The Point by Gerard Brennan Page B

to a visitor’s chair. They had company. As he sat, he noticed the other guest was bound and gagged.
    “What the fuck is this?” Paul asked.
    “Meet Charlie,” O’Rourke said.
    Charlie stared at Paul with pleading bug-eyes. Sweat and tears streaked his bloody face. Paul shook his head and looked to O’Rourke for an explanation. O’Rourke raised a big, meaty finger to his lips, then used it to click on the intercom.
    “Bernice, take yourself out for a long lunch today. You’ve been working very hard this week. Lift twenty quid out of the petty cash tin and have a treat on me.”
    “Ah, thanks, Richard. You’re a real sweetie.”
    He grunted, flicked off the intercom and waited until the clip-clop of Bernice’s departing heels faded into the distance.
    “You want a beer, Paul?” O’Rourke asked.
    Paul wanted to get the hell out of the office but, since running away was likely to be considered bad form, he nodded for the beer. O’Rourke reached down to his side and Paul heard the rustle of a plastic bag. The big man straightened and plonked a six-pack of Harp lager onto his desktop. He peeled one from its plastic ring and tossed it to Paul, who caught, cracked open and chugged it. Paul wiped his sleeve across his lips and burped into his fist.
    “Thanks. Lovely and cold.”
    O’Rourke nodded and smirked. “I’d say Charlie would enjoy one too.”
    Charlie shook his head.
    O’Rourke tugged another tin from the pack. “I insist, Charlie.”
    Charlie jerked in his bindings and managed to move the chair a fraction of an inch. Very little payoff for what looked like a shitload of effort. His ribcage rose and dropped like a sewing machine needle as he fought to regain his breath. Paul wanted to tell him to relax, but it wouldn’t do Charlie any good and he doubted it would have impressed O’Rourke. He took another swig of beer.
    O’Rourke launched the beer tin at Charlie. It bounced off the poor fucker’s forehead. Paul managed to stop himself spraying his own beer over O’Rourke’s desk. Charlie made little keening noises, muffled by the cloth gag. O’Rourke rumbled a sadistic laugh and pulled another beer.
    “You dropped that one, Charlie. Must try harder,” O’Rourke said.
    The next tin thumped off Charlie’s chest. Paul winced. Charlie hitched for breath. O’Rourke grinned. He pulled another tin. Charlie croaked guttural protests from the back of his throat and hummed through his nose. He blinked wildly to clear his eyes. A huge lump had already formed across his forehead. Paul squirmed and sweated. O’Rourke cracked open the tin and gulped greedily from it.
    “What the fuck is this?” Paul asked, struggling to steady his voice.
    “Bit intense for you, Paul?”
    Paul looked to Charlie again. He’d stopped struggling against the ropes and cable-ties. His eyes were closed and his breathing slowed. A bloody mucus bubble expanded and contracted in his nostril.
    Paul shrugged. “Depends what he did, I suppose.”
    “Ten out of ten, Paul. Good man.”
    Thank God, Paul thought. And, Jesus, please keep me out of that chair.
    Charlie’s nose-bubble popped as he snuffed a deep breath and coughed into his gag. Paul was sure he would choke but poor Charlie managed to clear his airway and swallow whatever had clogged it.
    “So what did he do?”
    “Charlie here has run up a bit of a debt. He’s a gambler who never learned when to hold or fold ’em.”
    “Big money?”
    “Very big. And he’s been avoiding me for a few months now. Couldn’t let it go on.”
    Paul shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “You, um... you going to kill him?”
    O’Rourke chuckled; the dry rumble of a boulder rolled from a tomb entrance. “I haven’t decided. On one hand, killing him means writing off a bad debt. But it also sends out a strong message to other weasels with bad ideas brewing.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you decide, Paul?”
    “What?”
    “You decide. Should Charlie here live or