The Chop Shop (14 page)

Michael walked
into administration. He stopped by the doorway, listening to the tapping of
fingers on keyboards, as he looked around at the rows of desks and workers.
Some of the lights at the back were off, and the room receded into shadow. A
woman to his right spoke softly into her phone, pausing for a moment to glance
up at him before she resumed her duties.

He moved towards
Samantha's desk. She had her head buried in one hand, as he dropped the card
folder in the wire tray.

“Oh, hi. People
were saying you had probably been killed,” she said, sitting up straight.

“News gets
around that quickly?”

“Yeah, but
people usually forget about it after fifteen minutes or so. I wish they'd get
the network fixed; we're going to have paperwork piling up to the ceiling soon.
What? What is it?”

“Can I get a
lift tonight?”

She folded her
arms. “Something happen to your car?”

“It got
incinerated, courtesy of the local populace.”

“Yeah, I'll give
you a lift. I suppose you'll be wanting a lift in the morning as well?”

“If you're
offering.”

She smiled.
“Maybe. You okay with owing me a favour?”

“Sure.”

“Meet me in the
car park later, okay?”

“Thanks, Sam,”
he said, and wandered back out into the corridor. Corporal Hill leaned against
the wall.

“You pissed a
lot of people off today. They torched my car, Corporal.”

“Yeah, I saw the
wreck. I don't like apologising, but you gave me a long leash to run on, and I
made a bad call. Things normally go better when we roll in like that, but at
least you're still alive.”

“Right, at least
I'm still alive. Too bad I don't have a car to get around in and do my job.”

Corporal Hill
flipped open one of the pouches on his body armour and removed a wad of money.
“Listen, we collect some cash each week from this bakery. Take it. I'll cut you
in until you can get a new vehicle.”

Michael
hesitated.

“What is it?”

“You're the ones
who've been turning that place over? The older guy and his two daughters?”

“Don't let
appearances fool you, that guy was involved in some bad stuff. We could either
drag him in and leave his daughters to fend for themselves in that dump, or we
could cut a deal with him. Information and protection money in return for
turning a blind eye to his crimes. What's the lesser evil? Now take the fucking
money before I change my mind.”

Michael pocketed
the notes. “Fine.”

“One more thing;
you should try and keep your voice down a bit. I could hear what you were
saying all the way out here.”

“Maybe I
wouldn't have to, if you hadn't deafened me with that grenade. I've still got
the ringing in my ears. It's like having somebody stick a needle through my
eardrums.”

Hill's radio
gave a burst of static, fading out as somebody's voice cut in.

“Time to go.
We're going to gas some smugglers out of the tube tunnels. It needs a platoon
to get it done properly, total manpower sink. Watch your back,” Hill said. He
jogged down the corridor and turned the corner.

Michael ran a
hand through his hair. He sighed and felt the fatigue worm its way through his
flesh and muscle, right down to the bone. It was starting to get late in the
day now. Tonight, he'd go home and sleep so he could wake up in the morning
feeling just as tired, like it was hard wired into his brain.

He stood in the
car park, watching the next shift come in through the main checkpoint. Water
leaked from the plate above, and it seemed like it was raining naturally for a
while. The fire team on guard duty huddled about their four-by-four, listening
to the radio.

A few others
joined them as a news bulletin cut off the song.

“I'd love to see
the flames. Must be a pretty spectacular view,” Richard said

“It's a chemical
plant. If you're close enough to see it burning, then you're close enough to
breathe the fumes in,” Michael said.

“Correction,
it's a chemical plant owned by ABR and ABR partly owned by Eratech. I'd say
that warrants watching it burn. I wonder who blew it up?”

“Do you need to
ask?”

“I don't know,
but let's not jump to conclusions, right? See you tomorrow. You got a ride
home?”

Michael nodded.

“Hopefully things
will start going better for us. See you tomorrow.”

He watched
Richard drive out of the compound and looked at his watch. One of the admin
workers stepped out into the rain.

“Have you seen
Samantha?” Michael said.

The woman
shrugged. “She's been on the phone for the past ten minutes, looked kind of
upset.”

The car park
emptied of traffic, and new vehicles occupied each space, driven by people he
didn't recognise. It was only him and the fire team left standing in the rain.

Samantha
buttoned up her coat as she hurried outside. “I'm really sorry, but I can't
give you a lift. My sister is in trouble.”

“What's wrong?”

“There's
something going on at my parents’ home where she lives. They're down in
Cornwall on business. It's in Basingstoke, but the police company there are
useless. I'm sorry, I know it's sudden, but I have to go and make sure
everything is okay.”

“You're thinking
about the Basingstoke Butcher.”

“Yes, maybe.
They still haven't caught him. I tried to get the police to go down there, but
they're even more bent than Assurer. Look, I've got to go; it's a long drive
and I'm wasting time that I don't have.” She ran to her car.

Michael
followed. “I'll come with you. Consider it a favour repaid, and then you can
give me a lift home”

“It's quicker if
you just get the bus.”

“I've got a gun.
Might be useful.”
“Fine.”

They drove out
of the compound, and then topped forty on the speedometer. Samantha's lips were
pressed into a thin line, her eyes flicking back and forth between road
markings and traffic. Neither of them spoke.

London faded
into the distance, replaced by small urban establishments and muddy fields
beneath dark grey skies. She followed the motorway, weaving between traffic as
sweat glistened on the surface of the steering wheel.

Another car cut them
off, and Samantha muttered something insulting under her breath. Michael eyed
the tremble in her hands.

“What's the area
like?”

“It's generally
safe in the town centre, but my parents live on the outskirts, and there aren't
too many people around there now. I don't know what's happening. My sister was
scared crazy, and I couldn't get anything out of her.”

Samantha slammed
her hand on the horn, and then weaved past two more cars in front.

“Do your parents
know?”

She shook her
head.

Michael checked
his watch. The hands hadn't moved since the last time he looked at it. They
passed a string of signs, and burnt out cars littered the ground either side of
the motorway. The speedometer inched past eighty miles per hour.

Emergency lights
flashed in the rear view mirror, siren beginning to wail, and Samantha banged
the steering wheel with the palm of her hand, clenching her teeth together.
“They can pull over speeding traffic but they won't even send a patrol to check
on somebody in danger.”

She drove
faster. Rear lights of the vehicle in front blurred, gone in the blink of an
eye. Michael glanced at the wing mirror, and the police four-by-four
accelerated after them. A Basingstoke sign appeared briefly on their left.
Samantha slowed and took the route off the motorway.

The police
vehicle closed in on them. Samantha weaved her car between rubble and the
remains of destroyed building. She clipped a ruined vehicle, broke one of the
headlights and then turned a hard right. They turned two more corners, passing
another building.

The flashing
lights faded into the darkness, followed by the wailing siren.

There were still
street lights in the town centre, and the world existed as a shade of dim
orange. Handfuls of people walked the streets, some waiting for the single bus
that rattled and rumbled as it drove down the road. It all disappeared into the
night. The left headlight cut a narrow cone of vision through the dark, never
seeming to give much warning of debris littering the streets.

Michael saw the
silhouettes of wilted trees to his right, and the ruins of Basingstoke grew
smaller in the wing mirror. Houses emerged ahead. A handful of lights here and
there lit the area, casting harsh shadows that grew up the sides of buildings
like ivy.

“Is this the
place?” Michael said.

Samantha nodded.

“Okay, pull over
and kill the engine; it's quieter to go the rest of the way on foot.”

She pulled over
onto the grass and turned the engine off. Darkness engulfed them.

“Come on, it's
this way,” Samantha said.

They left the
car there and walked on. An owl hooted from the trees, and their presence set
off a driveway light. They hurried past, squinting.

“How many people
live here?” Michael said.

“Not many. A
handful, maybe. A few of these are second homes. Don't count on anybody coming
to help us.”

Gravel crunched
beneath their shoes. Samantha jogged faster. The temperature felt like it had
dropped below zero, and he caught a glimpse of his foggy breath. He broke a
sweat despite the cold, and Samantha pointed to a house on the left. Michael
unbuttoned the top of his coat.

The house was
cloaked by night, lit on one side by a street light thirty meters down the
road. Samantha dropped her keys. She bent down, fumbling in the dark, and then
swore under her breath.

“They went down
the bloody drain. I can't get them out.”

Michael nudged
her aside. He pressed his face to pane of frosted glass and looked through the
door. It was darker inside than out. He rang the doorbell twice and waited. The
owl hooted again, and he waited longer.

Samantha sagged
against the wall. She put a hand to her face.

“Can we get in
through the back?”

“There's razor
wire all over the fence,” Samantha said.

“It's quieter
than bricking the glass.”

Michael jogged
past two more houses. Wooden boards covered up the windows and front doors, and
a vile stench escaped into the air. He turned into the alleyway and circled
back around. His right hand caught a stinging nettle, and he grimaced, pressing
on. Samantha followed behind.

Razor wire
topped all the fences. The moon revealed itself through the clouds, and the
back gate was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, walking forward with his pistol
raised in one hand. Rain had turned the ground to mud, and it squelched beneath
his feet as he moved.

The French doors
were still shut. He felt the handle and found they slid open without
resistance. That old tremble returned to his hands, and he wondered, reaching
for his pocket torch, if he'd be able to shoot straight. “Don't turn the lights
on. It's safer this way.”

He flashed the
torch about the room and saw a dining table and chairs. Sweat irritated his
skin, and his finger twitched against the trigger guard, as he felt
palpitations in his chest. The laminate flooring sent his steps echoing through
the house.

“Annie?”
Samantha said.

“Bedrooms?”

“Upstairs.”

They climbed the
stairs. Shadows shifted at the edges of the torchlight, moving again with every
shake of his hands. A floorboard creaked.

“Annie? Where
are you?” Samantha whispered.

The bedroom door
on his right was open, allowing him a view of the outside, where the curtains
had been pushed apart. Michael turned the torch off. He motioned for Sam to
stay back, as he crept across the room and slid the curtains shut. He flicked
the torch back on.

Somebody moved
behind Samantha, and Michael tensed, jabbing his gun at the figure.

“It's me, don't
shoot,” the girl said. She came forward, nearly as tall as Samantha and dressed
in her school uniform.
“You scared me to death, Annie,” Samantha said. She hugged her sister.

Michael sighed.
“Don't do that; I nearly blew your brains out. What's happening?”

“It's not safe.
You know Rebecca, Sam? I went round to her house over there after school. He
killed her father. Their phone line wasn't working so I came here.”

“This guy, where
is he?”

Annie pulled
away from Samantha, beckoning with a hand for Michael to follow.

“Watch the
stairs,” Michael said to Samantha.

They went to her
bedroom, and Annie stopped him. “Turn your torch off. My window looks out
towards the house.”

He did so. Her
bedroom had a single window, like her parents' room. They walked over some
clothes left lying on the floor and knelt beneath the window ledge. She passed
him a set of bird watching binoculars.

Michael moved to
open the curtains, but she grabbed his wrist with a clammy hand.

“Wait. Be
careful; look for the middle house across the field. There'll be a single light
on. It's him inside.”

He pushed the
curtain aside and looked out, and then adjusted the binoculars' focus with a
finger. No lights. The row of houses silhouetted themselves against the night
sky, one shade darker than the traces of cloud. A handful of stars shone
beneath the moon. “I can't see it. There lights are off. How many people live
around here?”

“It's just my
family and theirs. The other family moved away two weeks ago. Some of the
others are owned, but people don't use them regularly, unless they're here on
business.”

“Where's your
friend?”

“Dead.”

“How do you
know?”

Faint shadows
drifted across the field as a cloud obscured the moon.