Numb: A Dark Thriller Read Free Page A

still owes three grand.”
    “Why do you think we’re here, genius?” Howden said, grinning.
    Riley chose his next words carefully. This looked like someone he could help. Someone who deserved it.
    “This Mr Simpson lives in a decent house in a quiet street. He’s quite old. I don’t think he’s the sort to give us any trouble, and the sight of us two knocking on his door – especially you - might stop his heart.” Riley nodded at Howden, indicating the other man’s large frame and meaty hands.
    “You know that doesn’t mean shit,” Howden said, dismissively. He coughed, chewed what had jumped up from his throat, and then swallowed it right back down. “He owes Nash money, and when you owe Nash money and you can’t pay, you might panic and decide to do something stupid like put up a fight.” He unlocked his seatbelt. “So I’ll come with you.”
    Riley grabbed Howden’s arm again, stopping him from slipping the seatbelt over his shoulder.
    “No.” Riley again thought carefully about what to say. He had to play this casual, like he was doing Howden a favour and not Mr Terry Simpson of 46 Kipling Close. “You might as well leave this one to me. Even if he does decide to get a bit lively, he’s old and can’t be that much of a handful. And you never know, he may even have the money this time.”
    “He didn’t have it yesterday,” Howden argued. “How’s he gonna get that sort of cash in twenty four hours? Remember, Nash doesn’t like anyone taking him for a mug. It doesn’t matter if this bloke’s in his sixties or fucking nineties, if he can’t pay the piper, we have to pay him. That’s why Nash sends us when the regular collectors don’t have any luck.”
    Riley nodded slowly. Yes, that’s exactly why he and Howden were here today. They were more menacing, more terrifying, and therefore more likely to get blood out of a stone. Howden stood six-three and clocked in at over eighteen stone. Riley was a couple of inches shorter and leaner in build but he still towered over a lot of men, and the sight of them both knocking on the door, dressed as they were in leather jackets and jeans, would surely show the debtor inside that it was time to pay up. But not this time though. Not to a bloke in his sixties. Riley wasn’t having it. Maybe a year or two ago he might have thought differently, back when being on Nash’s payroll was something he was happy to be part of, back when the only people he hurt often deserved it.
    But a lot had happened since then.
    “Still, you hang back and have a quick smoke,” he said, hoping Howden could be swayed by his forty a day habit. He hadn’t lit up in at least seven minutes and might get the shakes. “Like I said, not much will go down here. Save it for the next job.” He looked at the next name on the crumpled paperwork and thought, Sorry, Todd Williams of 37 Dyson Drive, hope you’ve got the cash.
    Howden paused in his seat. Stared over at the house for a few seconds. Then he shrugged, reached into his leather jacket for his smokes, clamped one between his thick, cracked lips and said, “Be quick, then.”
    Riley nodded and climbed from the Merc as Howden lit up.
    “Back in two minutes,” he said, carrying the paperwork with him.
    “And don’t be too soft with the old bastard if he can’t pay,” Howden said, exhaling a plume of smoke that filled the car almost instantly.
    Riley winked as he closed the door.
    Fuck you, Howden, he thought and set off across the road.

2
     
     
    Terry Simpson was sixty-three, recently unemployed, recently widowed and because of reasons only known to himself had borrowed two thousand pounds from Mike Nash a year ago when no reputable lender would touch him.
    Simpson had initially agreed to pay back three thousand in monthly payments of two hundred. But, as is the way with loan-sharking, the payments soon rose to three hundred a month and then to five hundred.
    How’s that possible? Read the small print, sir. Fast