The Hard Way by Duncan Brockwell (electronic book reader .txt) 📗

“Is that good enough?”

“Very well. Come in if you must.”

The driver returned to his Peugeot.

Hanging up, Henry pushed the green “Enter” button and the gates whirred to life. The detectives’ car drove into the compound and he closed the gates after them. “You’d better not need feeding,” Henry mumbled.

He waited at the door until they parked up and rang the bell. “Come in, detectives. You don’t need feeding, do you?” When he received confirmation in the negative, he showed them through to the lounge, where he lay back down on the sofa.

The two detectives sat on armchairs. After a few minutes of silence, he felt eyes on him. Sitting up, both stared at him. “Can I get you something? Tea, or coffee?” They shook their heads, not ones for talking, he guessed. “Something stronger?”

Henry stood, picked up his tumbler and sauntered over to the corner bar. He went behind it and poured himself another triple measure of the “good stuff”. The detectives’ eyes followed him wherever he went. “Are you sure you don’t want a whisky? It’s no bother.”

Coming out from behind the bar, he leaned against it.

“Sit down, Mr Curtis!” the driver said, stern, his voice non-negotiable.

Henry was taken aback by the man’s tone. “Hey! You can’t talk to me like that.”

The driver stood, reached behind him, and pulled out a pistol. Pointing it at Henry’s chest, the “detective” gestured at the sofa. “Over there! Sit on the sofa, be a good boy.”

His glass shook, his legs turned to jelly. “It’s you, isn’t it? You murdered my Colin. You murdered Brandy and Kurt.”

“Give this guy a prize. You’re sharp, Mr Curtis. Now sit on that sofa, or shall I force you to sit by blowing out your kneecaps? I don’t think you want that, do you.”

Henry felt sick. He was face-to-face with his husband’s killers. The room started spinning; everything went black. The last thing he saw before he fainted was the passenger getting up from his armchair. Henry fell to the carpet.

Big, strong arms pulled him up, before carrying him over to the sofa. Having the driver’s gun pointed at his chest made him want to cry. “Please, I don’t want to die. I’ve got money; if it’s cash you want, I can get you whatever you need, please. Put that gun away.”

Pleading didn’t seem to help. All he received for his troubles were angry scowls. “Whatever it is I’m doing, I’ll stop it. Please, tell me.”

“No dignity,” Driver said to his colleague. “You are going to die tonight, Mr Curtis. It’s your choice how you go.”

“I’ll find a piece of paper and pen,” Passenger said.

“In a drawer behind the bar, there’s a pad of paper in there.” Henry thought being helpful might stand him in good favour. “Please, you don’t have to do this.”

Driver sauntered over to the coffee table and sat on the edge, the pistol still pointed at Henry’s chest. “I’m afraid we don’t have a choice, Mr Curtis. I promise, it won’t hurt, if you play ball. If you do as we say, it’ll be quick and painless. Mess us around, and, well–”

“I’ll go find the bathroom and get set up.” Passenger left the room.

Henry stared at the pad of paper Passenger had left on the table. Driver stood and handed him the pen. Henry looked up. “What’s this for?”

“It’s quite simple. All I need from you is to write the word ‘sorry’ on that pad of paper. Then sign it from yourself. If you do that, I’ll make this as quick as I can.”

“You want me to write my own suicide note?” He dropped the pen on the glass table in front of him. “I’m not doing it. You can’t make me, either. And besides, no one will believe it. Me? Kill myself? Why would I do that? I have a fabulous life.”

Driver’s expression wasn’t angry; it was confident. “Oh, you’ll write that note, Mr Curtis. I know you will.” He reached into his suit jacket and retrieved his mobile.

Taking the phone from his attacker, Henry stared at the photo Driver intended him to see. “You bastard! You wouldn’t.” His hand shook at the picture of his sister’s ten-year-old boy.

“You see? It’s not just your life you’re playing with. If you don’t follow our instructions to the letter, we’re going to pay your little nephew a visit at his boarding school. You don’t want anything bad to happen to him, do you?”

Henry welled up at the thought of these two thugs hurting his sister’s son. A tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away, took a deep breath and picked up the pen. “Just the word ‘Sorry’?” Driver nodded. He attempted to write it.

Putting the pen down again, he couldn’t do it. He angered Driver, who stood next to him and placed the nozzle of his pistol in the back of his head, hard, to the point of almost cutting him. Henry put his hands up. “I’m sorry! I’ll do it.”

“In the next thirty seconds, or we’re driving to your nephew’s school next. He won’t be a happy kid by the time we’re done with him.”

Henry could still feel the gun in the back of his head when he scrawled the word “Sorry” on the paper. He signed his name and looked up at his murderer.

“Are you ready up there?” Driver shouted to his partner.

Receiving the affirmation, Henry did as instructed and walked up the stairs followed by Driver, who nudged him a couple of times in his back with the gun. “I’m going.” He saw lights on in his bathroom and burst into tears.

The Passenger stood. “It’s all good. A lovely temperature for you.”

“Take your clothes off and get in the tub, Mr Curtis.”

Fighting back the tears, Henry untied his dressing gown belt, let it fall to the floor and stood naked in front of his guests. He lifted his right leg and put it in the warm water, then the left, before submerging his