Picture You Dead

56 Saturday, 2 November

Shaking uncontrollably, heart pumping, Archie closed his eyes, waiting for the explosion, the whuuuuumpppp, the flames, the searing pain.

Nothing happened. Time stood still. Time was frozen.

Finally, he looked down through blurred eyes and saw to his astonishment the cigarette was extinguished.

‘You like movies, Mr Goff?’

Barely able to speak through his fear, the stench of petrol fumes making him dizzy, Archie looked up at the two men and croaked, ‘Some.’

Both twins nodded approvingly. ‘We like movies, too. But we like the ones best that have their research correct,’ the one with the ring said. ‘There are so many movies where petrol is ignited by a cigarette, but you see, as you may perhaps know yourself, Mr Goff, as an intelligent man, the ignition temperature for gasoline is way higher than the heat a cigarette can generate. Which means that the movie makers have simply not done their research. Pretty crap, eh?’

Archie nodded dubiously. He was thinking about his daughter. About that ring in the box inside his jacket. About Isabella and the trip ahead with her. What did he need to do to convince these psychopaths to believe him?

Please don’t let it end here.

Please.

There had to be a way out of this.

Fear coiled and unspooled and coiled again in every cell of his body.

Money? he thought. The universal motivation. ‘Look, please, how much do you want? I... I can give you back the money. I’ve... I’ve got most of it. I’ve—’

He screamed as a cigarette burned into his skin, then he screamed again as he felt something clamp to his scrotum, then another cigarette burn. He felt clamps on his nipples. Drenched in perspiration, he cried out again just as his body convulsed with electric shocks.

‘Please,’ he yelled. ‘Please—’ He was stopped in mid-sentence by an agonizing pain in his left arm, as if someone had stuck a sharp knife all the way up inside the skin and muscles. He cried out again, but the sound jammed somewhere inside his constricted gullet.

Neither of the men had done this. They were both still standing in front of him, looking at him. Frowning now.

The pain shot up his left arm again, even more excruciating, but this time only a tiny gasp jetting from his mouth. The men blurred as a volcanic pain erupted inside him. It felt like his entire chest was being clamped in a vice that was tightening, crushing his insides.

Images of Isabella’s face floated in front of him.

Heard one of the twins say, ‘He’s ill.’

‘Isabella!’ he whispered.

The last sound he ever heard was the voice of the twin with the big red ring saying, loudly, ‘Shit.’

57 Sunday, 3 November

Daniel Hegarty’s house, which had a commanding view to the south — facing out onto the English Channel — and to the north of the open fields of the South Downs, was sunk down below the street level.

Hegarty and his wife had bought the house largely because of the inspirational views for his painting. He always woke early, loving the pre-dawn light. His routine, seven days a week, was to dress, down a quick espresso, then take Rocky and Rambo — tough names but wusses of dogs — for a long walk across the open countryside before returning home for breakfast, a scan of the papers and then settling into his studio to paint — sometimes commissions, and sometimes more works for his next exhibition at the Brighton gallery which had endless demands for his pictures.

It was a dry, fine, if chilly, autumn morning, and still half an hour to sunrise. Wrapped up well in a fleece and beanie, the artist climbed the steps to the street in the half-light, the dogs tugging on their leads, almost pulling him up, and opened the gate latch, letting the over-excited animals run out onto the pavement, yanking his arm.

‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Hey, calm down, boys!’

But Rocky and Rambo seemed even more excited than usual this morning. And instead of turning right, as usual, to drag their master as fast as they could towards the Downs and where they would be let off their leashes, they ran straight ahead, stopped and began barking loudly.

‘Ssssshhhhh, Rocky, Rambo!’ Hegarty hissed. ‘You’ll wake the neighbours!’

Then, to his surprise, the leads slackened as they stopped pulling and just stood barking.

Barking at the dark shape lying on the pavement.

A human body, he realized. A tall thin man, with congealed blood down the right side of his face.

Hegarty’s first thought was that it was a drunk. Shouting at the dogs to calm down, he kneeled down and touched the man’s face. It was stone cold. The flesh stiff and unyielding.

He recoiled in shock. Then stood up, shaking, and dialled 999.

‘Emergency, which service please?’ the calm female voice answered after several rings.

‘There’s a body — a man — lying on the pavement outside my house, I think he might be dead,’ Hegarty said.

‘I’ll put you through to the Ambulance Service, sir.’

Moments later, Hegarty repeated the same thing to the Ambulance Service controller who answered. He was asked for his name and address, which he gave, and the controller asked if he could stay at the scene and an ambulance would attend as quickly as possible.

Hegarty said he would, then walked the dogs a short way up the street, stopping to let first Rocky and then Rambo relieve themselves, scooping up their poop with plastic bags. Less than ten minutes later, he heard the faint doppler wail of a siren.

Then his phone pinged with an incoming text.

He looked at the display. And froze at the words he saw.

Hegarty replied, with shaking fingers, struggling to get the words right and having to correct his text several times before it was ready to send. All the time, the siren getting louder and nearer. As he finally sent it, the siren had stopped and he saw light approaching, streaking across the pavement on both sides.