Icon's Request by Gareth Wiles

Author:Gareth Wiles [WILES, GARETH]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd

FIVE

Peter had a pain in his neck and his head was flopped back. He opened his eyes slowly, raising his head, moving it around to try and ease the stiffness. He looked down at his body, unable to move it. He was bound to a chair, in the centre of a sparsely-filled warehouse. Some wooden crates sat to one side, a single door next to them. Suddenly The Anarchist stepped into view from behind Peter, his bright white teeth shining and his brilliant auburn side parting distinguishing his already slim, toned features.

‘I reckon we waste him,’ he whispered, taking out a gun and putting it to Peter’s head. The two hefty men appeared the other side of him, stood together. Peter looked at them, trying to smile.

‘Now, now my friend, not so hasty,’ he replied as The Anarchist leaned in to examine him further.

‘We know who you are and who sent you,’ he continued.

‘Oh?’ Peter replied, ‘And who’s that?’

The Anarchist crossed his head, looking at the two hefty men before grabbing hold of Peter’s hair, pulling his head back and forcing the gun down his throat.

‘Don’t be stupid, my friend. We’re very close to ending your sad little life.’

‘Come on now, we’re all grown men here,’ Peter gagged. ‘Surely we can sort this out without the need for violence.’ The Anarchist laughed. ‘Okay then. So you know why I’ve been sent?’ he went on, playing into his hands.

‘We’ve done our research,’ he went on.

‘I see. And I’ve done mine,’ Peter added. The Anarchist looked on, puzzled. But now Peter froze, unable to come up with anything more to say.

‘Go on,’ The Anarchist pushed, totting the gun.

‘Erm, yes,’ Peter thought fast. ‘I know who you are and what you’re up to.’

The Anarchist stepped back, smirking at the hefty men. ‘Cut the crap,’ he growled. ‘You can tell Trout that he’s playing a very dangerous psychological game with us.’ He straightened his back, putting his finger to his lips. Peter eyed up the gun. He clicked his fingers, prompting one of the hefty men to step forward and pass him the brown envelope from the pub. He opened it, taking out a wad of blank paper the same size as bank notes.

‘Is that supposed to be money?’ Peter asked, trying to keep up.

‘Money?’ The Anarchist laughed. The hefty men cackled. ‘What on earth would we possibly want with money? We want what Trout owes us.’

‘Well if it’s not money, what is it?’

Laughter once more. The Anarchist pointed the gun at Peter again. He pulled the trigger. A ‘BANG’ flag popped out. There was more laughter as Peter squirmed, one of the hefty men striking him from behind again. Darkness.

Peter awoke, sprawled on a park bench. He started to get his bearings, rubbing his head and looking around at people. Pounding, pounding. An old woman walked past with a dog.

‘You boozers make me sick!’ she exclaimed, ‘Serves you right when you choke on your own vomit!’ She marched on, raising her nose in the air.

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