The Mercy Seat by Martyn Waites Page B

something, when the back of his hair was roughly grabbed, his head forced away.
    ‘What the fuck—’
    The words died in Dean’s mouth. Alan was before him, one arm restraining his body, the other holding a machete against his throat.
    ‘I was enjoying that,’ said Alan, ‘so this had better be worthwhile.’
    Dean had been threatened before, beaten up, even. But this was much worse. He was too terrified to speak.
    ‘You know I said I wasn’t here on business? I lied. Now, if you lie, something horrible will happen to you. Got that?’
    Dean felt like he couldn’t get enough air into his body. He tried to pull his neck away from the blade. Alan held him too tightly.
    ‘OK?’
    Dean nodded, whimpering as he did so.
    ‘Good. Now, where’s Jamal?’
    Dean said nothing.
    ‘I told you, don’t fuck with me.’
    Dean felt the blade deepen against his neck. His front began to feel wet.
    ‘Now, I’ve just broken the skin,’ said Alan, his voice calm and low. ‘If I keep pushing, I’ll sever your windpipe. And if I move it round to the side here …’ He demonstrated. ‘It goes through your vein. Or artery. Whichever. Doesn’t matter. You’ll die either way.’
    Dean sobbed.
    ‘Now, I’ll ask again. Where’s Jamal?’
    ‘Nuh – nuh – Newcastle …’
    ‘Newcastle? What’s he doing there?’
    ‘Dunno …’
    ‘What’s he doing there?’
    The blade began to bite again.
    ‘Donovan!’ he gasped.
    ‘Donovan?’
    ‘Yeah … Said he would be makin’ buh-bare money soonfrom someone called Donovan … Jamal … had a plan … he was … was excited …’
    The machete eased away from Dean’s throat. Alan relaxed his grip. Dean began to gasp down air.
    ‘I said it would be all right if you told me the truth.’
    Dean was down on his hands and knees. ‘Th – thank you … thank you …’
    ‘Now empty your pockets.’
    Dean looked up, confused. ‘What?’
    ‘Empty your pockets. Just the money will do.’
    Dean felt anger rising within him but reluctantly handed the cash over, hands shaking as he did so. Giving up Jamal was one thing, but losing his money …
    ‘Bastard …’
    Alan turned on him. ‘What did you say?’
    Dean had spoken without thinking. ‘Nothing … nothing … I’m sorry …’
    ‘You little piece of shit. Talking back to me.’ His eyes glittered in the dark, lit by a malevolent light, almost beyond human.
    Before Dean could say or do another thing, Alan was on him, the blade against his throat. Pressing hard.
    ‘Piece of shit.’ His eyes dancing to a mad, unheard tune.
    The machete was pushed further.
    Dean tried to scream.
    But had no vocal cords.
    Dean tried to think.
    But the blood had been cut off from his brain.
    Dean tried to breathe.
    But his windpipe had been severed.
    Dean tried to live.
    But he was beyond that now.
    The Hammer watched as the body floated for a few secondsthen, weighed down by the breeze blocks and bricks it had been trussed with, began to sink. The last of the surface bubbles popped and there was nothing to indicate a body had ever been there.
    He had on a spare set of clothes, his soiled ones in the bag along with the machete.
    And his trophy.
    He sighed, his body returning to what passed for equilibrium. Back to Newcastle. Again. To step things up. Give proceedings a little push.
    This travelling was tiring. He patted the bag, heaved it on to his shoulder. Smiled his blue-toothed smile. But not without its rewards.
    A final check to see if he had left anything incriminating.
    Nothing.
    But then, no one would look here anyway.
    He gave the bag another pat and set off.
    Back to Newcastle.

7
    When he closed his eyes, Gary Myers could see their faces. Amanda, his wife. Georgie, eight, and Rosie, five. Could imagine Amanda’s body next to him, the kids jumping on the bed, laughing and hugging them both, the Saturday-morning lie-ins that he always treasured when he was home.
    He imagined their faces sick with worry, their lives incomplete, and