voice was shrill. "I won't touch either of them." Again he tried to raise himself. "Christ, I'm dizzy." He managed to hold a semi-upright position for a handful of seconds before falling backwards.
"Nearly ready." Pearce aligned the drawer and slid it back in a couple of inches.
"What are you doing?" Thompson rolled onto his side and lashed out with his left foot.
Pearce grabbed his ankle and crushed it between his fingers. Thompson let out a cry and stopped kicking. His whole body went limp. Pearce didn't let up. He could feel his nails digging into the skin."Why do you do it, Pete?" Pearce grabbed hold of the other ankle and started pulling Thompson towards him. Thompson's naked arse squeaked against the desk's polished surface. "Why do you hit women?" Thompson's buttocks were at the edge of the desk, balls dangling above the empty drawer. He screamed when he realised Pearce's intention. Pearce had to shout over the racket. "You really think you can get away with it?" Thompson's legs flailed ineffectually in Pearce's grip. He stopped yelling to take a breath. Pearce said, "I don't like it."
"What's it to you, anyway?" Thompson tried to sit up. "You fancy her? You can have her."
"Nothing like that." Pearce let go of an ankle to push him back down.
"What, then? Your dad beat up your mum or something?"
Pearce grabbed Thompson's ankle again and started to laugh. "He was never close enough to be within punching distance."
"Don't do it." Thompson tried to sit up again.
"Just what is it you think I'm going to do?"
"Slam my fucking balls in the drawer."
"Okay." Pearce switched his grip from Thompson's ankles to his knees.
"What?"
"You've suffered enough." Pearce helped tilt him forward until his feet were planted either side of the desk drawer.
"I promise," Thompson said. "I won't touch either of them."
Pearce grinned and jumped forward. His heels pinned Thompson's bare toes to the ground.
Thompson yelled and tried to move. His head brushed against Pearce's t-shirt. His hands were immobilised and Pearce's boots were crushing his feet. Thompson rocked from side to side. After a moment he sat still and shuddered and looked down between his legs.
Pearce heard the splash of water on wood. He placed the flat of his hand against the front of the drawer and said, "One. Two…"
12:32 pm
"It's the bloke in the photos." Kennedy pressed his phone hard against his ear, straining to hear the decidedly nasal tone of his boss's voice above the rattle of traffic along Leith Walk. Kennedy sidestepped a couple of men carrying a cooker from the back of an illegally parked van into a second hand white goods shop. "Yeah, the one shagging Greaves's missus." He shivered. The smell of hot pastry wafted out of Greggs, making him wish he could dash in and grab a cheese and onion pastie. But he couldn't. Not when he was busy tailing them. "Edward Francis Soutar? That his name?" He paused before saying, "She's here too."
Robin Greaves, a blue sports bag slung over his shoulder, was tucked in behind his wife and her boyfriend. Kennedy lurked twenty feet behind, the hand holding his phone stiff with cold. He switched the phone to his left hand, which, for the moment at least, still had some feeling in it. The traffic lights on the near side of the road turned red. "You can stop shouting," he told his boss. His boss insisted he wasn't shouting, then asked in precisely the same tone and at the same volume where Greaves's party was headed. Party. "How should I know?" Kennedy held the phone away from his ear and stared at it. After a minute he repositioned it and said, quietly, "He didn't take his car. He walked."
His boss's voice continued blaring in his ear. Kennedy stuck his numb hand inside his coat. Up ahead the trio turned down a side street. He quickened his pace as the cold seeped through his boots. Each step felt like someone was slapping the soles of his feet with a plank of wood. "Gonna have to go," he said into the
"Nearly ready." Pearce aligned the drawer and slid it back in a couple of inches.
"What are you doing?" Thompson rolled onto his side and lashed out with his left foot.
Pearce grabbed his ankle and crushed it between his fingers. Thompson let out a cry and stopped kicking. His whole body went limp. Pearce didn't let up. He could feel his nails digging into the skin."Why do you do it, Pete?" Pearce grabbed hold of the other ankle and started pulling Thompson towards him. Thompson's naked arse squeaked against the desk's polished surface. "Why do you hit women?" Thompson's buttocks were at the edge of the desk, balls dangling above the empty drawer. He screamed when he realised Pearce's intention. Pearce had to shout over the racket. "You really think you can get away with it?" Thompson's legs flailed ineffectually in Pearce's grip. He stopped yelling to take a breath. Pearce said, "I don't like it."
"What's it to you, anyway?" Thompson tried to sit up. "You fancy her? You can have her."
"Nothing like that." Pearce let go of an ankle to push him back down.
"What, then? Your dad beat up your mum or something?"
Pearce grabbed Thompson's ankle again and started to laugh. "He was never close enough to be within punching distance."
"Don't do it." Thompson tried to sit up again.
"Just what is it you think I'm going to do?"
"Slam my fucking balls in the drawer."
"Okay." Pearce switched his grip from Thompson's ankles to his knees.
"What?"
"You've suffered enough." Pearce helped tilt him forward until his feet were planted either side of the desk drawer.
"I promise," Thompson said. "I won't touch either of them."
Pearce grinned and jumped forward. His heels pinned Thompson's bare toes to the ground.
Thompson yelled and tried to move. His head brushed against Pearce's t-shirt. His hands were immobilised and Pearce's boots were crushing his feet. Thompson rocked from side to side. After a moment he sat still and shuddered and looked down between his legs.
Pearce heard the splash of water on wood. He placed the flat of his hand against the front of the drawer and said, "One. Two…"
12:32 pm
"It's the bloke in the photos." Kennedy pressed his phone hard against his ear, straining to hear the decidedly nasal tone of his boss's voice above the rattle of traffic along Leith Walk. Kennedy sidestepped a couple of men carrying a cooker from the back of an illegally parked van into a second hand white goods shop. "Yeah, the one shagging Greaves's missus." He shivered. The smell of hot pastry wafted out of Greggs, making him wish he could dash in and grab a cheese and onion pastie. But he couldn't. Not when he was busy tailing them. "Edward Francis Soutar? That his name?" He paused before saying, "She's here too."
Robin Greaves, a blue sports bag slung over his shoulder, was tucked in behind his wife and her boyfriend. Kennedy lurked twenty feet behind, the hand holding his phone stiff with cold. He switched the phone to his left hand, which, for the moment at least, still had some feeling in it. The traffic lights on the near side of the road turned red. "You can stop shouting," he told his boss. His boss insisted he wasn't shouting, then asked in precisely the same tone and at the same volume where Greaves's party was headed. Party. "How should I know?" Kennedy held the phone away from his ear and stared at it. After a minute he repositioned it and said, quietly, "He didn't take his car. He walked."
His boss's voice continued blaring in his ear. Kennedy stuck his numb hand inside his coat. Up ahead the trio turned down a side street. He quickened his pace as the cold seeped through his boots. Each step felt like someone was slapping the soles of his feet with a plank of wood. "Gonna have to go," he said into the
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