The Silent Pool by Phil Kurthausen

the corridor leading to the lift a man appeared. Tall, dark and angular, he wore a black jacket with a hood that covered the top half of his face.
    ‘Who the fuck are you?’
    The man said nothing but stood there, silent and still. Malcolm could see the lower right half of his face was exposed, revealing a white scar the sight of which made his guts twist and turn. For a second he thought he recognised the man but no, it was impossible, and he didn't know anybody with such a disfigurement. It wasn't the type of thing you would forget easily.
    ‘I'm calling security!’ Malcolm picked up the phone: the line was dead. Slowly, he put the receiver down.
    ‘What do you want, money? I've got money.’
    The man moved closer.
    ‘Well, what do you want? I tell you what you need! You could do with seeing a good dermatologist I see. I have the number of an excellent consultant. He could sort you right out, you know.’
    The man said nothing.
    Malcolm put his hands behind his head and pushed back his chair. He had been surprised, maybe even a little frightened if the truth be told, but now he was back in charge. It was the natural order of things: winners and losers, and this man, this apparition, he was a loser.
    ‘You see, you come up here trying to frighten me but what are you going to do? You're just another of life's little losers, Scarface.’
    The man dared to come in here, at his moment of triumph and threaten him. Who was he? Some tramp? A wronged client? He was a nobody and he was going to get the full Malcolm Ford treatment. Malcolm was beginning to enjoy this now.
    The man was standing a foot away from the front of his desk.
    ‘People like you are scum. What is it? A heroin habit? Did Mummy not give you enough teat? Did Daddy touch you so now you have to go around taking other people's, successful people's property. Eh, so which is it?’
    He remained silent and impassive.
    ‘So, either tell me what you want or just fuck off!’
    ‘Do you believe?’
    In that moment Malcolm's world disappeared. His house, his cars, his mistress, his kids, all were gone, replaced by a bloody void and a memory buried as deep as a corpse.
    From a million miles away Malcolm could hear a voice, monotone and expressionless.
    ‘Do you believe?’
    The scream in Malcolm's throat never made it to his lips because with a movement so quick that he didn't even see where it came from, the man slipped a leather rope around his neck and pulled it tight, cutting off Malcolm's supply of air.
    He tried to scream but he couldn't produce a sound. He passed out.
    He had no idea how long he was out. When he awoke he was woozy, his vision blurry. But then he recognised where he was, the corridor outside his office. There was an agonising pain from his neck where it had been crushed by the rope. He tried to move and then quickly realised his hands were bound to the arms of the chair with rolls of sticky tape and his legs were tied together with a plastic tie. He could taste blood in his mouth. He could hear breathing behind him and then closer until there was hot breath on his ear.
    ‘Do you believe?’
    ‘Listen,’ said Malcolm. ‘Whatever you want I'll give it to you. Money? I've got money, I won't say a word.’
    The man laughed.
    ‘Are my children OK?’
    ‘First the money and only now you ask about your children. You'll never know whether they are alive or dead.’
    ‘You bastard. If you've touched them I'll…’ He began to sob.
    The man spun the chair round so Malcolm was looking directly into his eyes.
    ‘You'll do what, Malcolm Ford, kill me?’
    Malcolm's chair was spun again and then pushed, accelerating hard down the corridor towards the window and then the hands pushing the chair pulled away as the chair gained speed.
    But Malcolm knew he would just bounce off, these windows were made of toughened safety glass. He might break his nose though. He steeled himself for the blow.
    The sound of the gun was dampened by the silencer fitted on