The Dying Place. Luca Veste
his heart racing – bang, bang, bang. Beating harder than it had done in years.
He wasn’t going to back down. Not this time. Things were different.
Two of them walked off behind him, sniggering under their black hoods as he held his hands out wide, palms to the darkened sky. He heard the distant sound of a car towards the end of his road and turned towards it. A shuffling sound to his left made him turn back.
Thunk.
The sound reverberated around his head. The clatter of tin on concrete brought him back to his senses, just as another beer can pinged off his head.
‘What the …’
The laughing had grown louder. Surrounding him, constricting his breathing.
‘You little shits …’
They were grouped together, pointing at him, nudging each other hard as their laughter grew and grew.
‘Come ’ead lads’, the tallest one said between fits of laughter, ‘let’s get down to Crocky Park. See if the girls are about.’
He stared after them as they left, mouth hanging open as they sauntered off, hands down the front of their tracksuit bottoms. Looked around at the mess they’d made of his garden and the pavement in front of his house, before reaching up to his head – damp where dregs of beer had splattered onto his hair.
The van parked up his street shifted into gear and coasted towards him. He felt as if his chest was stuck in a vice, his breathing becoming shallower. He staggered backwards and sat on the small brick wall.
He lifted his head up as the van came to a stop a little before his house, squinting into the bright lights on the front of it. The passenger side door opened and he looked at the figure which got out.
‘You okay auld fella?’
‘Fine,’ he replied between pants of breath, ‘the tall one. That’s who we want.’
‘You sure?’
The old man swallowed and made a go ahead motion with his hands. ‘It’s time, son. One isn’t enough. We’re going to teach them a lesson. We’re going to teach them all a lesson.’
Goldie felt buzzed – a bit light-headed even – but not properly pissed, which annoyed him. Even worse, that little slag Shelley hadn’t let him do anything more than have a feel of her tits before pushing him away. Not that there was much there to feel. Now all he wanted to do was get home, smoke a bit – just to zone him out, like – and then have a good kip.
He smiled to himself as he remembered the auld fella from earlier on in the night. Probably a fuckin’ paedo or something, so he didn’t feel bad. Not like there were any laws against sitting on someone’s wall anyway. Next few weeks, he planned on making sure that auld bastard realised who Goldie was.
Lost in his half-pissed thoughts, he didn’t hear the van slowing behind him. Didn’t hear it come to a stop, the side doors opening. The first he realised something was wrong was when he was pushed hard in the back, his balance not what it would have been earlier in the day. It happened so quickly, he couldn’t free his hands to stop the fall.
He remembered thinking the pavement was fuckin’ hard, smashing into his face with nothing to brace against it – harder than even his dad had hit him that one time, before he fucked off for good. He turned around on the floor, using his tongue to feel around his mouth. One of his front teeth jutted forwards into his top lip. His left eye was going blurry as something wet dripped down his face. Blood, he guessed.
He tried to regain his senses, determined not to go down without a fight. Probably some Strand fuckers, hoping to put him out of action. He turned onto his back, raising his hands to cover himself, waiting for the kicking to start.
He looked up, confused in an instant as he saw the men standing over him.
They were old. Forties, fifties. He could tell from the greying hair, rather than facial features. All of them wearing masks.
Shite …
‘You’re coming with us, kid. Gonna teach you some respect.’
Goldie began kicking out, but rough, hard hands grabbed at his legs. Strength he wasn’t used to from the other lads his own age. Fingers dug into his flesh as they pulled him along the concrete.
‘Get the fuck off me you fuckin’ twats. I’ll fuck you all up. Do you know who I am? I’m gonna fuckin’ kill all o’ yers.’
Then the world went black as something was forced over his head, pulled tight across his face, no amount of thrashing around making it come off. Hard metal slammed into his stomach, taking the wind out of him completely. He felt a weight on his legs as he realised he was now in the back of the van, hands holding his head to the floor as they began to move. The hood over his face was loosened a little so he could breathe.
‘Duct tape.’
The voice was hardened, Scouse. Proper old school, like his dad’s.
‘No. Don’t you fuckin’ dare …’ Goldie tried to shout, the hood muffling the sound.
The hood was lifted to his nose, before tape went across his mouth. Shouting behind it had no effect. He tried kicking out again, but the hands holding his legs and arms down barely shifted.
‘Stop messing about, or we’ll just dump you in the Mersey now. Relax. Nothing is going to happen to you. We’re going to help you.’
Goldie tried answering back, but it was useless.
One leg got free.
Goldie didn’t think twice. Just swung it back and aimed for anything he could. The satisfying clunk as his foot found flesh made him redouble his efforts.
Shouts, cries, as he struggled free, the hood over his face keeping him in darkness.
‘Stop the van.’
The same voice as before, still calm, still low.
Goldie tried to stand, but the van pulling to a stop made him rock forward, off balance.
‘I told you to relax.’
Goldie spun, but wasn’t quick enough. His hands caught in mid-air as he tried to remove his hood. Strong grip on his wrist. Starting to twist.
Explosion in the side of his head as something smacked against it.
Then, as he fell to the floor, he wished for the complete darkness of unconsciousness – not just the vision of it. As the punches landed, the kicks and boots flew into his stomach, his ribs cracking one by one.
That tight grip on his wrist. Still there. Twisting, turning.
He cried out behind the duct tape sealing his mouth. No use.
The crack as his wrist snapped.
‘That’s enough. All of you.’
The blows stopped as he lay on the floor of the van, trying to hold his body together. Coughing up God knows what behind his gag. Trying not to choke. Trying to breathe, every intake of air through his nostrils not enough.
It somehow got darker behind the hood as his head lolled backwards.
The last thing he remembered was the voice again.
‘Start it up. Let’s get to the farm. Now.’
Take the coward vermin to the nearest safari park. Shatter one of its knees. Hamstring the maimed leg, then kick the disease out of a van in the middle of the lion enclosure. No cat can resist a limping, bleeding thing. Film it and show it daily at prime time for a month. I’d pay good money to watch this show happen live. It wants to live like an animal? Let the subhuman abortion die like one.