Page 12 of Indie

“After you, Emmie,” he waved his hand in front of him, waiting for me to move first.

I did move. I led the way to the back of the shop, listening to the firm footsteps behind me. Behind the doors marked private, sat a couple of screens, playing to themselves unmonitored images. Sitting down in front of one, I paused the live feed, pulling up the file icon and looking for the folder with the previous night’s recordings.

“What time was it?” I asked, scrolling through the earlier footage.

“12.45 ish. I think.”

His voice grumbled over the top of me, low and deep. The images on the screen rushed past my eyes, too quickly to focus on anything, the clock in the corner ticking by. He smelt clean, like freshly washed clothes, but also a hint of aftershave. Not offensive or strong. But light, almost floral, but not quite.

“There,” he pointed at the screen, but I wasn’t quick enough to slow it down, stopping the footage and scrambling to find the rewind setting.

The screen rolled backwards, picking up speed until it was way past the point Indie wanted to view. His hand covered mine, warm and rough, colourful tattoos dancing over his knuckles.

“Let me, Emmie,” he muttered, stepping in a little closer, his clothes brushing mine.

I let go of the mouse, sliding my hand from under his and then sat and watched him control the screen far better than I could have managed. The footage slowed to a normal pace, and out on the road we watched a truck rush past, followed a few feet behind by a motorbike. And then, seconds later, the big bike of Indie’s came into view, sailing proudly down the road before pulling into the forecourt.

Indie re-wound the footage, waiting for the vehicles to just pass, then paused the recording.

“Can this thing zoom in?” He pointed across me at the screen, but all I saw was the arm that had come across my body, and all I could smell was him, the light scent filling my nostrils.

“Emmie?”

“Err… yes. I think it does… can I?” Our hands met on the mouse, his fingers tangling with mine, just for a few moments before I pulled away.

Indie dropped his hand to the table, leaning his weight onto it, his arm touching mine. My cheeks burned, the heat spilling down my neck and onto my chest, and suddenly I was unbearably hot.

“Where would the zoom be, Emmie?” I could hear the hint of a smile in his voice, his usual gruff tone lightening.

“It’s…it’s just here.”

I moved the mouse to the icons at the bottom of the screen, pressing one, the screen transforming suddenly as the image pulled closer until it was as large as I could get it. A movement on the other camera to my left caught my eye. People in the shop. I hadn’t closed the doors.

“Shit!” The words slipped out unchecked.

“Emmie?”

“Be right back. I’ve some customers at the front.”

“No problem,” his words grumbled low from behind me.

Voices filled the shop. Harsh and cackling, rough words and strong accents, and suddenly I was nervous, a swell of apprehension starting in the pit of my stomach. They loitered round the front, rifling through the offers at the till.

“Where you been, Emmie? You’ve customers to serve.” That voice. The one that instilled the deepest feeling of dread and fear every time I heard him.

Gaz turned to look at me, cool blue eyes filled with malice.

“Think you’ve got some money for me, babe.”

Chapter Six

I glanced over at the live feed camera, six frames displayed on the screen. I couldn’t see what she had seen. Everywhere looked quiet. Empty. The screen beside it was paused, the image grainy where I had zoomed in too much, the registration plates of the vehicles I’d been watching for barely recognisable. But there would be enough there for Sicknote to get something from, I was sure.

The screen to my left flickered again. The four little squares changing, picking up different areas of the shop now. One of the empty squares now filled with bodies. Four men. And Emmie. And I didn’t like that. For a while I stared, watching the figures. Emmie’s back was straight, her legs locked, tension holdingher still. But her hand fiddled with her trousers, picking at something I couldn’t see.

Silently, I pushed through the doors from the back office to muted voices. Thick Geordie accents. But it was more than that. There was a roughness to them. Harsh and mean. I stayed an aisle away, listening, edging closer.

“Think you’ve got some money for me, babe.”