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“Wrong answer, arsehole. Do yourself a favour and piss off.”
Blood dribbles from the ‘arsehole’s’ nose, and his hand is tucked inside his jacket as though holding bruised ribs. But still he advances, his mates at his back.
This time, the younger man is ready for him. He stands his ground, fists up. “Do you never get the message, dickhead?”
Another of the men answers this time. “We have message for you, Savage, or rather, for your brother.”
Again, I detect a slight hint of an Eastern European accent, but my attention is concentrated on the glint of steel as the man at his side — Olensky? — pulls a vicious-looking knife from beneath his jacket. So much for injured ribs.
The younger man clearly sees the value of caution. He’s outnumbered, and they are armed, with murderous knives and equally deadly intent.
He backs away. “Don’t be a fucking idiot,” he begins. “You know how this will end.”
“It ends here.” Olensky lunges with the knife. “You always were the runt of the litter. It is time to put you out of your misery, my way of showing you, and your brother, what happens to those who cross me. You were warned. Now, it’s payback time.”
The one called Savage puts up an arm to defend himself. The knife slices through his sleeve. Blood pours from the wound to pool on the stone flags.
“Fuck,” he mutters, grasping at his arm, at the same time swinging his foot up to catch Olensky in the elbow.
There’s a sickening crunch and a wail of agony, but Olensky is not done yet. The rest of his thugs grab Savage and pin his arms at his sides, while Olensky switches the knife to his other hand and circles the prisoner.
“Let’s make this nice and slow, shall we?” He grins, revealing three or four yellowing teeth and huge gaps where the rest should have been. “We really should savour the moment, perhaps take a few snapshots to send to your brother. We wouldn’t want him to miss out on all the fun, would we?” He moves in close, narrows his eyes, then slowly, deliberately, slices the blade across Savage’s stomach.
It’s enough. Too much. The men holding him let go, and Savage buckles to his knees.
Olensky stands over him, his left arm dangling useless at his side.
“We cannot leave trash like this on the path. Someone might complain.” Then, as calm as anything, he pockets the knife again, bends and wraps his meaty fist around Savage’s ankle. While his friends watch, grinning stupidly, Olensky drags the dying man across the path to the edge of the river, then simply shoves him into the water.
I let out a strangled scream. I can’t help it. Shock and horror overwhelm what’s left of good sense.
They all hear me. As one, they turn and see me for the first time. Olensky’s lip curls in a parody of a smile in his weather-beaten features. He bares his nicotine-stained teeth at me, his eyes almost as dead as those of his victim.
“You should not have been here,” he snarls, reaching for me.
Instinct kicks in. I have to get away. I dart out of the shrubbery and try to dodge past the group of thugs, but they block the entire path. The knife is in Olensky’s hand again, and he is once more playing to his audience. He circles around me, edging me backwards, towards the water’s edge. There’s only one way to escape, and I take it.
I take another step back, twisting my body, and I dive into the river.
I surface to see Olensky and the rest glowering at me from the path. One of the men starts to take off his jacket as if he might be contemplating coming in after me, but a shout from the bridge disturbs them. More men are running down the steps, and clearly Olensky and his cronies have no desire to discuss their recent antics with anyone else in a fair fight. He mutters something in Russian and sprints off in the direction I came from, his thuggish mates at his heels, away from the men now pounding along the bank.
I spin around, treading water and scanning the surface for any sign of the injured man. It’s the blood floating to the surface that gives him away. I pick my spot, swim a few strokes, and dive.
When next I surface, the lifeless body of Savage weighing me down, there are two more men in the water. One of them grabs Savage, the other reaches for me.
“I’m okay. I can get out on my own. Help him,” I splutter.
The man nods and turns his attention to assisting the one who was injured. By the time I reach the edge and grasp at the hands reaching down to help me out, the body of Savage is already on the bank.
“Is he…?” I hardly dare breathe the words.Is he dead?
The faint wail of sirens is getting stronger. Someone must have called an ambulance. And the police. I can only lie on the path, spluttering and gasping for air. I’m a strong swimmer, and I had no doubt I could save myself. I wouldn’t have dived in otherwise. I don’t have a death wish. I wasn’t so sure I could save the man, but I saw no reason not to try. Now, though, that dip in the icy waters of the River Forth has taken everything out of me.
Apart from myself and Savage, there are six men clustered around us, two of them dripping wet like I am but not yet shivering. For myself, it may be shock, or the cold, but I think I’m about to pass out. I close my eyes and wait for the nausea to pass.
When my senses have rallied and I’m a bit more focussed, I raise my head and take in the scene. Two of the men are on phones. One of them glances at me, mutters something into the mouthpiece, and nods.
I am helped to my feet by two of them and bundled along the path in the direction of the bridge. A pair of paramedics jog down the steps from the road and pause to ask if we are injured.
