The Dying Place Read Online Free PDF

dropped off meals. Food in sealed packaging. None of the stuff he was used to eating, proper horrible stuff like tasteless rice and salad. He would have thrown it back, but he was starving after the first day.
    Every time they came inside was the same. The door would be unlocked, more than one lock on the outside, Goldie noted, the door swinging open, light rushing in. The eight times it had happened, there’d never been less than three of them. Two of them had either a sawn-off or a bigger gun, like you’d use on Call of Duty. Assault rifle, Goldie reckoned. He’d told Dean that, but not really got anything in response.
    ‘Dean,’ Goldie had said on day four, whilst they were eating a meal of some kind of mashed potato and meat, ‘we should rush them when they drop the food off.’
    ‘No …’
    ‘Hear me out, lad. We could get either side of the door and surprise them. Have them over and then get the fuck out of here.’
    ‘It won’t work. And then you’d have to go on the rack. Trust me, you don’t want to go on that.’
    ‘What’s the rack?’ Goldie said, his brow furrowing.
    ‘You don’t wanna know …’
    ‘Pretend I do,’ Goldie replied, an edge to his voice. The look on Dean’s face made him pause though. The lad had started sweating, his hands shaking a little … then more.
    ‘I … I … No. They told me not to say anything.’
    ‘Like I give a shi—’
    ‘No,’ Dean’s voice echoed around the room. ‘I’m not saying nothing.’
    Goldie considered pushing harder, but Dean was now sitting on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them, silently rocking. Whispering to himself words which Goldie couldn’t hear.
    Goldie recognised what just thinking about the rack had caused in Dean.
    Terror.
    Day five was when it started. Three of them arrived, with Goldie expecting the same process as before. Food dropped off, no questions answered. Any movement met with a point of a weapon.
    It was different this time though. No food. Two of them came towards him as the other aimed a rifle at his chest. Strong hands gripped each of his arms and pulled him along.
    Helplessness. That’s the effect a bullet can have on you. It wasn’t the gun so much. Not after he’d got used to it being pointed at him. All he could think about was what it contained. Tiny little things that would rip him apart. Kill him in a second.
    They led him out of the building he’d begun to get used to, out into the cold winter air of December. He could see his breath as he exhaled, hoping that would continue as the memory of his mouth being gagged came back to him.
    ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, chancing it. Not wanting to talk too much.
    There was no response. Goldie measured himself up against the two people in balaclavas holding onto his arms, deciding he could probably take them if needs be.
    If he could work out a way of doing it before being hit by a bullet, he’d do it. He didn’t want to turn into Dean back in the room. Scared for his life. Not yet.
    He was led back inside another building, a large desk in a room, someone in a black balaclava and a suit sitting behind one side. It wasn’t so much a desk, Goldie thought as he was dumped onto the chair opposite the man, as a long table. A red cloth covered the surface, barely hanging over the edges.
    Goldie stared across at the balaclava-suit man, not willing to break eye contact. Two of those who had brought him here left the room, leaving only rifle man and the weird get-up sitting across from him. There was something so odd about the combination of a bally and a pristine suit, which Goldie could tell was no Burton’s Menswear special. Nah, this was money. Made to measure, he thought.
    ‘Nice suit. Wanna tell me what the fuck you think you’re doing?’
    His voice sounded exactly as he wanted it to. Hard as fuck. Don’t-fuck-me-about hard.
    ‘Be quiet. Learn to speak when spoken to, understand?’
    Goldie forgot about the gun being