The Dying Place Read Free

opening. The first he realised something was wrong was when he was pushed hard in the back, his balance not what it would have been earlier in the day. It happened so quickly, he couldn’t free his hands to stop the fall.
    He remembered thinking the pavement was fuckin’ hard, smashing into his face with nothing to brace against it – harder than even his dad had hit him that one time, before he fucked off for good. He turned around on the floor, using his tongue to feel around his mouth. One of his front teeth jutted forwards into his top lip. His left eye was going blurry as something wet dripped down his face. Blood, he guessed.
    He tried to regain his senses, determined not to go down without a fight. Probably some Strand fuckers, hoping to put him out of action. He turned onto his back, raising his hands to cover himself, waiting for the kicking to start.
    He looked up, confused in an instant as he saw the men standing over him.
    They were old. Forties, fifties. He could tell from the greying hair, rather than facial features. All of them wearing masks.
    Shite …
    ‘You’re coming with us, kid. Gonna teach you some respect.’
    Goldie began kicking out, but rough, hard hands grabbed at his legs. Strength he wasn’t used to from the other lads his own age. Fingers dug into his flesh as they pulled him along the concrete.
    ‘Get the fuck off me you fuckin’ twats. I’ll fuck you all up. Do you know who I am? I’m gonna fuckin’ kill all o’ yers.’
    Then the world went black as something was forced over his head, pulled tight across his face, no amount of thrashing around making it come off. Hard metal slammed into his stomach, taking the wind out of him completely. He felt a weight on his legs as he realised he was now in the back of the van, hands holding his head to the floor as they began to move. The hood over his face was loosened a little so he could breathe.
    ‘Duct tape.’
    The voice was hardened, Scouse. Proper old school, like his dad’s.
    ‘No. Don’t you fuckin’ dare …’ Goldie tried to shout, the hood muffling the sound.
    The hood was lifted to his nose, before tape went across his mouth. Shouting behind it had no effect. He tried kicking out again, but the hands holding his legs and arms down barely shifted.
    ‘Stop messing about, or we’ll just dump you in the Mersey now. Relax. Nothing is going to happen to you. We’re going to help you.’
    Goldie tried answering back, but it was useless.
    One leg got free.
    Goldie didn’t think twice. Just swung it back and aimed for anything he could. The satisfying clunk as his foot found flesh made him redouble his efforts.
    Shouts, cries, as he struggled free, the hood over his face keeping him in darkness.
    ‘Stop the van.’
    The same voice as before, still calm, still low.
    Goldie tried to stand, but the van pulling to a stop made him rock forward, off balance.
    ‘I told you to relax.’
    Goldie spun, but wasn’t quick enough. His hands caught in mid-air as he tried to remove his hood. Strong grip on his wrist. Starting to twist.
    Explosion in the side of his head as something smacked against it.
    Then, as he fell to the floor, he wished for the complete darkness of unconsciousness – not just the vision of it. As the punches landed, the kicks and boots flew into his stomach, his ribs cracking one by one.
    That tight grip on his wrist. Still there. Twisting, turning.
    He cried out behind the duct tape sealing his mouth. No use.
    The crack as his wrist snapped.
    ‘That’s enough. All of you.’
    The blows stopped as he lay on the floor of the van, trying to hold his body together. Coughing up God knows what behind his gag. Trying not to choke. Trying to breathe, every intake of air through his nostrils not enough.
    It somehow got darker behind the hood as his head lolled backwards.
    The last thing he remembered was the voice again.
    ‘Start it up. Let’s get to the farm. Now.’

Take the coward vermin to the nearest safari park.