Read Online Max Wolfe 02.5 - Fresh Blood by Tony Parsons - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tony Parsons
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away if he was not so stricken with terror, so paralysed with disbelief that this was happening, so appalled by the warm blood that ran now on either side of his left eye, so scared witless that he did not fully register the chance to escape until the moment had passed.
Then the man stood behind Mahmud, the razor blade returned to the soft fold of flesh above the left eye and the man’s other hand gently taking the taxi driver’s wrist.
They walked across the wide-open space to a door.
They went down some steps.
The air got colder.
They descended into total darkness and walked along a narrow passage until suddenly a thin shaft of natural light was coming from somewhere high above their heads. Mahmud could see ancient white brickwork that was stained green by time and weather. It was very cold now. The summer was on another planet. The air was fetid with what smelled like stagnant water. It was like stepping into another world.
And then there were the others.
Three of them.
Their faces hidden by black masks that revealed only their eyes.
One of them had a red light shining in their hands.
It was some kind of camera, and it was pointing at Mahmud Irani.
There was a stool. A kitchen step stool. Mahmud could not understand what was happening as hands helped him onto the stool and something was placed around his neck. The blood was in his eyes as he watched the man from the car consulting with the one who held the camera. Mahmud wiped away the blood with the palm of his hands and he tried to balance himself, afraid he would fall from the stool.
His fingers nervously felt his neck.
It was a rope.
They had put a rope around his neck.
He looked up and saw that it was attached to a rusted tangle of ancient pipes in the ceiling.
Hands were touching his arms. He heard a metallic click. He found that his arms were secured behind his back.
And now the words came in a torrent. Now he had no difficulty at all in speaking. Now even the razor blade pressed against his eyeball could not have shut his mouth.
‘I have a wife and children!’ he screamed, and his voice echoed back at him in this secret basement.
Wife and children!
Wife and children!
‘I’m just a taxi driver! Please! You have the wrong person!’
The man from the car was covering his face with a black mask. Like an executioner. He turned to Mahmud Irani.
‘Do you know why you have been brought to this place of execution?’
he asked.
Mahmud stuttered, ‘What? This – what? I don’t understand. What? I’m a taxi driver–’
But then the words choked in his throat because, beyond the red light of the camera, one of them was sticking A4 sheets of paper to the worn white bricks of this underground place.
The A4 sheets of paper were portraits that had been downloaded from the Internet.
They were all the faces of girls. Young girls. Smiling girls.
And, yes, they were all smiling, every one of them – although some of them had smiles that were stiff and shy, and some had smiles that were natural and full of confidence.
They all smiled in their own way. The school photographers had insisted upon a smile, encouraged them to smile, tried to make them laugh.
They were formal portraits, the kind that a school takes every year to record and honour a student’s growth, and they caught the girls at the fleeting moment in their lives when they were poised between the children they had so recently been and the women they would one day become.
The smiling faces watched Mahmud Irani.
And he knew these faces. All of them.
He had known them in rooms full of laughing men. He had heard the girls scream for help when no help was coming. He had seen them blurry and on the edge of unconsciousness, foggy with cheap booze and strong drugs as their clothes were removed.
He had laughed at those girls with all the other men.
And now his words were edged with bitterness and contempt and anger.
‘Whores,’ he said. ‘Cheap whores who like drink and drugs. Sluts
Then the man stood behind Mahmud, the razor blade returned to the soft fold of flesh above the left eye and the man’s other hand gently taking the taxi driver’s wrist.
They walked across the wide-open space to a door.
They went down some steps.
The air got colder.
They descended into total darkness and walked along a narrow passage until suddenly a thin shaft of natural light was coming from somewhere high above their heads. Mahmud could see ancient white brickwork that was stained green by time and weather. It was very cold now. The summer was on another planet. The air was fetid with what smelled like stagnant water. It was like stepping into another world.
And then there were the others.
Three of them.
Their faces hidden by black masks that revealed only their eyes.
One of them had a red light shining in their hands.
It was some kind of camera, and it was pointing at Mahmud Irani.
There was a stool. A kitchen step stool. Mahmud could not understand what was happening as hands helped him onto the stool and something was placed around his neck. The blood was in his eyes as he watched the man from the car consulting with the one who held the camera. Mahmud wiped away the blood with the palm of his hands and he tried to balance himself, afraid he would fall from the stool.
His fingers nervously felt his neck.
It was a rope.
They had put a rope around his neck.
He looked up and saw that it was attached to a rusted tangle of ancient pipes in the ceiling.
Hands were touching his arms. He heard a metallic click. He found that his arms were secured behind his back.
And now the words came in a torrent. Now he had no difficulty at all in speaking. Now even the razor blade pressed against his eyeball could not have shut his mouth.
‘I have a wife and children!’ he screamed, and his voice echoed back at him in this secret basement.
Wife and children!
Wife and children!
‘I’m just a taxi driver! Please! You have the wrong person!’
The man from the car was covering his face with a black mask. Like an executioner. He turned to Mahmud Irani.
‘Do you know why you have been brought to this place of execution?’
he asked.
Mahmud stuttered, ‘What? This – what? I don’t understand. What? I’m a taxi driver–’
But then the words choked in his throat because, beyond the red light of the camera, one of them was sticking A4 sheets of paper to the worn white bricks of this underground place.
The A4 sheets of paper were portraits that had been downloaded from the Internet.
They were all the faces of girls. Young girls. Smiling girls.
And, yes, they were all smiling, every one of them – although some of them had smiles that were stiff and shy, and some had smiles that were natural and full of confidence.
They all smiled in their own way. The school photographers had insisted upon a smile, encouraged them to smile, tried to make them laugh.
They were formal portraits, the kind that a school takes every year to record and honour a student’s growth, and they caught the girls at the fleeting moment in their lives when they were poised between the children they had so recently been and the women they would one day become.
The smiling faces watched Mahmud Irani.
And he knew these faces. All of them.
He had known them in rooms full of laughing men. He had heard the girls scream for help when no help was coming. He had seen them blurry and on the edge of unconsciousness, foggy with cheap booze and strong drugs as their clothes were removed.
He had laughed at those girls with all the other men.
And now his words were edged with bitterness and contempt and anger.
‘Whores,’ he said. ‘Cheap whores who like drink and drugs. Sluts
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