by Jake Cross
BETRAYED
Jake Cross
Copyright © Jake Cross
The right of Jake Cross to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2019 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN: 978-1-913419-11-0
Contents
Part I
Part II
Part III
Acknowledgements
A note from the publisher
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Part I
Nate drove as fast as he dared and cut as many turns as possible, just in case they were still after him.
‘Shut your damn screeching.’
But the woman in the back of the van screeched on, obviously in pain from her injuries. She got her loudest, predictably, as the van crossed Wandsworth Bridge, which seemed completely loaded with cyclists and pedestrians, even though it was past midnight. Up went his anxiety as they turned to watch the van pass by. Down it went again as his mirrors showed nobody running in pursuit or hauling a phone to dial triple nine.
‘See? Nobody’s going to help you. You’re all alone in the world, you bitch.’
Twenty minutes down, he took a turn into a side street that was coated with brick dust. It dead-ended at a set of iron gates that led into a partially built housing estate. There were heavy machines parked within, the darkness giving them the appearance of frozen yellow dinosaurs. He turned in the road and parked with his ass close to the gates, so he could see anyone who came down the street. The dashboard clock said it was 00.32. He felt as if he’d been up and running all night.
The silence after he cut the engine was both welcoming and eerie. He looked round at the woman in the back. She had been sliding around on the slick floor, but had now rooted herself by clamping her good hand around a bracket that held a small fire extinguisher against one wall. Her head was resting on a wheel arch as if it were a pillow. Even in the dark, he could see her eyes were groggy, but focused on him.
She spoke, her words mumbled, like those of someone drunk. He worked it out after trying the same sentence on his own tongue, quietly. Her query: what did he intend to do with her? ‘I’m taking you to get help,’ he lied. Her head slipped off the wheel arch and clanged on the floor. She must have been using energy to keep her skull propped, and now had none left to do so.
Just then, headlights. Nate stiffened, feet moving towards the clutch and accelerator, hands towards the gearstick and ignition key.
A police car.
He quickly buttoned up his jacket to cover the red bloodstain all over his white shirt. The car slipped towards him like a shark and pulled up alongside, passenger side to passenger side, and the window came down. Nate powered down his own passenger window. A lone cop, forties, hi-vis jacket. He was bent down so he could look up at the taller vehicle, and Nate had to sit up straight to look down. He made sure he kept low enough to hide the stained portion of his shirt above the neck of his suit jacket. He waited for the guy to recognise him as a wanted man, then for all hell to break loose.
It didn’t happen.
‘Don’t park here, pal,’ the cop said. Nate kept his mouth shut to hide his smashed teeth and gave a thumbs-up. He started the engine, moved slowly away. In his mirrors he saw the cop car turn in the road. Now would come a slow pursuit as the cop followed to work out where he was going, all the time keeping up a commentary with his base. Other cop cars would converge on Nate somewhere down the line, and once he was surrounded, they’d attack.
Nate indicated left at the end of the street, already thinking about finding a place where he could leap out of the van and run. He was holding his breath. As he turned, the cop car slid into view through his passenger window.
It was at the kerb, reversing into the nice spot at the gates that Nate had chosen. Then it stopped and the lights went off.
He breathed. Just some cop who’d shifted Nate so he could have the area to himself to while away a boring night shift. Nate drove on.
The woman was sitting up now, but couldn’t keep her head up. Like a tired baby’s, it kept lolling. She was muttering incomprehensible stuff that Nate figured might be her native language, which sounded Turkish. Or it was just noise. At least she wasn’t screeching any more.
Then she keeled over and was silent. Her head hit the floor hard, right where the laceration was, and started bleeding again. For five minutes, he kept glancing round at her as he drove, just to make sure it wasn’t some trick. Busted arm or not, she could be across the van in a second and lay her hands around his neck. Didn’t happen. She didn’t move, and her eyes were closed. He felt bad seeing her face in a pool of her own blood, but didn’t want to touch her.
And then he had to. Fifteen minutes later, he found a desolate side street and parked, and took his stolen knife from his inner jacket pocket. He stepped between the seats and into the back. He had to stoop because of the roof.
‘Do you need help?’ he said. She didn’t respond. He stepped forward and nudged her head with his foot. Nothing. Then he bent and picked her head up by the hair. There was a ripping sound as her face came away from the drying blood on the metal floor. The wound started leaking again. It looked more ragged than earlier, maybe because of what he’d just done, or because she’d been rag-dolled in the crash.
‘I’ll get you help,’ he said.
Eight minutes later he was parked outside a late-night chemist’s, wondering if this was a good idea. It meant leaving her alone in the van. And it meant risking someone seeing the blood on his shirt. But he had no choice.
He rushed into the shop and collected supplies. The young clerk didn’t look up from what she was doing, even when he dumped his goods on the counter. While she worked the till, a mobile phone laid beside it, he went to the door and looked out. The back doors of the van weren’t wide open, so at least his prisoner hadn’t escaped.
He was outside a minute later, and just in time. As he stepped onto the pavement, one of the van’s back doors slammed open. The girl was right there, kneeling on the edge, looking as if she’d woken after a deep sleep. He rushed over and jammed a palm into her chest, toppling her backwards. He slammed the door and prayed nobody had seen–
‘Hey.’
A shout from up the street – she’d been exposed for only a second, dead of night, but of course some asshole had spotted her. Nate spun and, sure enough, three black guys loitering on a corner about forty metres away were staring at him. One was on a pushbike, the other two leaning against a car. The two on foot started running this way while the cyclist tried to find his pedals.
Nate jumped in the driver’s seat, started the engine, and tore out of there. The guy on the bike, after a slow start, had overtaken his pals and was just feet behind the van, then alongside before Nate could get the vehicle up to speed. But the guy seemed to have no clue what to do next and soon fell back. Nate watched all three receding in the wing mirror, still chasing, and didn’t let out a breath until he’d turned the next corner. Even then he could still hear them shouting for him to stop. Because that always worked.
Then he heard movement in the back and turned his head to see the girl clambering to her feet against one side of the van. Abou
t to come at him. He twisted the wheel hard and she stumbled across the floor, falling, slamming her head hard into the other wall. She lay still after that.
He drove for fifteen minutes, then parked down yet another dark side street. This time he slipped on a knuckleduster before climbing into the back. The girl was awake, woozy, lying on her side and dipping a finger into her blood on the floor, and sucking it slowly free before repeating the process.
She said something as he approached, but the words were again incomprehensible.
He showed her what he had bought. Painkillers, plasters, superglue, and bottled water. There were more goodies in his pocket, but she wasn’t allowed to see those. ‘You don’t deserve this stuff.’
She looked at him, then back at her finger. Dipped it in the blood. Slowly pulled it out. A little game to amuse a brain whacked back a few developmental stages.
He said, ‘If you try anything while I’m doing this, I’ll let you bleed.’
She rolled onto her back as if to show her willingness to be compliant. He approached cautiously, holding up the fist wearing the knuckleduster, just so she’d know he was serious.
She stared at his face as he closed the wound on her temple with his fingers and superglued it shut, then covered it with two plasters. He tried not to meet her eyes, but couldn’t help it when he sat her up and fed pills into her mouth and held a bottle of water for her to drink from. If she says thanks, he thought, God knows what I’ll do. He had considered her a beast in human form and any kind of humanity from her would fire his guilt chip. She said nothing, thankfully.
When he was done, she lay back down, gave a slight smile, and said something. It was blurred again, but he was sure it was something like: Making me healthier so I can kill you, eh?
He drove aimlessly. He had no plan and his head was too hazy to even begin to think about one. He needed to sleep, but that was a risky idea. But he couldn’t drive all night.
He tried, but soon had to give up. He found a quiet spot near a small river in an empty spot of land behind a go-kart track. He hadn’t paid attention to where he was going and had no idea which part of London this was. But it was away from civilisation and would do for the night.
The moment he turned off the engine, the remnants of his energy fled like rats from a sinking ship. That was him: a sinking ship.
His neck seemed to lose all input from the brain, and his head fell forward as if his spine had suddenly evaporated. It was an effort to raise his head again, and when he did it flopped backwards. He stared at the roof of the van. For some reason he thought about Artex ceilings and ashestos.
He went out, but not for long. When the world swam into focus, he jerked around, one arm raised defensively, as if he were just in time to deflect a killing blow. But the girl was not standing over him with a knife and a sneer. She was lying in the back, shrouded in darkness.
Punching.
On her left side, with her right arm, the bad one, thrusting in and out like a boxer’s jab, the fist clenched. Fast, hard.
He realised she was asleep.
He watched for a few seconds. Repetitive, like a cycle: in and out, in and out. Then, like a toy whose battery was fading, her arm slowed and stopped, and she curled into a ball with both arms against her chest. And was still. A strange dream acted out, Nate figured.
So, he closed his eyes again. And sleep came. He felt it pulling him down, pulling him into himself, condensing him as if he had a vacuum for a stomach. The feeling of slipping away felt good. God, if only he could do this every night.
Before he went out completely, he hoped that the morning might bring a clear head, and some answers. But mostly he hoped he’d wake back at home, and could tell his brother all about his horrible dream of fire and mutilation and death.
When his eyes opened, the van was still dark. If he’d slept, it had been jagged, sporadic. The girl had moved and was now on her front, lying on that busted arm. Not faking it, then. No way she’d choose a pose that surely hurt her.
He avoided looking at the dashboard clock. It would only piss him off if he realised only a short amount of time had passed. The same if he saw that it was nearing dawn, because his head hadn’t cleared yet and he needed to be fit and well come morning, even though he had no idea yet what the next day was going to bring. Ignorance, then, was preferable. So he closed his eyes again.
He thought about training sessions. Lifting weights and how it felt afterwards, moving limbs no longer laden. Like everything was light, free, like you were weightless. He felt like that now, as if he could float right out of this seat. He felt wide awake. The van was still dark, though. Still early, or late, however you viewed it.
He got up. Floated up. Got up so quick he hit his head on the roof of the van. Walking felt like this after a long run with a rucksack full of sand on his back, a favourite training method back in the day. Like you were empty inside. That was how he felt.
He knelt on the seat and watched the girl. She was sleeping like a log. The dark was sluicing away, everything now grey, and he could see quite well. Alarmingly, her bomber jacket lay under her head as a pillow. She had woken up in the night and stripped it off. He was lucky she hadn’t strangled him with it.
Underneath she wore a tight pullover of thin black material that hugged her breasts. It also showed him the strange squareness to her dislocated right shoulder. The bad arm was hugged close to her chest as she lay on her side.
He sat again and checked himself in the rear-view mirror and saw his eyes. Great black pupils, making him look like a demon. He grinned, showing his jagged teeth, which completed the gruesome image. No more sexy smile from the girl at his local newsagent.
More dirt on his face, somehow. As he spat on his fingers and started cleaning his cheeks in the mirror, he found himself smiling. He felt better. The shakes had gone. The fear had gone. Unusual, given the amount of paranoia he’d been experiencing. The drugs in his system must have worn off.
‘I dreamed I stabbed you to death,’ she said.
He jerked round so fast his neck hurt. She still lay on her side, and was staring at him. There was drool on her mouth and on the floor below where it had dripped. Her eyes were open, but heavy. He watched them slide closed, jerk open, then slide shut again. Her breathing became ragged.
Nate lay back and closed his eyes. Now, instead of feeling sleep overwhelm him, he felt as if he were plugged into a charger. Felt energy sparking into existence inside him. No way he could normally sleep, wired like this. But nothing about this night had been normal.
He dreams of being burned alive, and wakes into a nightmare far worse.
The burning part is real, though. It starts in his fingers, moves to his left shoulder, then consumes his face. Terrible fiery pain, surely the reason for the dream.
But over it he hears the purr of an engine, and then becomes aware of the soft vibration of the floor beneath him. His blurry eyes make out walls close by. A vehicle. A van. He is in the back of a van.
And then, somehow, he knows it is an ambulance. Something bad has happened, hence the overwhelming pain, but people with the right training to help have rescued him, so everything is going to be okay.
But that isn’t a nightmare, is it?
The walls of the ambulance solidified into blank metal, no windows, no beeping electronic life-saving machinery. So not an ambulance at all. Just some van. He tried to move his arms and realised they were jammed under his back, so he rolled to free them. But then he was on his side, and his arms still didn’t move. A stab of pain from his wrists informed him that his hands were tied. Tied behind his back. He looked down. Bare arms pressed hard against the sides of his bare torso. Bare everything. He was naked.
He struggled to his knees to look around better. The darkness beyond the front windscreen turned the nightmare into a reality. Thick black vertical lines in the black air: trees.
Back of a van in the woods, tied and naked – so, the nightmare.
Now, voices. Muffl
ed, behind him. He turned his head, but behind him was only the blank wall created by the closed back doors. No windows. Voices beyond, from behind the van. He paused and listened. The throbbing pain was vibrating his heart, and the van’s engine was idling, but even over these noises he heard one of the voices laugh. That laugh was what slotted the final piece of the jigsaw into place.
Ten seconds ago he had assumed he needed only to lie and wait, and friendly professionals would fix him. Now he knew he had to get moving or unfriendly people would end him.
No way out of the van except by the back doors or the front, and the back exit would lead him right into the hands of the men laughing out there. No-brainer right there.
He slipped between the front seats, eyes searching the land beyond the windscreen. Nothing but darkness and trees. Creepy woods, God knew where, a thousand miles from home for all he knew, ten years after a coma. The driver’s wing mirror showed him movement. He knelt on the seat and stared.
Black on black, so barely discernible. But he was sure he was watching two men a few metres behind the van. He heard thudding noises as they rose and fell like men bowing. Digging, he thought. It looked like they were digging.
Digging a grave.
He couldn’t tackle two men with his hands tied behind his back, and he couldn’t open any of the doors with his hands behind his back anyway. Yet, he didn’t panic. Nothing to do with the lizard brain, not a fight-or-flight reflex. Just a knowledge that his options were singular. Like being trapped in a maze and facing a single path ahead that must be taken, regardless of the outcome. So, with nothing left to puzzle about, no more options to choose between, his brain got to the business of getting down that path in order to save his life.
