Mark Pearson - Hard Evidence

Night-time on the river, twenty-five miles west ofLondon. Kevin Norrell, a foul-breathed and acne-scarredman, hooded and sweating, pulled hard onthe oars, really getting into it now. Years ofsteroid abuse had given him strength, if notwisdom, and his blades flashed across the darkridges of the windblown river like scalpels slicingthrough mercury. He grunted as they dipped intothe water and pulled the boat upwards andforward. In the cloudless sky above, the moonhung full and fat, the sickly colour of a dying man.The colour of Billy Martin's yellowing face, infact, as he lay huddled in the corner of the smallskiff. His hands were bound with twisted coat-hangerwire, his mouth was pulled into a painfulrictus by a gag made from his own shirt.Trembling, he pulled his legs protectively intowards himself.

'For God's sake keep still!' A hooded man at theother end of the boat, holding a video camera.

Kevin Norrell pulled unconcerned on the oars,not missing a beat. He didn't know or care whothe huddled man was; he was paid for his muscle,not his brains. Billy Martin cared about something,though. You could see it in his rat-like eyesas they flicked from side to side like a warningfinger.

'Never work with bloody amateurs.' Thehooded man with the camera again. 'This isn't asteadicam, you know.'

Billy Martin twisted his face and managed tomove the gag a little. 'You think you're scaringme? You're not. Who do you think you're dealingwith here?'

'With you, dear boy. We're dealing with you.We're washing you away. Like a blot, like a stain.'

'I've got insurance.'

'You had insurance. I'm afraid the policy hasrecently been cancelled.' He nodded to KevinNorrell, who reluctantly laid down his oars andgripped Billy Martin's shoulders. Martin tried toshake loose, but Norrell's muscles bunched andhis fingers dug into the struggling man's shoulderslike mechanical claws and held him powerless.

'You can't do this.'

'But we can,' said the hooded man; he pointedthe camera and nodded encouragingly. 'Good.Let's see the fear.'

Kevin pulled Billy Martin upright; he wasscreaming with pure terror now, desperatelytrying to escape the huge man's grip. But Kevinlifted him up, his feet twisting uselessly in the air,then threw him into the river as easily as passing abasketball and with the casual indifference of arefuse collector emptying a dustbin.

Billy Martin's scream rang in the night air like asteam alarm as he crashed into the cold water, hisarms burning as he strained against the wireholding him, desperately trying to stay afloat, andfailing.

The second man nodded again, zooming in for atight shot as the rocking boat steadied itself, andcalled out encouragement to Billy Martin.

'That's it. Wriggle like an eel, splash out withyour legs.'

Billy Martin's screams gurgled and faded as hesank beneath the water. The ripples gradually diedaway, the boat was still and the river was peacefulonce more. The cameraman nodded to the rower,as if to praise a child, but the smile didn't reach hiseyes. Eyes which were as cold as the water thathad suddenly filled Billy Martin's lungs.

'Shame we couldn't get crocodiles,' he said aftera moment.

If Kevin Norrell had any idea what the man wastalking about, it certainly didn't register on hisface.