Rider by Peter J Merrigan Page A

up, but he had only risen an inch or two before his arms gave way and he was back on the ground.
    The man laughed. ‘You faggots are all the same. It’s so much fun being tied up, isn’t it?’ He leaned down and helped Kane this time.
    When he was finally standing, weak legged and stomach sore, the man ran the beam of the flashlight up and down Kane’s body. The light that splashed back on him revealed his appraising face, harsh angles, narrow eyes. ‘You look like you slept on the floor all night,’ he said.
    He flicked the beam towards the doorway, indicating that Kane should walk. ‘Slowly,’ he said. ‘If you fall again I won’t be picking you up this time.’
    ‘What do you want from me?’ Kane asked. The man smacked the flashlight into the side of Kane’s head and he stumbled.
    ‘Shut up. No talking. Move.’
    Kane shuffled across to the door and was pushed through it, out into a blindingly bright room. He could hear the buzz of the overhead lights.
    ‘He’s on his way,’ a second voice said.
    It took Kane a few seconds to adjust to the new lighting. When he could see again, he noticed two men in the room. One of them wore a green hoodie.
    This one, the man from his flat, came up to him, right in his face, and said, ‘Not a word. You’re going to sit down over here and shut up.’ He pulled up his hoodie and showed a gun tucked into the waist of his jeans. ‘Any questions?’
    Kane lowered his eyes from him and turned his head away. The man took his arm and guided him to a chair where he was told to wait. It still wasn’t clear to Kane what was going on. His arms were beginning to ache behind his back, his legs feeling numb and his head hurting.
    A short time later, someone’s phone rang. The man in the hoodie stepped out of the room to take the call. When he returned, he pulled his gun out and said, ‘On your feet.’
    The outer door opened and another man walked in. He was well into his fifties with silvering hair and a pale grey suit.
    Without a word, he approached Kane. His smile was cold and sinister.
    ‘Mr Rider,’ he said at last, ‘glad you could join us.’
    Kane kept his eyes trained over the man’s shoulder, unable to look at him.
    ‘My name’s Lucas Dawson,’ he said. ‘I told you I’d be in contact.’
    * * *
     
    ‘I’m going to ask you once,’ Lucas Dawson said. ‘Then I’m going to kill you.’ He motioned to one of the men, who handed him a gun. When he flipped the safety off and pressed the barrel against Kane’s forehead he almost fainted. ‘Where is it?’
    ‘What?’ Kane said. He clenched his eyes. ‘Oh God. Oh God, please…’
    Dawson pressed harder against Kane’s forehead. ‘I don’t think you heard me, Mr Rider. Did he hear me? I don’t think he did. I’m a man of my word, but I’m going to pretend you didn’t hear me the first time. Do you know where my package is?’
    ‘I don’t—’
    Dawson cut him off. His hand gripped Kane’s jaw, pressing his cheeks to force his mouth open. When he shoved the barrel of the gun in beyond Kane’s teeth, against his tongue, the metallic taste made him retch. He could feel Dawson ’s breath on his eyes.
    Kane whimpered.
    There was silence. Or at least he didn’t hear anything. With his hand on the back of Kane’s head, holding him upright, Dawson withdrew the gun. Kane’s legs gave way and he slumped out of the chair, a bawling wreck of sobs and tears on the cold, unforgiving floor.
    ‘Put him back inside,’ Dawson said, and he turned and left.
    Kane was lifted roughly from the floor and hurled back through the door into the darkness. ‘Sleep tight,’ someone said, and the door closed behind him.
    * * *
     
    The side of his face was numb from where it had been pressing against the concrete floor for the last half hour or more. He worked himself into a more comfortable position against a wall and breathed.
    Do you know where my package is?
    Dawson ’s words echoed in the emptiness of Kane’s head.