Zero Sum #1

There are two ways to get someone out of their house.
One: break the door down and drag them out. Tends to cause a disturbance and gives them the opportunity to lay their hands on baseball bats, knives, shooters and other toys that they’ve left in readiness for just such an occasion.
Two: knock on the door and talk to them. Much less likely to cause any kind of disturbance because people do this kind of thing all the time and nobody pays much attention.

Last night I chose option two. It’s more my style.

I had to extract a nasty little streak of piss from his doss-hole ten floors up a god-awful Seventies tower block.
"’Ello," I said cheerily as he opened the door and peered out. You can always tell the suspicious types; they glance up and down the street when they open the door. They can’t help it. Sometimes I think they don’t even know they’re doing it. He looked around, sniffed the air then looked back at me, a twisted sneer on his face like I’d come to post a spoonful of fresh dogshit through his letterbox. I don’t know what he thought he might be able to smell. All I could detect was the odour of stale piss and puked-up Special Brew that was baked into the bare concrete floor. If, no, when this block was finally demolished, every mote of dust would bear the stench and carry it for miles around.
"What?" he grunted. Somewhere behind me I heard the distinctive noise of a bolt being thrown. They obviously recognised Trouble in this neck of the woods. Every one of the front doors in this tower had an outer security gate. Most of them hadn’t even bothered buying the fancy gates with curly details. They just went for solid steel jobs with reinforced drill-proof locks.
"Jamie sent me. I brought the gear." I tried to inject a note of hopefulness into my voice. Piss-streak hesitated. I could almost see the cogs whirring behind his puffy little eyes. He squinted at me and idly scratched at a scab on his chin.
"What, Jamie Witherspoon? That Jamie?"
His response surprised me. I didn’t know who the hell Jamie was. I’d picked the name out of my metaphorical hat. Normally the mention of drugs and cash would have the little shits toddling out of the door like nobody’s business. Piss-streak was more canny that I’d given him credit for. He didn’t know any Jamie that owed him gear. Possibly didn’t know any Jamie at all. So he’d been smart enough to make up a surname on the spot, hoping to catch me out. I knew he’d made it up: when he answered the door I was wearing a baseball cap with the Witherspoons pub logo on it. I’d whipped it off before I spoke, but it was enough to leave an impression on him. He’d recognised the logo unconsciously and used it for his made-up surname.
"I don’t know Jamie’s surname", I shrugged. "He’s just Jamie. I do jobs for him, right? He told me to take a batch of gear over to Flat 10c, Peel House. He said you’d know what it was for. Payment, like. You’re owed it."
His expression changed immediately. There was greed written all over his face and I could tell I had on the hook. The tower I was standing in wasn’t Peel House – that was a similar-looking block on the other side of the estate. The penny had dropped and was rattling loudly in his tin can: some twat of a drug courier has rocked up at the wrong tower block with a shitload of gear in tow. He wants me to have it, so I’m having it.
"Right. Give it ‘ere then," he grunted, holding out a hand. I shook my head. "It’s in the car," I said, jabbing my thumb over my shoulder. Piss-streak looked exasperated, but I turned and started down the stairs before he could complain.

I emerged into the semi-darkness of a late winter afternoon. The street was as quiet as the inner city ever gets, an ambient meld of traffic, trains and subwoofers. I wanted to loosen up and crack my knuckles but I stayed in character: shoulders hunched, quick walk, short steps. I glanced over my shoulder. Piss-streak was a few paces behind, his face hidden in the shade of his hoodie. He had that rocking, hip-tilt walk that every kid on the street worked so hard to perfect. It made him blend into the background even more. Just some lad scouting out his manor.
I went to the back of the Land Rover, folded down the tailgate and hopped up inside. A removable section of floor revealed a shallow compartment below just big enough to hide a body in. I was aware that piss-streak was there on the street, watching me. I dragged out a large package wrapped in brown paper. It was just five Argos catalogues, but he wasn’t to know that. I kicked it halfway across the floor towards the Landie’s tailgate and hopped down onto the road. Now the he could see the goods he couldn’t wait to get his hands on them. As he levered himself up onto the back of the Landie I slipped a flexicuff out and looped it around his ankles, quickly drawing it tight just as he got his hands on the package. He fell flat, smacking his face on the floor with a satisfying crunch. "What the fuck…" he spluttered wetly, rolling onto his back. Blood was gushing out of his nose and he’d split his lip badly. I’d planned to gaffer-tape his mouth but that wasn’t an option any more. He’d be dead in five minutes, lungs choked with his own blood. I clambered back into the Landie and straddled him, putting all my weight on his chest and pinning his arms down with my shins. Big double-thickness Tesco bag over the head, wrap four times round the neck with tape to make it tight. There was enough air in the bag to keep him conscious for ten, twelve minutes. Less if he panicked. He panicked. Both fists flailing, he somehow pushed himself upright, cracking his head on the roof. Time wasn’t on my side, so I just looped another flexicuff through the one that was already holding his feet together and threaded it through one of the D-rings in the floor. Piss-streak’d either lie down or fall down, I thought to myself as I slithered through to the cab.

He dangled upside-down in the cold night air, his face level with mine. I’d plugged a large straw into his mouth and held it in place with gaffer tape, then added a few more flexicuffs to keep limb movement to a minimum. The rope I’d suspended him from was attached to the Landie, parked on the railway bridge about twenty feet overhead. He swung slowly from side to side like a pendulum, the watery moonlight throwing his pock-marked face into cruel relief. I sat by the side of the tracks, watching him swing. It’s always wise to incorporate a cooling-off period with a job like this. I pulled out a thermos and took a sip of coffee.

Some time later I pulled out a folded scrap of newsprint and read it to him. It was from a local rag, a short item about a woman who lived on piss-streak’s manor. She’d left her flat one day and caught a train out of town. Got off at a provincial station and walked to the same remote railway bridge we were standing beneath, and waited for night and a fast train. Pissed the commuters off the next morning because they had to close the line for a few hours while the BTP gathered up the chunks in a black binbag. Unlike most suicides, she’d left a note. Her niece had found it during a clear-out and handed it to the local paper. A few weeks later a copy had found its way to me.

"Want to know why she killed herself? Simple. A nasty little bunch of shitbags were making her life a misery. Every night – every fucking night, mark you – every night they’d hang around outside her house and cause grief."

I counted off with my fingers. "Dogshit through the letterbox. Fire in the wheelie bin. Piss-stains on the front door. Rock through the bathroom window. Every night. By the time she checked out every window was boarded up and she practically lived in the broom cupboard."
I paused, waiting for a reaction. None came. I wasn’t surprised. His face was half-covered in tape. His eyes were emotionless, watching me steadily.
"Want to know why she lived in the broom cupboard? No windows. Furthest room from the outside walls. Safe."
I pinched the end of the straw, closing off his air supply. He twisted his head in a vain attempt to free the straw. One minute. Two minutes. Two-and-a-half. Release. Eyes wide with panic, he blew harshly through the straw, desperately trying to shed the accumulated carbon dioxide.
"Think about it," I said almost conversationally. "Squatting in a tiny dark cupboard from teatime until breakfast night after night. Walls closing in. Nowhere to piss. Nothing to eat. Too scared to come out. She must have felt like she was suffocating. Can you imagine?"
Piss-streak shook his head violently and tried to speak. I cupped my hand to my ear.
"What’s that? It wasn’t your fault? Nothing to do with you? Oh, I’m sorry but I did do my homework. It’s my job, you see. Got to be thorough. Got to be sure. And I’m sure. Yes, I know you weren’t the only one out there every night flinging shit like a gang of caged monkeys. You’re wondering: why didn’t he choose Rezza or Loopo or Bonez or Wesha or someone else from my little crew?"
A pause, to let it all sink in. I gave him a gentle shove, making him swing back and forth.
"Well, I’m wondering: why her? Why did you pick on her? Was it maybe because she was trying to clean up your manor? Maybe because she got the flophouses cleaned out? Maybe because she campaigned for more police patrols? Who knows. What goes on in your pus-filled head is way beyond me. I could have picked up any one of your gang tonight. It just happened to be you. Tough shit."
I put a hand out and stopped the swinging motion. More gaffer tape around his eyes.
"Do you know what happens to a human body when 300 tons of train hits it at 100 miles an hour? It shatters like a watermelon dropped on a hot pavement. Bits everywhere. Tell you what, there’ll still be bits of that lady in the bushes around here. Bone, mostly. Crows and foxes will have eaten the rest by now. When they gather you up they might even scoop a few bits of her at the same time. Imagine that! The two of you, mixed together in the same grave."
Piss-streak was bucking and twisting for all he was worth now, sweat and tears mingling in his hair. A scabby bubble of blood emerged from his nose and burst across his face. I climbed up the embankment and drove the Landie a little further across the bridge, the rope dragging jerkily along.

I waited until he stopped swinging and approached him quietly from behind.
"Did you think I’d gone?" I whispered in his ear. He snorted in surprise, twisting to try to catch sight of me in spite of his blindfold. I stayed behind him, grabbing his head so I could cut off the tape that surrounded his mouth. He screamed in pain as I slowly pulled it away. Finally I cut the ties binding his arms and wrists, ignoring the constant stream of abuse and threats. His voice was dulled by several hours without fluids and the shouting quickly reduced to a hoarse croak. I slipped away and climbed back up to the top of the bridge.

"It’s 4am," I shouted from above. "Trains have stopped for the night. They’ll start again before long. The question is, will the first train go past you or will it go through you?"
I pulled my thermos out again and waited.