous) —who were incarcerated in Maidstone Prison, and now five of them are over there in the coolers, and the last one, well we hope the last one here on the slab. And according to you, all dead from natural causes. Hmm, sorry Eve but I just can’t buy it.

Detective Inspector Eleanor Sanderson was winding down a twenty-nine year career in the Kent Police Force. She was eagerly looking forward to her retirement in one year’s time, after doing the magic thirty to qualify for a full pension. She couldn’t wait to get away from all the bullshit and butt licking that got her to where she was today.

A female in this profession needed balls, big ones at that, just to exist and try to shatter the glass ceiling, taking her up the very slippery vertical ladder of promotion. It shouldn’t be that way, of course, but it was the real world of overflowing testosterone pumped-up male domination after all.

Sandy, as she was known only to her close friends, was a very good-looking forty-eight year old brunette with black eyes, which were slightly unusual. They were the kind of eyes that bore right down into your very soul, if that’s what she wanted. When she wanted your attention she became a slow blinker, with eyelashes to die for. She looked at you and then slowly closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was looking elsewhere. Very unnerving, but very effective. Her untouched brows were defined, and she knew just how to use them to good effect. She’d raise one slightly when a question lurked in her mind. Her straight and perfectly formed nose sometimes twitched when her female intuition kicked in. Her lips were sensuous, with a cupid-bow top and a full bottom lip. They were always ready to give up a warm smile. She was always impeccably dressed. Her knockout figure was trimmed every now and then in the gym. Her slightly tanned complexion suited her right down to the ground, quite literally head to toe. To put it quite simply, she was a gorgeous, forty-eight year old stunner.

Her soft Hispanic features belied her attack-dog approach to problems. What she could do today, she did today, even if it meant self-imposed unpaid overtime.

Sandy was five feet eight inches tall and she always wore shiny shoes. That was something from way back at Hendon Police Training College. She took quite literary the drill sergeant’s instruction that A pair of spotless shoes always shows a disciplined and organised mind, which was exactly what Sandy had.

What she didn’t have, however, was a husband. She never found the time for a permanent relationship of any kind. There were some near misses, but Sandy always put the job first. She never regretted that decision, even though it brought some cruel and vicious whispers in the canteen and locker room, about her propensity for female company. No doubt started by some jealous colleagues whose professionalism was a tad below hers.

It’s not my theory, Inspector, said Eve, it’s where the evidence takes me. It’s all there, on all six. The hearts just stopped doing what the heart is supposed to do. It’s called a seizure. It’s just as if ‘Him’ up there—, she pointed to the ceiling as if she thought the DI didn’t have a clue where ‘up’ was, —decided it was their time to go. So what would you call it Inspector? Murder? I don’t see how it could be because there is not one shred of evidence leading me that way. I’ve done all the usual relevant tests: bloods, fluids, and stomach contents. I’m still waiting for toxicology and forensic reports to wend their way down from the labs. However, Inspector, I’m not expecting any surprises. I’ve even done bone marrow biopsies on all six to see if there were any abnormalities, and I have found none. Two of them had bitten into their tongues and inner cheeks as a result of the seizures. Plus there is not one mark of any recent physical violence on any of their bodies. So unless you have something solid to back up what you think, why not try going along with the facts as we know them, eh?

Eve Hall, the fifty-one year old forensic pathologist wore her one-use blue nitride gloves, her green plastic apron, white PVC calf-length boots, the rather fetching DOP standard issue floppy green trousers and the fit-where-it-touches white blouse. The Department of Pathology went on the theory that you don’t have to look good to dig around in blood, guts, and gore.

The visor was flipped open on her protective helmet which covered her head of pure white hair. Not blonde or grey, just pure white. Sometimes Eve wore Charlie perfume to try and mask the rancid stench of her clients awaiting her delicate touch with the scalpel, saw, two-pound hammer, rib crackers, Black and Decker drill and a host of other weird-looking stainless steel implements that helped her to dig around and finally get to the truth. Eve was very wary of DI Sanderson’s reputation. She knew there would be more bloody questions. If only she had the bloody answers.

I do see your point Eve replied the DI. But you must admit this is very weird. In fact, very, very weird, and I don’t tolerate weird as you well know. In all my years in the force I have never seen anything like this. We have six men, okay, so they were not in the prime of their lives. They just fall down dead from heart attacks, and all in twelve hours. And every one of them inmates of Maidstone Prison. Sorry, Eve, too coincidental for me. Much too coincidental.

Er, not from heart attacks Inspector. No, I’m afraid they all suffered heart seizures. If they were attacks there would be so much readable evidence left. For instance the build-up of cholesterol, the platelets sticking to plaque, the blocked coronary arteries. These are all easy to read signs that I have seen so many times over the years. I’m sorry to say, Inspector, that there are none of these signs. These guys did training every day, and given their ages, that was something to be applauded. They were on good diets and fit as butcher’s dogs. If they did experience heart attacks they would have been in considerable pain before the event, and I’m sure they would have sought some medical help. So I’m really sorry Inspector, but you are just going to have to take a peek under another stone.

Eve knew that if she pushed the DI too much with negativity, then she would look under another stone. If there was one thing that really got Sandy ticked-off, it was negative talk, of any kind. She wanted to hear positive all the time. And if she didn’t get it, she just kept asking the right questions, with a raised eyebrow, that would get her there anyway. Straight to the positive. No messing.

Okay Eve, message understood. So they all died from heart seizures. Yes? The DI walked around the stainless steel table holding the cold, naked body of Jason Finnis, a forty-seven year old murderer and rapist sentenced to life without parole. She stopped at the head, and while bending down to inspect the side of the face more closely remarked But did you check for any puncture marks of any kind? You know only too well what damage an empty syringe shoved into an artery can do. So, Eve, any marks … of any kind?

While the DI was inspecting the name tag cable-tied to Jason’s right big toe, Eve replied, Inspector you’re still looking for the murder angle, aren’t you? It isn’t there. I’ve checked over each and every one. Not a scratch. Not under the fingernails or toenails. Not up the nostrils, between toes or private parts. And when I say private, Inspector, I do mean private. I’ve poked and prodded each one of them where the sun don’t shine and still, nothing, not even bloody sunshine. This last little derogatory comment was said as an aside, and under her breath.

This conversation was taking place down in the mortuary of the East Kent police headquarters building in West Malling, Kent. A nineteen sixties purpose-built red brick building, state-of-the-art at the time with central heating and air conditioning. That was quite rare in those days. It comprised four floors and was topped off with an accessible flat roof. In the right light of late summer evenings, the building sometimes resembled a massive brick with long, elegant, double-glazed windows. The police headquarters lacked any kind of character, 0 or architectural highlights. It was just a big ugly building to keep the police machine rolling along as smoothly as Chief Constable James Alan Chalmers could manage on what he called the meagre three hundred and fifty million pound handout from Kent County Council to keep the force well and truly oiled. And there were no backhanders. No fiddling. No corruption. No fat brown envelopes left in drawers. Straight down the line, all the way, clean sheets. That’s how the Big JAC played it.

The mortuary nestled quite naturally in the basement, and without any form of heating, it was not a welcoming place for living human beings. And if you were naked as the day you were born, and lying on a stainless steel table with little gullies stamped into it to carry your rapidly cooling blood to some receptacle beneath, plus you’ve got a name-tag tied to your right big toe, and you’re waiting for Eve to do her thing on you, this can only mean one thing. Sorry to tell you, but you are out of here. You’re dead and gone. And all of a sudden you are not you anymore, because upon the exact moment of your death, you’ve suddenly become: ‘the body’, And your next stop? The fridge. It stops you from ‘going-off’. Then on you go, either to the flames, or the worms. Sometimes it’s your choice.

Then lastly, your image goes to live in the slowly fading memories of your relatives, friends, and acquaintances. And, of course, you are now part of history. You know that out there somewhere is the date of your death. It’s been lurking around since your date of birth. That momentous date – it’s set in stone, and now your time’s up. You’ve had your fleeting life. It all went by in a heartbeat compared to the infinity of ‘Universal Time’. And just what you did with it was all up to you. You either enjoyed most of it, and so you went kicking and screaming into the arms of death, or you just relaxed and let ‘the Dark Angel’ wrap you in his cold and unforgiving embrace. And now it’s all over and done. It’s all finished. And you know very well that everything has a beginning, and everything has to end. So – just get over it! It’s all very sad … but all so very true.

The hard core prisoners waiting transfer to Maidstone, Rochester, Sheerness, Gravesend, or any other fortress in the country, occupy the cells on the ground floor, along with the remand ‘softies’ awaiting their trials and final fate. The layout of this floor was thought of when the building was being erected. The architect realised that all he needed to do was put a door at the end of the main corridor connecting all the cells, so the occupants would not have to mix or rub shoulders with any personnel when the time came for exercise in the yard. Not a bad idea when you realise that on average, out of ten police officers there is normally one that would kick around the idea of taking an ill-gotten backhander just to help out an inmate, in one way or the other.

All the secretaries and other civilian personnel do whatever it is they are supposed to do on the first floor. The forensic and chemical science laboratories, canteen, rest rooms and hard-copy files are all on the second floor.

The files are housed in ten floor-to-ceiling file racks that slide along rails on the floor to open up to whatever section needed. They are all marked with the relevant letters of the alphabet on little plastic cards in holders on their fronts. File number No. 1 holds ‘A’ through to ‘C’. File No. 2 is ‘D’ to ‘F’ etc. etc. File No. 10’s little card just says ‘Miscellaneous’. The whole system was very neat and up-market way back when, but now in the twenty-first century they are an eyesore that needs replacing. But as we know, the law states that hard copies must be kept of all files for at least ninety nine years, so they are there to stay, unless of course some ‘smart-arse’ comes up with an alternative, which no doubt, Mister Smart Arse will at some time in the future.

The IT department along with the main computer system was housed on the temperature controlled third floor.

On the fourth floor Traffic, CID, Fraud, and Serious Offences department were all tucked up behind their steel desks in the open-plan floor, with individual offices for the heads of sections all along the outside wall. Each office had a large double-glazed floor-to-ceiling window and Venetian blinds on the other windows on the floor side. This guaranteed some level of privacy when there was a call for it.

Hugging one corner of this floor was a very neatly kept office. It had a little blue and white vinyl nameplate on the faux-mahogany door embossed with the rank and name of ‘Detective Inspector Eleanor Sanderson’. In her wardrobe locker was a full change of clothing, her body armour, helmet, empty holster, and her full dress uniform. Nestling in the corner of the bottom shelf was the shoe-shine kit she bought back in her college days.

Chief Constable James Alan Chalmers has an office inner sanctum in the middle of the floor that says ‘I’m the boss, top dog and number one, the big cheese. When you come in here you shut-up and listen, when I talk. You only talk when I say you can talk and not before’. Jim was definitely up himself, and his method of ruling by fear had worked for the last seven years. It has kept all the sheets clean. So why change, why be nice? Nasty has worked so far, so if it ain’t broke -–––—!

The detective constables, detective sergeants, detective inspectors, detective chief inspectors and the superintendents all knew just how the mood of ‘JAC’. (as he was known) was by the level of the blinds in the full length windows of his plush office. Full down meant bad mood. Watch out if you enter. Be ready to slink out under a barrage of shouting and sometimes swearing. And if you were really in the shit, then you got his huge fists crunching down on his aircraft-carrier sized mahogany desk. This was usually so loud a bang that it helped your colleagues to know that shit-creek is open and you were well and truly up it, complete with no fucking paddle. Blinds slightly down or if you were ever the optimist, half way up meant I’ll listen, but be quick. The blinds all the way up usually meant Halle-fuckin-lujah! JAC was in a good mood. Everybody could see him. Must have got lucky in bed last night.

Chief Constable James Alan Chalmers was a fifty-three year old original copper. Fit looking, with no fat on him. He had a full head of brown hair. His face was very similar to the actor Tom Hanks, only a little bit more ‘lived-in’. Creases here and there. His rimless glasses, which normally slid down to the end of his nose, were shoved up again with his annoying habit of using his middle finger to prop them back up. He did it about every minute while talking to you and sometimes it did look as if he was actually covertly giving you ‘the finger’. He was married and had fathered two sons. JAC was stuck somewhere between the sixties and today, and sometimes it showed in his ambivalence to modern technology, and new stuff.

CHAPTER 2

Okay, Eve, get me the names and crimes of the others will you? Also, how long they have served.

Got them right here Inspector, said Eve with a satisfied smile on her near perfect face. She removed her helmet, tussled her hair and proceeded to flip over the pages of her clipboard to find the relevant information. "Okay. First over there in the coolers we have,.. um ... Peter Duxford: Fifty-eight. Single. His crime was multiple rape of a fifteen year old ending in a very nasty murder. His tariff was twenty-five years. No parole. He’d done nine. Next we have another Peter, Peter Morgan: Sixty-two. He’d served fifteen of a life tariff of thirty years for murdering a vicar and raping and killing a nun who just happened upon the murder scene. Also no parole for him. Then there’s Bill Chaplin, another fifty-eight year old. He was married with three daughters. His misdemeanour was a burglary that ended with two officers losing their lives and their heads at the end of a twelve bore shotgun that he brought to the party. His tariff was also life. Twenty-five years with no parole. He’d served eleven years.

In cooler number seven we have a very nasty individual indeed, with the name of Pink, Terry Pink. Sixty-six. He was number one on our wanted list until ‘nine-eleven’ when our focus shifted slightly. His crime was trafficking women from the Middle East for use in the brothels up north. It all turned south of good when a gang from Eastern Europe decided to try and muscle in on his organisation. So he set up a meeting with them to try and sort out some kind of deal. Being pretty dumb, they fell for it. They suggested a compromise, but instead he blew them all away with a Uzi nine mil automatic pistol with an extended magazine. Six hundred rounds per minute sent five of the opposition to hell all in little red bits. That was in the first twenty seconds. The last two took at least another ten seconds. So seven murders in total. Sentence – life, thirty years, and the judge repeated the word ‘life’, with no chance of parole, Inspector. He had served sixteen years. Eve flipped another page and continued Lastly cooler nine has the body of one of the nastiest criminals in our recent history, Parker Bennett. Seventy-four, he was single. He committed a double rape, ending with torture and murder. To keep his two six year old victims quiet, he beheaded the boy, bludgeoned the girl with a two pound hammer until her head resembled a squished watermelon. Then he threw their little bodies onto the rail tracks at Northfleet South junction hoping that the next high-speed train from Ebbsfleet International, and of course the foxes that come in the night would obliterate all evidence. They didn’t, because needless to say Inspector, there was DNA all over the tracks, over the trees and the front of the eight thirty pm from St Pancras. Thankfully we got him after a short week’s search. Sentence – life, thirty-five years. He’d done twenty-three years. The poor driver had to have a few sessions with a trauma counsellor just to be able to try and clock on again, never mind do his job."

The raised hand of the Inspector abruptly interrupted Eve as she said Don’t tell me Eve, let’s see if I can give it a guess - no parole, right?

Yes, you’re right Inspector, No parole’."

Thanks Eve, said the DI, a very detailed report and do you see the link between them all? Tell me, did Jason Finnis’ tariff carry a ‘no parole’ levy as well?

As she again flipped pages, very meaningfully Eve replied Yes it did, and I guess that’s the link isn’t it? Jason got a thirty-five year sentence and he’d only done five years.

Well if it is, Eve, it means that we don’t have a lot to go on, do we? Six lifers with no parole. All dead within a day from heart seizures. That’s a very weak link don’t you think? By the way, what exactly makes someone have a heart seizure?

Well, Chief, it’s normally brought on by the electrical signal to the heart muscles going out of sync. It stops the pulse immediately. No warnings like a heart attack. You know, the pain felt in the left arm radiating to the chest and throat. This is usually caused by a blockage in one or more of the arteries leading to the heart, which of course, leaves a whole lot of evidence for someone like me to find.

Thanks for that Eve. Doesn’t help us a bit though does it?

As Eve closed the clipboard and nestled it in the crook of her arm, she replied to the DI I guess not Inspector, but it is something, even if it is only a little thing. And don’t forget that they were all ‘red file’.

She turned to exit the office. She walked over to the door, grabbed the handle, turned to face the Inspector and said just as a passing comment Oh by the way, Inspector, I’m sorry, I thought you knew, they all died within twelve minutes of each other. – not twelve hours.

CHAPTER 3

Sam Masters was head of the IT Department and along with his two assistants Danny Stapley and Peter Mears, they kept the Information Technology Department ticking along just as it was designed to do. They kept all the computers computing as they should and when a problem did pop-up it was usually Sam Masters that went to the rescue. Samuel Anthony Masters was a very peace loving kind of guy. He was very approachable. Thirty-five. Single. He knew the difference between a megabyte, terabyte, gigabyte, kilobyte and all the magic stuff that goes into a computer that makes it byte. In other words Sam knew computer hardware and software like the back of his hand. Because of his slightly geeky manner, a junior CID member gave him the nick-name of ‘Keystroke’ on his first day in residence. Sam`s ability to hack into any computer anywhere in the world was something he kept very close to his chest. And just like many of us, Sam had debts. But he had big crippling private debts, and he knew that if he didn’t do something very quickly to reduce them, then the day would surely come when having debts would not matter one jot. He had to think of a way of making a big bundle very quickly, at least fifty thousand pounds, which would just about clear the decks of his ship of financial burden.

Sam’s features were sharp in profile with high cheek bones and a classic Roman nose which gave a false sense of sternness, but full-on showed a kind and gentle face. His pupils were light brown and sometimes they belie his mood. His deep brown hair assumed that middle of the head parting style which left two tresses framing his very bushy eyebrows. Sam did not stand tall, in fact, he was only five foot six.

Sam`s hobby was collecting interesting handmade and rare firearms, pistols and rifles which were deactivated as soon as they became his property. Sam tried never to duplicate any of them. He just appreciated the design, the accuracy of fit, and the fine tolerances to be found in some hand-built firearms. His ultimate goal was to be the proud owner of an eighteen seventy-seven Colt Single Action .45cal Boxer Army revolver. Samuel Colt manufactured only ninety-eight of these very collectable hand guns, and now they were topping out at about eighteen to twenty thousand pounds. So Sam was going to need a whole lot of folding money before he would realise his goal. Some of the engraving, which was all done by hand on the pre-mass production models, was enough to take his breath away. Which it usually did.

Now, on the subject of the love game, Sam tried to play the field of romance every time fortune looked down and served up yet another prospective bed mate, normally at weekends. He didn’t want to commit to just one, even though he sometimes did find something in his friend Sophie, whom he met a couple of years ago. And he found that there was something which gave him a little tickle in the tackle department every time he let his imagination run a little bit wild about Sophie and him as lovers. Maybe?

Yes,—he liked playing the field, and why not. As long as he was careful.

For a bit of ‘R and R’ his favourite card game was brag. Sam played for big stakes, laying down a hundred pounds on one hand was no big problem. Or so he thought, until he got a call from three out of town, brain-dead knee-breakers hired to collect his losses. Sam thought his markers were good enough, but he had just run out of goodwill with Mister Julian Taginflight, the owner of the Red Sands Snooker and Pool Hall down on Crayford Avenue, where Sam had been a member for a good couple of years.

JT was not a very nice man. In fact he was a total shit. He was not married, so he had no-one to answer to. He had no one to pull him back when he drifted off to the nasty side of life. So he had managed to cultivate a personality that suited his demeanour. He was fifty-two, going on sixty-five. He never saw the funny side of anything, it was always the worst. Taginflight was a miserable bastard, and when he played a game of brag or poker he took no prisoners. He would sit calmly by and watch all the pretenders pretending that they held the winning hand, and as he watched they slowly dropped out with cold sweat covering their faces as pretence gave way to reality and debt. JT usually had the upper hand and when he held the winning hand it was always when there was a massive pot of folding cash in the middle. He knew how to read the ‘tells’ of each and every one of them. They knew, that he knew their tells, but sadly JT did not have a ‘tell’. Something he did have however: he harboured a nauseating body-odour which he couldn’t smell and no one in their right mind was going to complain about it, well at least not to his face. His sense of dress was appalling. His personal hygiene left a hell of a lot to be desired. And being the world’s worst, or is it the best pessimist, his glass was always nearly empty, not even slightly half full. Julian had a favourite annoying saying that most of his clientele knew off by heart: Hey, you know you don’t have to agree with me. But you just gotta admit, I’m fuckin right

It was a chance meeting between Sam and JT at The Boreham Road Auction Rooms that brought things to where they were today.

The number on Sam`s bidding card was 611 and Julian, who was sitting at the end of the same row as Sam, was holding card number 14. It silently told how much more experienced the holder was at auctions, compared to Sam.

The bidding was fierce that day, and it was not long before all the light-weights were swept aside, leaving the two heavy-weights to joust and parry against each other in an attempt to out-bid for the Mannlicher-Carcano M91/38 short rifle. It was authenticated by a letter signed by Sheriff Dwight L. McLinsky of the Dallas Police Department as being the actual one that was used by a Mister Lee Harvey Oswald way back on November 22, 1963 to send President J F Kennedy into oblivion, to meet with his own God,– sadly, with a bloody massive hole in his head. And as many of us know, Mister Oswald took the fatal shot while he was holed-up in the Texas School Book Depository.

And on that day, Mister Oswald changed American national history, all on his little ownsome, without any help–whatsoever.

Sam had to pull out when the bid hit twenty thousand pounds. He knew the true worth of the piece, but he also knew his bank balance, and that the manager would not allow him to sink deeper into a bottomless pit of debt. So he leaned forward, looked at Julian and acknowledged the winning twenty thousand pound bid with a nod and raised hands signalling a silent appreciative clap.

Later they met at the pay and collection booth at the rear of the gallery. Julian handed over a certified cheque in exchange for the collector’s item nestling in its battered and unpolished mahogany case, along with a green envelope holding the ‘McLinsky’ letter of authenticity. Sam’s nostrils told him not to get too close and as he feigned brushing a fly away from his face he said, Well done, you’ve got a real classic there. Any chance of a look? Last time I saw it, it was behind locked glass. Sure no problem. Here give me a hand. Oh, it’s Julian by the way, Julian Taginflight. There was a warm handshake, then the two men eagerly unlocked and unclipped the little brass catches. Sam, Sam Masters. Wow, this is some piece you’ve got here Sam commented as he cradled the twenty thousand pound ‘Carcano’ in his eager hands, wishing that it was he who had won the auction. That`s how they met, two and a bit years ago, but now Sam was stitched into JT for a cool forty-five thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds. Not a life changing amount to some of us, but when you are a club owner living life just the other side of legal, and who has to keep his other clients in line, then owing that amount of cash to him can quickly become a life changer. Not for JT, but for Sam.

Life does tend to change when you have trouble recognising yourself in the mirror after some paid heavy has had his fun using your head as a football, having to propel yourself around in a wheelchair, or go everywhere with crutches stuck under each armpit because your misshapen legs don’t work that good anymore. Legs tend not to work very well after your knees have been pulverised by a baseball bat.

JT had a weird and rather stupid habit of wearing two pairs of glasses every time he sat in on a game of cards. He looked totally ridiculous, but there was not one player who was brave enough, or maybe stupid enough to mention the absurdity of it, or to offer the suggestion of a visit to the opticians.

They all liked their legs, including knees, just as God gave them: straight–and working.

CHAPTER 4

The timid knock on his front door totally disguised the character of the person knocking. Not expecting any problems, Sam did not bother to use the spyhole in the middle of the top panel. He just released the heavy five lever lock and without thinking, he just yanked the door wide open. Oops! and Oh Shit! – Wrong move.

Now Sam was thinking fast. The well-suited man in front of him, along with his two very angry looking friends, were blocking out the sunlight trying to seep into the sitting room of his little apartment. One of the three was carrying a baseball bat and every few seconds he did a bounce off the ground with the handle of the bat, which made an unmistakable ‘pinging’ sound.

Sam noted that the tall bat-carrier was sporting a well-shaven head, an unforgettable ‘lived–in’ face spotted here and there with tell-tale scars. Evidence of a tough and violent life. He had one eyebrow slightly higher than its neighbour, and he had a slightly crooked sardonic smile that could, and would most likely have struck total fear in many of his opponents.

Heavy number three was wearing jeans and a tee shirt that was two sizes too small. It was badly stained with what looked like week-old sweat stains under both arm-pits. He had forearms like hams, a head like an onion, with what looked like shaving scars dotted here and there. It was very obvious by the size of his chest, his neck and biceps that on a daily basis this guy pumped iron. His muscles looked as if he gobbled down anabolic steroid porridge–for breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner. They looked slightly artificial, and huge. The gold chain around his waist-sized neck looked big enough to hold a good-sized yacht to the dock, or a full grown Rottweiler to a fence post. The tattoos on his arms, neck and face were bold and colourful enough for the wearer to hide behind. And if that ring on his massive sausage sized finger should happen to crunch into Sam’s face, then there would be an exact opposite imprint of a deaths-head embedded somewhere on Sam’s high cheekbone.

Heavy number one took command. He was not unduly big, and he had a face that reminded Sam of a scrawny under-fed rat. It was a long face with a sloping forehead, topped off with wispy hair, all combed back, no side burns. He had a pointy nose and sharp protruding chin, and between the two, a small mouth, with thin and dry looking lips. By the way the other two took up position behind him, Sam could tell that when he talked, you were supposed to fuckin listen. You had to really because his voice was like a tobacco induced croak. Not much volume but incredibly menacing. It sounded just like one of those skin-shredded, goo dripping zombies that you get every now and then. They try to crawl out of a grave somewhere to scare the shit out of someone in some crap TV show or X rated film. And now this voice was scaring the shit out of poor Sam.

Okay, okay, fuckin sit down and shut up while I fill you in Sam. Trying to keep his gaze on all three men and especially the bat carrier who was still pinging it on the floor, Sam crashed down onto his two-seater settee. My name is Ray, Ray November. Remember it Sam. Me and my two little friends here, we’re here to collect. You see Sam, Mister Taginflight requests payment of forty-five thousand, seven hundred and fifty fuckin pounds and our job is to make that collection, simple as that. You pay me–I pay JT.–Sweet. You keep your looks and your knees. But if you don’t, I’ll let Sobs here have a little fun seeing if he can rearrange your fuckin face. Then with much deep joy and would you believe, a lot of pleasure, I will release Barry ‘The Bat’ Bruce. You do realise that the bat ain`t the flying kind. I hope you know what I mean Sam.

Sam thought ‘Did he really call him Sobs. What a fuckin stupid name’

This stupid comment brought a little giggle from both Sobs and Barry in the background. Sam on the other hand did not see the funny side in anything that Mister November was croaking. The under-fed rat continued And just to make sure that you ain’t under no fuckin misunderstandings, let me tell you what Barry loves to do with his bat. He always carries an old tea spoon and a couple of golf balls, he calls them tools-of-the-trade. When we get a customer that doesn’t want to keep us sweet, Barry sits them down, ties their hands to the back of the chair, usually with the help of old Sobs here. He tells the sitting victim to keep fuckin still while he shoves the spoon in their mouth. He then balances one of the balls in the spoon. He stands back a couple of feet and takes a well-aimed swing at the ball. Sometimes the stupid old sod misses by a mile and then sometimes he doesn’t. This usually sharpens the mind of the sitter to come along with us. Know what I mean Sam? Anyway, we can always tell when it has the right effect by the little pool of piss collected on the floor and sometimes by the smell of shit. Not nice Sam, not nice at all….

As November was talking, Sam was holding his head in his hands and thinking: ‘Oh Christ,-how the fuck did it all get to this–and why the hell did I let it all get to this’.

November continued …sometimes Barry likes to change his modus fuckin operandi, says he gets bored with knocking teeth out and breaking jaws, so can you guess what comes next Sam. No, course you can’t. Well, let me give it to you in fine detail. Let me fill you in. He takes a ball and places it between your knees. He does the same couple of back steps then instead of a side swing, he takes an overhead swing and tries to remove the ball. He says it gives the client a fair chance to keep the knees…course, the only problem is that the bat is always bigger than the ball ...so…well, let`s leave it to your imagination, shall we Sam?

Sam`s mind was in overdrive, as he was trying to work a way out of this goddamn mess. He was looking at November, but his words seemed to drift from sharp to soft focus, as if someone was shoving a well-aimed finger into his ears then quickly removing it. In and out, soft to loud, Not a very nice feeling. In the pit of his stomach the little gremlins were stomping all over his guts. The croak continued I don’t have to tell you this Sam, but I will. This happy little band you see before you, we’ve been together now for over five years and guess what Sam, in all those years I have never seen him get the fuckin ball. Guess I never will. It’s always the knees that get it. Naturally. Fuckin sad, but true. Ever seen a busted knee Sam? Ever heard a knee getting busted? Not a pretty sight. Not a nice sound. Especially on a lady. It kind of hangs down at a funny angle, slowly going red.

Sam’s mind was now slowly clearing and November’s words were slowly sinking in, loud and clear. But his stomach took over when, in his mind’s eye, he could see the result of a baseball bat crunching down on a knee joint, shattering bone and splitting flesh. As if to reinforce and magnify the fear that he knew Sam was experiencing, November decided to tell Sam a story of one of his gang’s escapades. Whether or