Resurrection. The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles: Volume One.

Chapter Three

‘Hey, Anton. Where is towel?’

Holding a lungful of smoke, Anton pointed to where the towel lay on the kitchen table. He let the smoke go in a long sigh. ‘Behind you. On the kitchen table there.’

Ivan saw it and grinned. ‘Thanks. How is sofa, okay?’

‘It will live,’ Anton walked into the kitchen and held up the sofa cover. ‘But this is going to need to be scrubbed with soap or detergent.’

‘Seriously, you want me to do it? It’s my mess.’

‘No. I can manage. Why don’t you go out and see how the English is doing?’

Ivan made a face like a disgruntled teenager. ‘What? I just washed my hands.’

‘I didn’t say get your hands dirty, did I? Just go out and see how he’s doing. Maybe he’s had enough of being in the pool.’ Anton went to the washing machine and picked up the box of detergent beside it.

Ivan smiled. ‘I think for sure he’s had enough of being in pool.’

‘Well maybe then he is finally prepared to do what it takes to get out, eh? Go and check on him.’ He reached into the detergent box for the small plastic scoop and scooped a measure of the soap powder onto the stain.

Ivan watched, interested. ‘You think that will do any good?’

‘How the fuck do I know? I figure it’s what my mother would do if she were here.’

‘My mother would have made me lick it clean.’

‘She sounds like a smart woman. But I don’t think Sergei would appreciate you sucking on his furniture.’

The sound of dogs barking erupted from outside. Ivan turned to the sound and grinned. ‘It sounds like English isn’t making any new friends out there.’

‘Yeah, so go, will you. Make sure they aren’t eating his fucking face off.’

‘Okay. I leave you to woman’s work while I go out and do man’s.’

Anton smiled thinly and began rubbing the powder into the stain. ‘Yeah, you do that. And remember, Sergei wants him alive. Try and keep your hands clean.’ Ivan waved and stepped outside and into the brilliant sunshine. Anton looked down to where his hands were now grinding a gooey pink paste. ‘Big idiot,’ he murmured. ‘Next time we do it your mother’s way.’

In the centre of the drained swimming pool, Mark Coleman, the man to whom Anton and Ivan referred as the English, sat naked and bound to a wooden chair. On his head was a dusty cowboy hat fronted with the phrase, ‘I love Ibiza’ (the word love being represented by a once-shiny heart motif). The hat was red, though not as red as Mark’s body, which – after over a day in the pool – had burned to the colour of raw steak. His mouth worked against the strip of cloth that gagged him, sucking at it for moisture, even though it tasted of blood and vomit.

Sweat stung his eyes; it trickled into them almost constantly. He blinked and shifted on his seat. The chair scraped on the broken tiled floor, and the three Rottweilers that had been dozing in the shadow of the deep end, looked up at him. One of them growled; a low, ominous reminder of the impossibility of his getting anywhere near the shade they occupied. The dog’s fellows joined in and Mark lowered his gaze – a deferential gesture that he had learned which could sometimes keep the dogs from becoming aggressive. The growling simmered a moment longer, before dying down to be replaced by disinterested panting.

Mark listened as paws padded off to the right, the swaying chink of the dog’s chain dragging across the tiles behind it. Then the sound of water as the dog lapped in the steel water pail that had been left for them. The sound was maddening. He looked at the hateful, vicious animal as it drank, water splattering around the pail to where it would slowly evaporate on the tiles. A fresh trickle of sweat ran into Mark’s eyes and he blinked, angry now despite his fear of the dogs. His blinking only increased the flow and sting of sweat and, momentarily lost to exhausted rage, Mark shook his head. His hat flew away and landed about a metre to his left. He cried out; a muffled howl of sudden panic as he felt the sun on his head and neck. The dogs began to growl again, getting to their feet and baring their teeth. Mark looked down, but this time it didn’t placate the animals. They began to bark. He looked up to see the dogs moving out of the shade, ropes of saliva splattering from their jaws. He instinctively tried to move away from them; twisting and shifting his weight on the chair, when suddenly, he felt himself toppling over backwards. He screamed as the world spun head over heels and he crashed down. The dogs charged, running to the length of their chains, snapping and snarling, almost choking themselves in their frenzied efforts to be free and to be able to tear him to pieces.