Stealing People by Robert Wilson Page A

until she felt her trailing ankle gripped, her hip practically wrenched from its socket. She fell, clawed at the carpet as she was dragged back. A hand closed around her throat, gripped her windpipe, rammed her into the corner of the door jamb, shook her.
    ‘This isn’t about you,’ said a voice, London accent. ‘You keep it shut and you won’t get hurt. Orright?’
    She nodded. The thumb loosened off her throat. She sucked air into her rasping lungs.
    Siobhan was on all fours, still groggy from the slap. She went for the sash window but the catch had to be unscrewed. One of the men got to his feet, grabbed her by the hair, hauled her back and threw her to the ground. He lashed her twice across the face with his hand.
    He came back to the door, laid the duvet out, rolled Amy over, stuffed something into her mouth, and smoothed tape over her lips. They lined her up on the duvet and, as they wrapped her up, she saw Siobhan, eyes rolled back, blood coming from her mouth. They tied Amy up tight, trussing her with cord they’d brought with them, and lifted her on to the bed. She heard the muffled moans of Siobhan getting it together.
    ‘Right,’ said the voice. ‘Let’s get this one sorted.’
    More slaps. Gasping and crying. They left the room dragging Siobhan between them. Amy heard them haul her into the bathroom and the sound of a struggle, of a body bouncing around in a glass cubicle. The terrible smack and thud of blows and then a male grunting as if making some hideous effort, and Siobhan’s cries, muffled and struggling for breath. The shower came on. There was indistinct questioning. More blows, slaps as of a wet towel making cruel contact, and crying out, but always muffled. More questions, harsh and whispered, as if being ripped out rather than spoken. Then the horrible rhythmic male grunting and the process repeated.
    After forty interminable minutes, Amy heard the men conducting a manic search of the flat. They came into the bedroom, turned out drawers, ripped open cupboards and then finally left. Silence resumed except for the consistent noise of the shower hissing water on to an inert body.
     

 
     
     
     
     
    6
     
     
     
    19.15, 15 January 2014
    unknown location, London
     
     
    A lleyne started to come round, confused to find himself on a cold concrete floor. Water was being squirted on to his face. It dripped into a drain hole close to his mouth from which came a cool but morbid stench. His arms were tied behind his back. He struggled to bring them forward and realised he’d been hogtied, with wrists connected to his ankles. Everything was black. Not a scintilla of light coming in.
    ‘What the fuck you hit him with?’ asked a voice, London accent.
    ‘A SAP glove.’
    ‘Show me.’
    ‘’S’only a glove.’
    ‘Fuck me, this must weigh a pound. What’s in it?’
    ‘Steel shot.’
    ‘Bloody hell, the idea was to put him out, not knock him into next fucking week.’
    ‘I just cuffed him on the back of the head. He fell forward and banged hisself on the van door on his way down.’
    ‘It’s going to be fucking jelly in there, you bloody moron.’
    ‘Look, he’s coming round now.’
    ‘Marcus,’ said the voice. ‘You all right, Marcus?’
    His tongue felt foreign in his mouth, good for shoes but not for talking. He winced at the water on his face, tried to follow it with his lips, to get some moisture. His eyelids were too heavy to open, or maybe taped shut.
    ‘Look, he’s after it. Squirt it in his mouth. Maybe that’ll help.’
    The coolness of the water in his hot, dry mouth felt good but his tongue didn’t know where to go and the water shot down the wrong way. He coughed, which set off blinding flashes in his head. He sucked in air, groaned against the nauseating pain.
    ‘Get him sitting up,’ said the voice. ‘We don’t want the bastard drowning on us.’
    They disconnected his wrists from his ankles, sat him on a chair. Alleyne knew for certain that he’d been