'Now, grandads!' he screamed, phlegm flying from his mouth and shoving the stickless septegenarian backwards.

Carefully the old man reached an antique hand into his coat pocket and began rummaging for something. After a few moments he began to remove it.

The second gentleman, Mac, took the opportunity and lifted his cane into the air, whirling it left to right and connecting with the boy's temple with a crunch.

The youngster crumpled to the ground and grandad number one pressed a b.u.t.ton and the blade of a knife jumped out to slice through the sea-fretted air.

Percy lunged forward towards the p.r.o.ne kid lying face-down on the ground and slid the knife into his back under the ribs.

A hiss escaped from between the kid's lips and he fell forward to the floor, his hands grasping out for anything, his jaw opening and closing like a fish dragged from the sea. Almost as soon as he hit the floor Percy lowered himself carefully to the boy's side, staring into his eyes as he began to turn faintly blue. Percy shook his head and gently placed his leather-gloved hand over the boy's mouth and nose and watched as he slowly, silently suffocated.

'Lung?'

'Lung,' he nodded, taking the wallet from the tracksuit bottoms. For a moment he broke his gaze as he checked the contents of the wallet. He took out a picture of the boy with his girlfriend or wife and child. 'Is this how you support them?'

The kid's mouth was still bobbing as his face began to turn blue. Percy tossed the photo at him and hauled himself back to his feet before putting the wallet in his coat pocket.

The pair moved off a little faster than before.

'Where'd you learn that?'

'The Sarge.'

A smile cracked across Mac's face as the memory played back in his mind.

Sandwiches.

Dave is sitting on a bench in a shopping mall between two old people thinking about sandwiches. He has been there for over an hour and is undaunted by the presence of the old lady to his right (smelling overpowering of lavender) and the old man to his left (smelling faintly of wee). Beads of sweat have formed on his brow as he thinks as hard as he has ever though on any subject, about sandwiches.

What is the best sandwich I have ever eaten? How can he possibly gauge this? Surely, he wonders as he becomes more and more worried, it must be there, hidden in his mind. His eyes flicker up top-right; he is trying to remember, trying to catch the memory wherever it is hidden but he cannot find it.

He rubs his leg, trying to keep it from pins and needles and mentally probes further. It may not have been the best sandwich that was ever made. No. But the best sandwich he personally had ever tasted. He fidgeted because he knew it was something he should know.

He knows what his favourite film is. It is 'Every Which Way But Loose' because he loves Clint Eastwood and he loves monkeys. It combines both flawlessly and therefore it is his favourite film. Every other film he has ever watched could be compared to it and graded accordingly. In the unlikely event that a better film be made then the whole system would have to be mentally adjusted to accommodate. Simple.

But he just couldn't do the same thing for sandwiches.

There was a steak sandwich he remembered eating some three years previously. The waitress in the restaurant had asked him how he wanted the steak. He chose rare and the sandwich had some sort of dressing that complimented the meat perfectly. But indecision was rife. He is not certain that this is the best sandwich he has ever tasted.

One thing Dave is sure about us that he can rule out any sandwich he has made himself as his own sandwiches never seem to turn out as well as those that are prepared by others.

The old woman turns to look at him and stares in a way that demands he turn and address her. He resists. And decides to buy a notebook so that he might chronicle every sandwich he eats from that moment on.

He rises to his feet and walks on from the bench safe in the knowledge that his life once again has order.

Self a.s.sembly.

'Where's the painting? The canvas, Clint - where is it?'

Big Terry pushed the gun into Clint's temple, forcing him down to the ground, his face pressed against cardboard packaging. Clint inhaled sharply and cardboard fibres rushed into his lungs. For once he wished for sleep to escape this nightmare, even for a second. This time it didn't come. Apparently the drugs did work. b.u.g.g.e.r.

'I favor the Tate Modern myself,' said Big Terry, continuing an already established monologue. 'Last time I was in London I went in there and it was inspiring. Not that I understand all of it, mind you. And I don't think they put much thought into people like me coming along when they hang the paintings. Well why would they?'

'I'm sure they don't do it on purpose,' said Clint.

Big Terry stood over Clint, staring at him with little beads of sweat starting to form above his thick, black eyebrows.

'That was a rhetorical question,' he said. 'When I want an answer from you, it will be preceded by a sudden feeling of pain, do you understand?'

Big Terry carefully stood on Clint's hand, he yelped and twisted to try to extricate himself.

'Yesyesyes. Yes I understand. Jesus, this is nothing to do with me I keep telling you.'

Big Terry began walking away, looking for something.

'You can open the box now.'

Clint did as he was instructed and began to try to tear his way into whatever this flat-pack furniture Big Terry had forced him to drag out here. Of course he had been contemplating its contents ever since Big Terry turned up at his home.

It hadn't taken him long, one of his goons had kicked the door in. Clint heard Big Terry's voice then... he woke up in the boot of a car. By the time they stopped driving and opened the boot he had a very good idea what was in the box he had been lying on, however he wasn't about to admit that to himself let alone Big Terry. The cardboard quickly gave way, revealing some neatly packed pieces of wood, a plastic bag full of metal fixings and a sheet of instructions. Clint looked at them for a moment before climbing back to his feet.

'You want me to build you a desk out here?' he asked without thinking, instantly regretting it.

Big Terry stopped dead. His hand gripped the gun tighter and he turned back to face Clint, squinting in the evening sun and casting a surprisingly long shadow on the forest floor.

'Is that it?' he knew if he had made a mistake it was too late to do anything about it and instinctively went with it. 'You threaten me, you kidnap me, you drag me out here to the middle of f.u.c.king nowhere in a blindfold, make me drag this s.h.i.t all the way out here and then you want me to make you a f.u.c.king desk? Or perhaps I'm wrong, perhaps it's a nice shelving unit?'

Big Terry raised his arm and squeezed a single shot at Clint, the bullet burying itself in the tree behind him.

'I suggest you shut the f.u.c.k up and read the instructions. Now, I'm busy. I'm looking for something. I'll be around. Watching. Get building, dips.h.i.t.' He moved off into the woods out of Clint's line of sight.

Clint stared for a moment at the s.p.a.ce Big Terry had occupied. He should make a run for it. But what was the point? Where would he go? Big Terry had picked him up at his own house, he knew about Katie and to be brutally honest he didn't really have a clue as to how to get back to wherever the f.u.c.k the car was anyway. It seemed that for now furniture a.s.sembly was on the cards.

He removed the pieces of wood one by one and laid them out on the soil around him; six pieces of wood in three pairs. He knew what it was. Two of the pairs were similar, over six feet long but one pair thinner than the other. The final pair were two small squares. As he knelt down to arrange the pieces on the ground pine needles stuck sharply into his flesh.

Shelves, he thought. Perhaps Big Terry has befriended a fox in need of storage solutions.

Clint picked up the bag of fixings and tossed it from hand to hand. Carefully, he pierced the plastic with his fingers and poured out the contents onto one of the pieces of wood. He reached out a hand a spread them before finally picking up and unfolding the instructions. He looked at the list of items that should be included and stared for a second.

Two small square bits of wood. Check Two long slim bits of wood. Check.

Two long wider bits of wood. Check.

Twenty eight nails.

He began counting but only reached twenty four before he ran out. d.a.m.n it. He started again, this time he had only twenty three nails. Either way there weren't enough.

'Bi-' he began but thought better of it. Most likely Big Terry would do something unspeakable if he found out. He decided the best course of action was to do the same thing he did at home - bodge the job.

He looked back to the list and that was it. Wasn't it? He moved his index finger downwards, his lips moving as he read again.

Yes, that was it. He needed a hammer but he wasn't going to ask Big Terry for that. That was a sure fire way to get the claws lodged in the back of his head.

'You want a hammer, I'll give you a hammer,' Clint muttered under his breath, surveying the scene around him for a rock or something heavy enough to knock the nails in with. As he did so he turned over the paper in his hands to see the instructions for building the thing. His eyes widened as he stared at the page but before he could really take in what he was seeing the wind blew, catching the instructions and whipping them into the air.

's.h.i.t!' he screamed, the air rushing from his lungs. The same voice bounced back at him from the surrounding trees after he leapt towards the instructions. Spitting guttural obscenities he hunted down the instructions, finally grabbing them once more as the caught on a small branch which he kicked at until it splintered. His tantrum over, he turned and walked calmly back towards the waiting wood, reading as he went.

The instructions were the kind that are designed for anyone of any nationality to understand. Pictures carefully ill.u.s.trated each stage of construction, four of them in total. The first picture portrayed a smiling red man standing over one of the long, wide pieces of wood which obviously served as a base for the box. He waited, hammer in hand as his smiling green friend held the two long thin pieces of wood in place.

The second picture showed the two friends nailing the end pieces in place to form a long, thin box. The red man didn't look as happy in this picture for reasons that were all too apparent.

Picture three showed the red man lying in the box while the green man nailed him in and picture four showed a section view of the red man at the bottom of a grave, nailed into his coffin and apparently banging on the lid of the casket he had just helped to build. Mr. Green stood above ground where the sun shone with a spade in one hand and a hammer in the other. Clint thought the b.a.s.t.a.r.d looked smug.

With a gait like a drum roll, Big Terry came scuttling out of the woods behind Clint. He spun round on the log he was perched upon but wasn't quick enough. Big Terry brought the b.u.t.t of his pistol into sharp contact with Clint's temple. Clint crumpled to the ground and Big Terry stood over him, one foot either side of his head as he stared down at the blood trickling from the wound he had inflicted.

'I thought I told you not to try to escape?' he said. 'It's understandable I suppose, once you unpacked the surprise... I found what I was looking for by the way.'

'Oh good,' said Clint, trying unsuccessfully to reach up to his forehead to check his injury.

'Yes, I asked a friend of mine to come out here and dig me a big hole. Just big enough to fit that lovely box in and amazingly it is six feet deep.'

Clint raised an eyebrow, he could feel blood starting to trickle from his brow to his hairline.

'Yes, well that's why I asked him to do it isn't it?' Big Terry snapped. 'Anyway that's not the point! How did you like my instructions?'

Clint stared at Big Terry for a moment, his breathing shallow.

'Oh, this time you can speak - I really am interested to know. I designed them myself you know.'

'They blew away in the wind,' said Clint, determined not to let Big Terry know how much this really was beginning to get to him. He was pretty sure his voice only cracked once.

'I know - I saw but you read them, right?'

'Yes. I read them.'

'And?' said Big Terry, fidgeting with his gun.

'And I'm glad it's not shelving. I'm f.u.c.king hopeless at putting up shelving.'

Big Terry raised his right foot and placed it squarely on Clint's nose, exerting just the tiniest amount of pressure.

'Now Clint,' he began. 'I know you're a c.o.c.ky little b.a.s.t.a.r.d but we can play this one of two ways. Either you can tell me what I want to know...'

Clint could smell the fresh soil between the treads on Big Terry's shoes. He tried unsuccessfully to turn his head as Big Terry began to put pressure on his face.

'Or I can and will bury you alive out here and you can starve to death in your own personal h.e.l.l six feet under the ground. How does that sound?'

'Mmmmmmph,' replied Clint.

'I'll tell you what. Why don't you get going with the carpentry and you can decide in a few minutes.' Big Terry took his foot from Clint's face before kicking him in the ear.

'Ow!' Clint screamed, scrambling out of the way. 'That f.u.c.king hurt.'

'No s.h.i.t,' said Big Terry and began moving back towards the flat pack. 'Now come on, start hammering.'

A few minutes later and Clint was hammering only a few feet away from the gaping hole Big Terry had discovered.

'Terry,' said Clint.

'Big Terry.'

'Sorry, um, Big Terry. I shouldn't be here you know.'

'Oh shouldn't you? And why is that exactly?'

'I was only ever a messenger. I don't have the painting.'

'Don't play the innocent with me you little s.h.i.t you've ripped me off one too many times boy.'

'Wh-'

'Anyway, shut up. Are you nearly finished?'

Clint stood over the coffin he had constructed. The wood was rough and unvarnished.

'Listen,' said Clint. 'About that painting...'

He knew his only chance was to convince Big Terry that he really didn't know where the d.a.m.n thing was but even with the pleading tone he had inadvertently adopted Big Terry remained ice cold.

'Ah yes, now we get to it.'

'I really don't know where it is,' said Clint, deflated by the response.

Big Terry stared at Clint unblinking.

'Listen, Big Terry...'

Big Terry took the pistol from his coat and c.o.c.ked the hammer.

'This can't be happening, you've got to be kidding.'

He waved the pistol at Clint who shook his head.

'No, I am not getting into that f.u.c.king box.'