==
They were laughing with nerves.
Five forced smiles, five masked voices. Standing in the harsh light, discussing with a sort of strange unreality how best to dispose of a body, the Mad Angels were plainly terrified of upsetting their boss. The fear of voicing a contradiction, of detecting a note of irritation in Terry's voice, was inescapable. Ryo, having been painstakingly carried up the metal staircase by the gang members, now occupied a corner in the unused, sterile little office that lay on the second floor of the old warehouse. He was still bound to the chair, which had fitted to his back so tightly for so long that it was beginning to feel like an extension of his body, and was accepted with a lazy numbness that had washed over the pain in waves. A pain that, if Ryo had decided to torture himself by thinking about it, seemed impossible to imagine living without.
"Concrete boots was a figure of speech, you idiot!" snapped the man in the white leather jacket fiercely to another gang member, annoyed at the general murmur of assent.
"I know," replied the other, his voice cracking slightly. With the pressure of being singled out, he added, "A chain with a weight on would be the best way."
"That's what I meant!"
Another gang member, younger, surveyed the others as if testing their faces for acceptance of his suggesting anything. Like the others, he stood around the rectangular plastic table in the middle of the office, staring down pensively at the faded circles of old tea stains, as if seeing something deep and meaningful within. His hair, jet black, and brushed up into a half- hearted attempt at a punk style, contrasted with a studded leather jacket. His fingers played on a small metal chain.
Hesitantly, he broke the silence.
"Why don't we get him out of here? Take him away, dump him somewhere else, and no one will ever find him. No evidence here, no one can link it to us."
There was a heavy pause, wet with the humidity of contempt from the other gang members. Eyes turned to him, scrutinising. He wasn't supposed to be here. Who the Hell was he? Some low-ranking member of the harbour gang who no one could remember asking to come. Activities like this were intended to involve only trustworthy, experienced players in Terry's underground circle, and this guy, now consciously disassociated from by the others, was left by the gang to be devoured by Terry. Their silence was his punishment.
To Terry, however; the only gang member so far to have not said a word, it was interesting. He was sitting, head down and legs casually crossed. His seat was an old wooden crate. His armrest was a rusting sink. All eyes were currently avoiding his figure, as he ran his right hand slowly through his long hair, looked slowly upwards with dramatic elaborateness, and finally fixed his iron stare upon the speaker's back.
Detecting a change in the mood of the room, the young man turned unwillingly around and met the cold eyes that peirced his own. He realised he needed to swallow, but was aware of the importance of appearing indifferent to threat. Nothing moved. For a moment, it seemed that no one in the room was breathing.
"What did you say?"
The young man's face had flushed bright red.
"I said... I... I think, to do," he started, then broke off as his voice became a quivering wreck. He had spoken out of turn. What was the punishment?
"Answer me."
A suffocating silence.
"Answer me!"
The young man again attempted to form a sentence.
"I think... to take Ryo to the... out of town, from here, it would-"
"What?" asked Terry, frowning slightly.
"I think that-"
"No. Shut up," snapped Terry, growling. This time it was his own turn to pause, as his finger stroked his lips. "What... did you call him?"
The other gang members seemed a lot closer in the young man's mind. The room was smaller. A hand grabbed his shoulders and an arm gripped his waist. Terry rose, and approached. He neared his face to the young man's gasping mouth, every bone in his body aching with the fury of deception. A growl escaped his teeth, a rage began to boil.
"You know him!" cried the bearded face. He turned suddenly to face the blank wall, resisting his own violence.
"Who are you?"
They were laughing with nerves.
Five forced smiles, five masked voices. Standing in the harsh light, discussing with a sort of strange unreality how best to dispose of a body, the Mad Angels were plainly terrified of upsetting their boss. The fear of voicing a contradiction, of detecting a note of irritation in Terry's voice, was inescapable. Ryo, having been painstakingly carried up the metal staircase by the gang members, now occupied a corner in the unused, sterile little office that lay on the second floor of the old warehouse. He was still bound to the chair, which had fitted to his back so tightly for so long that it was beginning to feel like an extension of his body, and was accepted with a lazy numbness that had washed over the pain in waves. A pain that, if Ryo had decided to torture himself by thinking about it, seemed impossible to imagine living without.
"Concrete boots was a figure of speech, you idiot!" snapped the man in the white leather jacket fiercely to another gang member, annoyed at the general murmur of assent.
"I know," replied the other, his voice cracking slightly. With the pressure of being singled out, he added, "A chain with a weight on would be the best way."
"That's what I meant!"
Another gang member, younger, surveyed the others as if testing their faces for acceptance of his suggesting anything. Like the others, he stood around the rectangular plastic table in the middle of the office, staring down pensively at the faded circles of old tea stains, as if seeing something deep and meaningful within. His hair, jet black, and brushed up into a half- hearted attempt at a punk style, contrasted with a studded leather jacket. His fingers played on a small metal chain.
Hesitantly, he broke the silence.
"Why don't we get him out of here? Take him away, dump him somewhere else, and no one will ever find him. No evidence here, no one can link it to us."
There was a heavy pause, wet with the humidity of contempt from the other gang members. Eyes turned to him, scrutinising. He wasn't supposed to be here. Who the Hell was he? Some low-ranking member of the harbour gang who no one could remember asking to come. Activities like this were intended to involve only trustworthy, experienced players in Terry's underground circle, and this guy, now consciously disassociated from by the others, was left by the gang to be devoured by Terry. Their silence was his punishment.
To Terry, however; the only gang member so far to have not said a word, it was interesting. He was sitting, head down and legs casually crossed. His seat was an old wooden crate. His armrest was a rusting sink. All eyes were currently avoiding his figure, as he ran his right hand slowly through his long hair, looked slowly upwards with dramatic elaborateness, and finally fixed his iron stare upon the speaker's back.
Detecting a change in the mood of the room, the young man turned unwillingly around and met the cold eyes that peirced his own. He realised he needed to swallow, but was aware of the importance of appearing indifferent to threat. Nothing moved. For a moment, it seemed that no one in the room was breathing.
"What did you say?"
The young man's face had flushed bright red.
"I said... I... I think, to do," he started, then broke off as his voice became a quivering wreck. He had spoken out of turn. What was the punishment?
"Answer me."
A suffocating silence.
"Answer me!"
The young man again attempted to form a sentence.
"I think... to take Ryo to the... out of town, from here, it would-"
"What?" asked Terry, frowning slightly.
"I think that-"
"No. Shut up," snapped Terry, growling. This time it was his own turn to pause, as his finger stroked his lips. "What... did you call him?"
The other gang members seemed a lot closer in the young man's mind. The room was smaller. A hand grabbed his shoulders and an arm gripped his waist. Terry rose, and approached. He neared his face to the young man's gasping mouth, every bone in his body aching with the fury of deception. A growl escaped his teeth, a rage began to boil.
"You know him!" cried the bearded face. He turned suddenly to face the blank wall, resisting his own violence.
"Who are you?"