The Midnight Ransom

A chef becomes entangled in a kidnapping plot when he accidentally comes across something that presents the ultimate moral dilemma.

7 min read.

I woke up at seven that Saturday morning and lay in bed lazily scrolling through Instagram. I soon grew bored of scrolling and shut my eyes, dipping in and out of a light sleep laced with vivid dreams. By nine I was feeling restless and hungry, and the sun was blasting through my thin curtains. I got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom where I came to life under a hot shower.

Breakfast on Saturdays is somewhat of a ritual. I don’t eat much during the week and I have my job to thank for that. I’m a Commis Chef in the hellish sweat pit that is the kitchen of a well-known British restaurant in Soho, and by the end of my shift i’m sick of the sight food. And after journeying home on the hot and dirty Central line, I posses little energy to cook. My diet consists of cigarettes and beige foods with little nutritional value. But on Saturdays, I eat.

Breakfast is as follows; Sujook (spicy Turkish sausage) sliced thin and spread evenly on a hot pan. After a minute I flip the slices which are now slightly charred and crack three eggs into the pan. The white of the eggs bubble over the fat from the sujook, and I season the dish with a crack of salt, a grinding of pepper and a sprinkling of cumin. My box small flat has now been filled with the aroma of cooked meat and eggs. I place a few slices of fresh, soft Turkish bread under the grill and prepare a pot of coffee. The scent of bread and coffee add more notes to the perfumed air. Minutes later and everything comes together on a plate. It’s not the most visually pleasing of dishes, but it doesn’t have to be; the flavours do all the talking.

I walked my breakfast over to the coffee table, slumped down on the sofa and turned on the TV. I was immediately greeted with the breaking news of the day. “The daughter of British businessman and billionaire Sir Clive Greenwood was kidnapped late last night,” the newsreader announced. “Claire Greenwood, the eldest child of Sir Clive and his wife Catherine, arrived at her home in Chelsea after a run, when three men jumped out of a white van and abducted her off the street. Our reporter John Ingleton is at the scene where the abduction took place. Viewers may find the following scenes distressing.”

I was hooked. My eyes locked on the screen as I shoved eggs and bread in my mouth.

“It was around 10pm late last night when Claire Greenwood was kidnapped off this quiet Chelsea street,” John Ingleton said, waving a hand at the street behind him. I recognised the area. It was close to where I lived, although the difference in living quarters could not be more vast. Claire’s was a pristine mansion block with well manicured gardens. Mine was a crumbling and decrepit studio on top of a newsagents.

“CCTV footage shows her approaching the entrance of her apartment block when three men jump out of a white van. A brief struggle ensues before the abductors throw her into rear of the van and accelerate off into the night,” John Ingleton continued.

They cut to the grainy black and white CCTV footage. My chewing mouth slowed to a stop as I watched two of the men grab her by the arms while the third went for the legs. Claire put up a fight, driving her heel straight into the stomach of the third. He keeled back from the pain, before lunging for her legs again. The three men wrestled her into the van before jumping in and driving off.

“Police are appealing for any eyewitnesses to come forward and we will keep you up to date with the latest in this story,” John Ingleton signed off.

“Please do John,” I said to myself. “Please do.”

Breakfast finished, I washed the dishes, wiped the kitchen surfaces clean, lit a scented candle and slumped back on to the sofa. I opened up Netflix and resumed watching Michael Mann’s ‘Heat’ which I had started the night before.

It wasn’t long before my eyes were teased by the sight of a newly acquired bag of weed (or Biscotti as it was sold to me) perched on the lower shelf of my coffee table. I diverted my eyes back to the TV and then threw a quick glance at the time displayed on the oven. It was too early to smoke. Or was it? I had nowhere to be, nothing to do and it was my only day off in the week. “Relax,” whispered the impulsive devil in a soothing tone.

I didn’t need much convincing. I grabbed the bag of weed, and a grind, a sprinkle and a licking later, a joint was rolled. I perched an ashtray on my lap, resumed my previous position and lit the joint. A couple of puffs later and the slow rise of euphoria took over me as De Niro and Val Kilmer entered the bank. I smiled. It was shaping up to be a good Saturday.

The silence woke me up. Through bleary eyes I could see the end credits playing out on the TV. A strand of dribble extended from my mouth to a pool on the cushion where my face lay. I gathered my mouth and sat up in a daze. The weed induced sleep had dissipated some of the high but I felt groggy as fuck. I walked over to the kitchen sink, splashed my face with cold water, and made myself an espresso.

“Right, get your shit together,” I ordered myself, looking around the flat. The place was a state. It was always a state come Saturday.

By half six my life was in better shape and the flat was clean. I’d taken out three bags of rubbish, changed my sheets, hoovered, scrubbed and bleached, and I stood back to admire the view. I felt pleased with myself, but the overwhelming smell of bleach was suffocating and I needed air. So I laced up my Nikes, put my headphones in and stepped out for a walk.

It was a cool and clear October night. The streets were relatively quiet and the drums from Paul Simon’s ‘Obvious Child’ were clear in my ears without the noise of rushing traffic. I crossed over to Chelsea Embankment where I strode parallel to the river. The surface of its dark and murky waters glinted in the moonlight teasing me with its secrets. My walk continued over Prince Albert bridge and into Battersea Park where I made my way to a cluster of benches by the entrance. The park was quiet, as it usually is on a Saturday night, and I sat down on my usual bench with a view of the bridge lit up in all its splendour. I took a few deep inhalations, trying to rid my nostrils from the smell of lingering bleach.

Minutes later my body had cooled down and my skin was beginning to feel the October chill. It was time to go back home. I stood up and in the periphery of my vision something had caught my eye. I looked down to see a black object poking out from underneath the bench. I slowly kneeled down for closer inspection. It was the corner of a black duffel bag. I looked around to see if its claimant was around, but I was alone. Completely alone.

A hidden duffle bag is always a suspicious sight. It stirs the imagination with the worst of scenarios. Usually that of a bomb. But I quickly dispelled with this notion. You’d have to be a pretty dumb terrorist to place a bomb in a near empty park at night.

I checked my surroundings once more. All was still quiet, and slowly, I unzipped the bag. By the time the zip had reached the half way point, my eyes were wide with shock, for the bag was stuffed to the brim with bundles of crisp fifty pound notes, all neatly wrapped in money bands. Adrenaline gushed through my veins, and then I was hit with the ultimate moral dilemma. What should I do?

A bag full of cash. What would you do? Report it? Hand it in to the nearest police station to get a pat on the back? A thank you mate, well done? Of course the Good Samaritan would do exactly that. Me? I’m an underpaid, overworked chef, living pay check to pay check in this grossly overpriced city. And anyway, who in their right mind would stroll into a police station and announce that they’d misplaced a large bag of cash. Questions of money laundering, or worse, would be thrown at them like darts to a board, and the bag of cash would remain in an evidence lock up collecting dust. No, not on my watch. I decided that the ancient law of finders keepers would apply.

I quickly zipped up the bag and hoisted it up by its handles. The bag was heavy. I exited the park in a brisk pace, my head doing circles to see if I was being followed.

Back at my flat, I sat on the floor with the black duffle open at my feet. I’d taken out a few stacks but had yet to count the rest. There were a lot of them. I first needed a cigarette to calm my nerves. I placed a freshly rolled cigarette between my lips and it was at that exact moment that a BBC Breaking News alert pinged on my phone. I glanced at the phone on the floor next to me too see the following message: According to sources close to the family, the kidnappers of Claire Greenwood have demanded a ransom of £1 Million for her safe return by midnight.

Fear hit me with a force that took my breath away. “No..." I whispered. I dragged the bag towards me and emptied its contents on to the floor, scrambling to count the wads of cash. Eighty thousand...a hundred a thousand...two hundred thousand...but I didn’t have the time to find out just how much was in the bag. I was frozen stiff by the sound of splintered wood as my front door was knocked off its hinges, followed by the chorus of voices shouting “Armed Police!”

***

The interrogation room went dead silent. The only sound came from the mechanical whirr of the voice recording machine on the table. I studied the looks of the two police officers sat across from me, but their faces gave nothing away.

“And so yeah,” I added nervously. “That’s why uhh...thats why I’m here.”

The hefty bald officer to the left turned to the officer to his right, a wiry and tired looking man with coffee stained teeth, and they looked at each other without saying a word.

“Am I...” I stuttered. “Am I still in trouble?”