Chapter Ten: Trouble and then some. My alarm goes off at 0700hrs, it’s the second day in New York, and it’s 13th December. My body aches all over, so I try some serious stretching in front of the TV. ‘Turn it down!’ ‘Yes dear’. I desperately need some exercise; so outcome the jogging shorts. ‘Cat, are you coming?’ ‘Not today darling, I’m on holiday’. I give her a peck on the cheek and tell her I love her, she responds with a soft feminine groan and rolls over, determined to sleep some more. I pull on my track suit and tie up my trainers. I leave the room and stroll down the velvety corridor of the 12th floor, push the call button of the lift and wait. One or two people pass me by and I think nothing of it, I am starting to relax. The lift arrives with a rattle and an electronic ‘Bing Bong’. I get in and hit the button for the ground floor; the lift stops at least 3 times on the way down and different characters come and go, but still nothing to worry me. I walk through the lobby, wave at the receptionist and pull on my skull cap and gloves. It is minus 5 degrees outside after all. The shock and bite of the cold air hits my face and I take short breaths, clouds of frozen breath hangs in the air before me. I start to jog away from the hotel, east along Madison. Not knowing where I am, the usual holiday thing is to jog for 20 minutes in one direction and then follow the same route back to my starting point. Dodging pedestrians, dogs and cars; it’s difficult to settle into a rhythm, but I plod on.
The snow crunches beneath my trainers and it’s only 10 minutes into my run when a black Cadillac screeches to a halt in front of me and two enormous black guys order me into the car. I momentarily freeze and then run, dodging the first guy as he makes a grab for me. I can hear swearing behind me as I sprint away, my heart pounding, my body pumped with adrenaline. The footsteps behind me are staying with me. ‘Out the way; just get out of the way. Please.’ My feet are slipping, ice crunching beneath my feet, every step is met with the insecure feeling that the traction between trainers and the pavement could fail at any moment. I knock a woman in her twenties flying and ignore the profanities being hurled at me from behind. I dodge left, then right, sprinting in the small gaps between pedestrians. Then it happens, from the side: all forward motion stops as I am rugby tackled from the side by a guy twice my weight; my head literally bounces of the pavement and a shockwave rattles around my head. Only my skull cap saving me from a serious injury. In a split second I am immobile and listening intently to a menacing whisper in my right ear. ‘Stand up quietly and get into the car. That is a knife jabbing your ribs and we know where to find your wife’. I comply, simply too shocked to do otherwise, I am fit and strong, but this is in another league.
Shoved and bundled into the rear of the car, the comfort of the seats and smell of the new leather creates a distinct contrast to the uneasy situation of my confinement. The weight of my body sinks into the seat as the car accelerates away from the curb, tyres screeching. There’s a guy either side if me, each bigger than myself, also one in the passenger seat and a driver. The front passenger turns around to face me. ‘Hello Mr Mitchell, how are you today?’ I cannot respond, I have a crushing pain in my right temple and I can feel the warmth of fresh blood down the side of my face. ‘Give him something to clean up with’ the guy in the front barks. ‘Yes boss’. The guy on my right passes me a wad of tissues and I wipe my face, gently dabbing the swollen lump on my head; I start to take in my surroundings; we are all ready heading over Brooklyn Bridge. ‘Mr Mitchell, listen to me. You have something that a dear friend of mine wants back’. ‘What? What is it?’ ‘A black leather folder and in particular, a flash drive or memory stick as you British call them. There are many details of my friends business contained within, where is it?’ His African accent is drawn out even more by his attempts at sounding American, bloody ridiculous. ‘I don’t know what you are on about’. ‘Yes you do Mr Mitchell, our mutual friend Mr Ray Mead has already asked you politely for its return’. ‘Who? What’? I stammer. ‘Ray from the UK’. ‘Yes Mr Mitchell, I am glad you are keeping up, where is it?’ ‘I have told him it must still be in the cafe’. ‘Do not take me for a fool Mr Mitchell, you were seen leaving with it’. The last statement was timed with a hard slap to the face; my head violently jolted back and then cushioned by the luxurious leather head rest. My cheek throbs: my mind is now conditioned to the stress and pain of each blow; it is no longer a shock to me as it once was. We are now entering a residential area of New York; I cannot even guess what it is called. I only know we have been travelling in roughly the same direction for 10 or 15 minutes. I have been concentrating intently on staying alive, let alone reading street signs. Then I hear the click of something I have not heard since my army days, the hammer of a small fire arm being cocked. I lift my head and end up staring down the barrel of a pistol, possibly a small Glock. ‘OK, OK, it’s in my car at the airport’. ‘What airport’. ‘Heathrow, it’s at Heathrow, I have the car park ticket in my room’. ‘Just the registration will do’. ‘Y216 PYW, it’s a BMW 320’. ‘Now we have settled our business Mr Mitchell, I will give you some advice. You should take care who you cross in the future; you never know who their friends are’.
The car then stops abruptly; the guy on my right opens the door, squeezes his huge frame out of the car and then drags me out. I get a back hander to my face, the motion of his arm finishing above shoulder height. I am staggering to my left when he then clenches his fist and brings it crashing down on my right cheek. Someone is shouting. ‘Sir, sir, are you ok, can you hear me’. It takes me a while to collect my faculties and realise that I was out cold and it’s the cold pavement I can feel against my face. I sit up and lean back against the wall, taking deep, but slow breaths as my body tries to realign its conscious place in this world. Then the pain sets in, my right cheek feels solid and acutely painful, my lip is double its normal size. ‘Where am I?’ ‘Thanks I’m ok, thank you, really, it’s ok ‘. My saviours now become a hindrance as I try to stand and they attempt to keep me on the floor to await an ambulance. ‘What is your name sir?’ I do not reply and continue to get to my feet. I stagger a little but continue anyway, I soon regain my balance and continue to the main street. I was taken over the Brooklyn Bridge, so I cannot be too far from the bridge. ‘TAXI!’ A frantic wave and a good shout in the right direction convinces the driver I am a paying customer, he pulls over and I climb in the rear seat. ‘Hotel Stanford’. ‘No problem sir, you OK? You look pretty rough to me sir’. ‘Not my best day, but let’s get a move on eh, I need to clean up’. He guns the throttle and the taxi lurches into the stream of traffic. He leaves me alone, but continues to glance into the rear view mirror in fascination of my condition. I must look a mess, cuts, lumps and dried blood. Catriona is going to have a fit; it’s going to be interesting when I get back to the hotel. The driver drops me off and I shuffle through reception; Juan raises an eyebrow and scolds the other member of staff for staring and being indiscreet. I have pushed the call button for the lift, but the wait seems eternal, the lift finally arrives and I gratefully enter the cloaked security of its interior. Juan flies into the lift just as the doors are about to close. ‘Sir may I help in anyway, Shall I call the police?’ ‘Your wife has been looking for you’. The lift starts to rise as I reply to his eager questions. ‘No its fine Juan, I’ve had just about enough of this, I am going to have to check out and go home’. Its infernally busy and the lift stops on the 2nd floor, two women, chatting and smiling enter the lift; our conversation ends until I reach the 12th floor. ‘Juan, I know you are trying to help but my wife is going to be pretty upset, so please leave us alone unless I call for something’.
The key card slides through the magnetic slot with ease; within a second of the door opening, Catriona has switched off the TV and is staring blankly at my damaged face. ‘Steve, where have you been? What has happened? First the room and now this; what is going on’. ‘It’s Ray. Its bloody Ray, can you believe it’. ‘That folder I took, it’s way more important than I could have imagined’. ‘Are you ok?’ ‘Yes, don’t wo
rry, it’s all over now’. ‘So what happened?’ ‘Well I was out jogging when I was rugby tackled to the ground and bundled into a car. They wanted the folder back that I took off Ray. I got a warning to be careful in the future and a good kicking so I don’t forget. Two bloody great black guys and some other fella driving’. Catriona leads me to the bathroom and helps me clean up. ‘Run a bath and I will order something to eat’. I ease my bruised body into the bath and sink into its comforting warmth.