Fallon stared blankly at the dirty grey concrete of the wall in front of him and concentrated on the pain from the plastic cable ties biting into his wrists. It kept his mind off the pain in other places. There was blood spatter on the wall. Some of it was his blood, but most of it had already been there when they pulled the bag off his head. That was certainly deliberate, point the prisoner at the proof of what you’re capable of. Show him what’ll happen to him if he doesn’t give you what you want.

It hadn’t worked on Fallon. Neither had the beating.

Suddenly there was the clatter of metal shutters and the garage was full of light. He heard scuffing footsteps behind him and then more pain and all the lights went out.

The next thing Fallon knew was cold wet grass against his cheek. Someone was kicking him, but not that hard, just enough to wake him. He opened his eyes to see a small woman, standing over him with her hands on her hips. He’d become very familiar with her over the last 24 hours, and knew that she was considerably more dangerous than she looked. Every drop of his blood spilled in the garage had been at her hand. A hand that he know saw was holding a small handgun.

He rolled on to his back and craned his head around as much as he could, getting a look at his surroundings. They appeared to be in a park. Deserted. No one to see or hear what might happen to him. She crouched down beside him and brought her face close to his.

“I’m not going to tell you anything,” he hissed through gritted teeth; “you might as well just get it over with.”

She laughed once, loudly, a shocking bark she clearly couldn’t contain. “you’re no bloody use to me dead, now are you, Fallon?” She smiled at him. She knew that using his real name was a trump card. She must do, otherwise why wait until now to play it?

If she knew his real name, she almost certainly knew more. Like where he lived.

Where he lived with his wife.

The silence between them went on for a long time. Eventually he broke it. He had to. There was no other choice, not really. His loyalty to his crew only extended so far. Nothing and no one was more important to him than Sharon.

“What do you want to know?” he spat.

She smiled a little wider, sat back on her haunches.

“Where’s the coin?”

The following two tabs change content below.

• Bio
• Latest Posts

David Wynne

David Wynne is a cartoonist from south east London now living in Hove. He likes loud music and probably drinks more than he should. He tries to be nice. He really does try.

Latest posts by David Wynne (see all)

• Thank You and Goodbye - 30/07/16
• A Walk In The Park - 28/01/16
• 06/12/2015 Image – “Quiet Neighbours” by David Wynne - 06/12/15
• SMILE - 21/11/15
• In the Forest of the High Stones - 31/10/15