Читать книгу A Room Full of Killers - Michael Wood - Страница 7

According to the satnav it would take three hours and nineteen minutes to drive from Norwich to Sheffield. Add on traffic jams, roadworks, and fuel stops, and they would easily make the Steel City in four hours.

The seven-seater people carrier was waiting outside the back entrance. It was parked as close as possible to the door. The windows in the Citroën were tinted; the locks from the back doors had been removed, and there was a security grill between the front and back seats.

In the front passenger seat was Craig Jefferson, his extra-large uniform straining at the seams. He checked the glove box for provisions: boiled sweets, three cans of Red Bull, and a Sudoku puzzle book. Behind the wheel sat Patrick Norris. This was Patrick’s first run. He knew the route; he had been studying the A-Z all afternoon, but the worried expression on his face was for his charge, not his driving ability.

Time ticked slowly by. They should have left by now.

‘What’s taking so long?’ Norris asked, fidgeting in his seat.

‘Red tape probably. Just when you think you’ve filled in all the forms you find another batch that needs signing.’

‘They do realize Norwich are playing at home today, and it’s a late kick-off. We’re going to get caught in the traffic.’

‘They don’t care about that. Once they close that door their job is done. It’s down to us then. They don’t care if it takes us three hours and nineteen minutes or nineteen hours and three minutes. Mint imperial?’ He held out the packet.

‘How many of these runs have you done?’

Jefferson sighed as he thought. ‘Too many to count. I don’t go to Sheffield very often though. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I went. You know it’s bad when you’re given a run to Sheffield.’

‘Do you think there’s some kind of hold up?’ Jefferson asked, craning his neck and looking out of the back window at the dormant building. ‘Maybe it’s been cancelled.’

‘Trust me, it won’t get cancelled. They’re as keen to get rid of him as we’ll be to drop him off. Are you any good at Sudoku? I’m not sure if that should be a three or a five.’

The steel door creaked open and two burly men in similar uniforms to Norris and Jefferson came out. They towered over the young man between them.

His face was gaunt and pale. His hair had been recently shaved which added to the emaciated refugee look. He was a slight build, short for his age, and had the appearance of an innocent man heading for the gallows.

While one of the men secured him to the back seat, the other tapped on the passenger window. Jefferson lowered it.

‘What took you so long? It’s freezing out here.’

‘If you must know, we had a hard time saying goodbye. He’s such wonderful company.’ His reply was laced with sarcasm.

‘Well you can join us if you like?’

‘Tempting offer but I’m clipping my toenails tonight. Here you go.’ He handed over a clipboard with the required paperwork to be signed once they reached Sheffield. It was like delivering a washing machine.

‘Off we go then, Patrick. Head for the A17 and no stopping under any circumstances except for fuel for me and the car.’

Shackled in the back of the car was fifteen-year-old Ryan Asher. Norwich born and bred he was about to leave the city for the first time, and he was never coming back.

His left leg jiggled with nerves. He had been told what was happening to him, where he was going, and what his final destination in approximately three years’ time would be, but it was the unknown he was scared of. A new city and new people, where the only things they knew about him was what the newspapers had reported. Nobody knew the real Ryan Asher anymore. Nobody wanted to know.

In the middle seat of the car, he sat back and looked out of the window at the darkening Norwich landscape. He was born here. He played with his friends here. He went to school here. He murdered here.

A three-hour journey with nobody to talk to, no radio, nothing to read, and a wall of darkness outside the window to torment his troubled mind. He couldn’t get comfortable and kept adjusting himself. He bit his bottom lip and could taste blood. He wondered how fast they were travelling? Was Sheffield far from Norwich? He hated not knowing. They could be taking him anywhere. Maybe he wouldn’t make it to Sheffield. The driver kept gazing at him through the rear-view mirror. His look was sharp and scared. What did he think Ryan was going to do? He was a fifteen-year-old boy who looked twelve, not Hannibal Lecter.

The driver and the front seat passenger didn’t speak much. The odd banal comment on the amount of traffic and how dark it had become, but that was it. They would probably save their conversation for the journey back when it would be just the two of them. Ryan could guess what the main topic of conversation would be – him.

Ryan let out a deep breath he didn’t know he had been holding and closed his eyes. The first image that came to mind was the look on his mother’s face the first time he saw her after their world had been torn apart. She didn’t look like his mum anymore. Gone were the bright blue eyes, the cheery smile, and the dimples – replaced with a look of horror, fear, and loathing. She had brought a monster into the world. She had given birth to evil and stood back while her son destroyed lives.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said when he looked up at her. ‘I’m really sorry.’ It was baseless but it was all he could think of.

Belinda Asher didn’t reply. She couldn’t reply. She was using every ounce of energy to keep herself standing. Her legs were shaking uncontrollably. She was freezing cold, yet sweat was pouring from every pore. Her mouth was dry as she looked at her only son’s face. Her eyes were full of tears that refused to fall.

‘Mum. I’m really sorry. Where’s Dad? Is he coming?’

‘I want to go.’ The words fell out of her mouth to the female detective who was holding her up. No words were exchanged. The detective slowly turned her around and led her across the room.

Ryan was crying. ‘Mum, don’t leave me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. Mum, please. I’m so sorry.’

At the door, Belinda Asher turned around and a heavy shroud of silence fell over them all. Somewhere, a clock was ticking, high-heeled shoes were clacking down a corridor, planets were formed, stars died and, all the while, mother and son were locked in a battle of immense will-power.

‘Don’t call me that,’ she said. ‘I have no idea who you are.’

Ryan opened his eyes and stared out of the car window. A tear fell which he didn’t wipe away. He had never cried as much as he had in the past few months. At first, he was embarrassed by his tears. Now, he didn’t care who saw.

Why was he crying? For the pain and emotional distress that he had caused his family; for the life he had lost; for his victims? He no longer knew. All he did know was that he had ruined the lives of so many people, including his own, and, for that, he felt incredibly sad.

The car pulled into a service station. The fat one in the front passenger seat struggled to get out. Ryan watched as he waddled to the toilets then into the small kiosk shop.

‘Are we nearly there?’ Ryan asked, looking at the reflection of the driver in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t get a reply. Ryan was the enemy. He was not to be engaged with.

The fat one tested the suspension as he eased himself back into the car. ‘I needed that. Red Bull might give you wings but it goes straight through me. I bought you a Twix. They didn’t have any granola.’

‘Not much bloody difference, is there?’

‘If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.’

‘And listen to you moan about being borderline diabetic? No, thank you.’

Ryan wasn’t acknowledged. He wasn’t asked if he wanted anything from the shop, or if he needed the toilet. To them he was a tumour – difficult to ignore and impossible to forget.

Three hours and forty minutes after they left Norwich they arrived at their destination in Sheffield. Off a main road and down a long bone-shaking track, they came to a set of electronic gates with razor wire on the top.

The driver lowered his window and leaned out. He pressed the call button on the intercom, and the small screen above lit up. The face of a man loomed out at them in black and white.

‘Yes?’

‘We have Ryan Asher with us.’

‘Drive up to the second set of gates and turn off your engine.’

The screen went blank, and the gates slowly opened. They drove through and stopped when they reached a second set of gates. The first set closed behind them. They were trapped in a small rectangle with high fencing on all four sides and barbed wire tightly coiled along the top. Nothing happened.

‘What’s going on?’ the driver whispered to his colleague.

‘We’re being filmed and photographed from every conceivable angle.’

After a few long minutes of silence, the second set of gates opened. Norris turned on the engine and continued driving along the pothole-lined track until they reached the entrance to the imposing nineteenth-century building.

Ryan remained in the back of the car as it pulled up. The driver opened the door and looked at the frightened teenager.

‘Out you get.’

As Ryan was led out of the car he looked up at the terrifying building casting long shadows from the full moon directly above it. He was mesmerized by the imposing façade; the massive bay windows; the severe leaded panes of glasses. It was something out of a classic Hammer Horror film.

The front door opened and a large barrel of a man waddled down the steps. A yellow glow from the lighting behind enveloped him.

‘Ryan Asher?’

‘Yes.’

‘Welcome to Starling House.’