The Dying Place. Luca Veste
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Название: The Dying Place
Автор: Luca Veste
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Триллеры
isbn: 9780007525560
isbn:
‘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.
I suppose when a judge says something is ‘wicked’ he presumes the accused will wilt under the ‘tirade’. They may see the ugly side of life, but they simply do not understand it. Well, something that cowardly piece of rubbish would understand is a rope – or better still, piano wire. So what is wrong with visiting upon him the horror that family have gone through, doubtless are going through? Come on PC crowd, how are you going to side with this one?
**** **** and his type are not human. They are far, far beneath human. They are parasites who cause nothing but misery for real humans. People like this should be sterilised so their poisonous DNA is knocked out of the gene pool. What is it about these nasty folk who just roam around being vile? What can they possibly contribute to society other than destruction and misery?
Top-rated online comments from news story of teenage murderer
More sleep. Just a little bit more …
Detective Inspector David Murphy hit the snooze button on the alarm for the third time, silencing the noise which had cut through his drift into deeper sleep once again. He refused to open his eyes, knowing the early morning light would pierce the curtains and give him an instant headache.
A voice came from beside him.
‘What time is it?’
He grunted in reply, already knowing he wasn’t going to float away into slumber now. A few late nights and early starts and he was struggling. Age catching up with him. Closing in on forty faster than he’d expected.
‘You need to get up. You’ll be late for work.’
Murphy yawned and turned over to face Sarah, away from the window. Risked opening one eye, the room still brighter than he’d guessed. ‘Do I have to?’
Sarah sat up, taking his half of the duvet cover with her and exposing his chest to the cold of the early morning.
‘Yes,’ she replied, shucking off the cover and pulling on her dressing gown. ‘Now get up and get dressed. There’s a fresh shirt and trousers in the wardrobe.’
‘Five more minutes.’
‘No, now. Stop acting like a teenager and get your arse in gear. I’ve got work as well, you know.’
‘Fine,’ Murphy replied, opening his other eye and squinting against the light. ‘But can you at least stick some coffee on before you start getting ready? I tried using that frigging maker thing yesterday and almost lobbed it through the window.’
‘Okay. But you have to read the instructions at some point.’
Murphy snorted and sloped through to the bathroom. Turned the shower on and lifted the toilet seat, the shower tuning out the noise from downstairs as Sarah fussed in the kitchen.
He needed a lie-in. Twelve or so hours of unbroken sleep – now that would be nice.
It wasn’t even work causing his tiredness. Nothing major had come through CID in the previous few months. Everyone at the station was trying to look busy so they weren’t moved to a busier division in Liverpool. All too scared to use the ‘Q---T’ word. It was just slow or calm. Never the ‘Q’ word. That was just an invitation for someone to shit on your doorstep. A few fraud cases, assaults in the city centre and the usual small-fry crap that was the day-to-day of their lives in North Liverpool. Nothing juicy.
Murphy buttoned up his shirt and opened the curtains to the early May morning. Rain. Not chucking it down, just the drizzle that served as a constant reminder you were in the north of England.
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