The Ransom #AmWriting

Task: Write a scene which starts with a ransom note

Response:
YOU HAVE UNTIL 3PM ON WEDNESDAY TO DELIVER. 

I read and re-read the note. It made no sense. I didn't have £1million. I barely had a tenner to spare. There was no money in my family, I didn't own property, and my savings had taken a real hit recently, but even before, wouldn't have stretched that far. I wondered who the note was really for - what kind of person could get that much ash together in 48 hours. 
      And then there was the question of the dog. Now, I would never want to see any harm done to an animal, but I sure as hell don't want one living in my house. I don't own a dog. Certainly not one worth a million! I'd have pass the whole thing off as someone's idea of a sick joke, but there had been a dog collar nailed, with the letter, to my door when I got home after work last night. And it had a name tag on it. 
And a phone number.

      I'd lain awake most of the night, wondering what to do. Who to call. Should I call the police? The note said specifically not to call the police or the dog would end up in a mincer.  I decided that I should call the number on the tag, find out who owned the dog and just hand the whole mess over to them, let them decide. But then I'd been unable to sleep. 
      Someone, with a violent streak and a hammer, had been to my house. Someone was threatening to hurt a poor defenceless dog. Someone might, in believing that I am the owner, think that I am messing them about and decide to up the stakes. Jesus. I'd been up and out of bed half a dozen times in the night. Checking the locks, checking the windows, checking there was no one across the street watching me. My ears pricking every time one of the neighbourhood dogs yipped or yapped. What the actual fuck. 
      And then it was morning. I mean, it was 5am. Is that too early? I couldn't wait any longer. The phone rang out endlessly, and I wondered if the missing dog would normally have barked at the sound.
'hello?' Sleep filled the voice on the other end of the phone.
'Um, Hi, sorry to call you so early - is this the owner of Bailey?'
'Yes, have you found him?' sounding a little more alert now
'ah, um, no, sorry, um. The thing is, I have a note, and I think it was for you? It was nailed to my door with a dog collar with your number on it'
'what? what are you talking about? where's Bailey?' Alarm. Confusion.
'Yeah, um, so, I don't have your dog -
'what, so why do you have his collar?'
'- um, yeah, I was just saying. I got home last night and found this note nailed to my door. It's a ransom note. Um. someone has your dog, I think. um. and they want a lot of money for him'
'jesus christ! What have you done with my dog? where is he? Don't you dare hurt him! I will give you anything you want, just, please don't hurt him'
'I, no, um, no, I don't have your dog. Wait! Listen to me. I just have a note. I think they got the address wrong - I don't know who has your dog, I just got left a note'
Sobbing now 'Please! please don't hurt him, Please....'

I had to hold the phone away from my ear for a while. Whoever owned this dog clearly loved him. 
A lot. 
And would be willing to pay.
A lot.

An idea was forming. It's not an idea I am proud of, but.... It was there, just lingering at the edge of my consciousness, waiting for an opening. There.

'We want £1.5million' - I heard the words coming out of my mouth. They were met by a choked sob.
'right. um. right, I can do that. Just please don't hurt Bails'
My tongue felt dry. It was too late though. I pressed on.
'Yeah. I need it by tomorrow lunch time. In used notes. In three bags of £500,000. And if you even think about going to the police we'll cut your dog into tiny pieces, then come round your house and make you eat him.' Where had that come from? I actually made my self heave a little as I said it. What was wrong with me?
      The woman at the end of the phone was actually keening now. I didn't think that was a real thing? But there's no other way to describe the noise she was making. I felt sick again. What was I doing. How had I so quickly made myself a part of this woman's suffering?
'OK! Calm down! Just. Just get the money OK? Yeah, just. Um, Yeah. Meet me tomorrow. Bring the money. If there's been no police after 24 hours, we'll get your dog back to you, no harm done. right? Meet me at the Endymion Road entrance to Finsbury Park, 12.30 sharp. I'll have a red wheely suitcase with me.'
'Yeah, yes' sniff' 'ok, I'll be there'

I hung up. Stood. Went to the bathroom and vomited until there was nothing left inside me, and then retched for a few minutes more, just for good measure. I was shaking. What. Had. I. Done.
      I spent the rest of the day jumping at every creak, every passing car, every time my phone buzzed, every time someone knocked on the neighbour's door. I changed my voicemail. Deleted the friendly 'Hi, this is Judy, leave a message' - desperate that this poor woman should never find out the name of her tormentor. I told myself it was a simple thing. She was already being blackmailed - I was just adding my commission for delivering the message.
      At 4.00pm I left the house, still expecting the police to tackle me to the ground at any minute. As I opened up the bar, going through the motions of checking the float, checking stock, wiping down tables, putting out beer mats, logging the systems in, I was able to forget for a short while, lost in the monotony of the routine. As the staff and regulars started to come in, and the evening's business started, I could almost believe that the morning had been some kind of weird dream. By the time I had closed up, cycled home, washed off the smell of the evening's work, and fallen in to bed it was 2.30am. I slept. My dreams were disturbing and graphic and I woke with a start at first light, knowing that something was wrong. It took me a full 10 minutes to wake up enough to remember, and a further 20 minutes to talk myself down from the panic attack. The morning dragged. I felt each second as it passed. 
      I busied myself by cleaning out the airing cupboard. I purged the space of tatty old towels, bagged up old sheets and stained tea towels for the charity shops, dusted the shelves right into the corners, evicting a couple of thin-legged spiders as I went. At half past eleven I dug out the old red suitcase from the cupboard under the stairs. How much space was this money going to take up? I hadn't really thought it through. I Googled it. OK, just under 40kg. Crap. I'd need to take the car; there's no way I could carry that amount of cash all the way home. I'd park up by sainsbury's and walk across the park.
      Leaving the house, I made sure I had the change for the car park - feeling a sense of irony mingling with a kind of numbness at what I was about to do. Thankfully, it was a cold day out, so my scarf didn't look out of place pulled up over my nose, as I crossed the small park. Joggers plodded past me, cyclists and dog-walkers vied for dominance on the pedestrianised road, the outdoor gyms were hanging with young men determined to leave their gangly teenage years behind them. I climbed the hill, found a spot near a tree, wrapped my oversized coat around me, pulled my scarf up and my hat down. And waited.
      A smart looking woman in navy blue court shoes and an expensive looking suit and three heavy looking bags struggled up the path towards me. She was wearing shades. She saw me, went to wave and then stopped herself, pulling herself more upright instead. Without a word she dropped the three bags at my feet.
'It's all there. I'd like the bags back, when you bring me Bailey' 
'Fine. If it's all there, and if there's no bother from the Police, you'll hear from me tomorrow with the arrangements to pick him up. With your bags.'  I unzipped the suitcase and stashed two of the bags inside, slinging the third over my shoulder, and walked away. 
'He's all I've got.' 
      The desperation in her voice broke my heart and I nearly went back and told her everything. I turned and there were tears streaming down her cheeks from under the expensive shades. I simply nodded, and carried on walking, focussing on breathing, on getting away from this horrific scene as quickly as I could. 
      As soon as I was home, I unpacked the bags, checking each bundle of notes, making sure they were real, paranoid that there might be a tracking device somewhere in the piles. I put the bags through the washing machine on a 90 wash, hoping that the water, heat and detergent would destroy any tracking equipment hidden in the seams. Hoping that it wasn't already too late. Hoping that the expensive looking materials would survive the wash. I didn't have long - hardly enough time to really take in the fact that there was £1.5 sitting in cold, hard cash on my living room carpet. I felt a moment of pure glee. The adrenalin was throbbing through my veins now. I just needed to get the dog back, and I was good to go.
      It was 2pm. I started packing the bundles of notes in to one of the zip-up Ikea bags that seemed to have been breeding in my broom cupboard. Actively not thinking about what I was doing, I grabbed my coat again, tied my hair up out of my face, determined that I should be easily identifiable this time, and set off for the Parkland walk.

There were two men waiting with a small white dog on a red lead, near the disused train platform, exactly as arranged. I called the dog's name, just to check I was dealing with the right people. Sure enough 'Bails' yipped excitedly at the call of his name, running tiny circles and jumping up, wiping mud on the pale blue jeans of his captor. I waved nervously and kept walking towards them, eyes firmly on the ground. 
      I dropped the bag at their feet. 'It's all there'. A sense of deja vu. 
'It had better be. We know where you live'
I felt my bladder loosen slightly. nodded. eyes, still fixed on the ground. One of the men pushed the dog's lead into my hand, and by the time I had stooped to check on the small ball of fur, they were just two figures disappearing into the woodland. My legs buckled and I sat on the damp mossy floor, the dog jumping up to lick my face, small claws sharp on my neck. 
      Glad of my long coat, I brushed myself down, knowing I looked a bit of a state with mud and my own pee staining my clothes. I scooped up the dog, holding him tight to my chest, and headed home. I stripped off as soon as I was in the door, throwing my clothes in the wash, then realising that I could just buy some new ones. Ha! No, it wasn't over yet.  We spent a long evening, Bailey and I, fidgeting in front of Netflix, unable to concentrate on any programme for more than 20 minutes. Well, I fidgeted. Bailey slept soundly, apparently not at all fussed about the adventure he was on. I fed him some chicken, made sure he toileted in the garden and then shut him in the bathroom for the night as I turned in. He whined and scratched at the door for a couple of hours, but either I was too exhausted to be kept awake any longer, or he gave up.
      And now, it's Thursday morning. I have showered and packed up my precious belongings in my red suitcase and a couple of boxes, I've bagged everything else up for charity collection this afternoon, contacted my landlord and explained that a family emergency means I have to leave, but that I'll pay cash for the month's notice. I took Bailey down to the Park Cafe and tied him up outside, with the bags hooked over his lead. I let his owner know where to collect him, and waited half an hour to see her tearful reunion with him, and now my taxi is pulling up outside. As the driver loads my boxes and suitcase into the boot, I make the call.
'Mum? It's me. Listen, I um, I had a bit of a lottery win. I'm coming home now, and, mum. We can afford the treatment. You're going to be OK.'