When they arrived at the end of the last length of racking, Joe’s heart fell. A curl of discarded plastic wrapping on the floor was the only sign anyone had been there.
‘Up,’ said the man, with another prod in Joe’s back.
Joe looked round at him, and then at the stairs rising from the warehouse floor to the gallery above.
‘Up there?’
Another prod. He began to climb. The stairs felt like a cliff face: steep, unyielding, a herculean task for him to get to the top. He had to concentrate hard, taking them one at a time, his bad knee shaking with strain now. Eventually, there was only one more to take.
The instant Joe lifted his foot for that last step two things happened. The lights went out and two strong arms went under his armpits and lifted him bodily onto the gallery. Someone whirled him around and half carried, half dragged him along in the dark. Behind him he heard a thump and a howl and the sound of something (someone?) falling down the stairs. He fervently hoped it was the man with the gun.
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