by KJ Charles
“I hope we are.”
“Then please, as my friend, believe me and go and don’t come back. Not till it’s sorted out, and I don’t know when that will be. Will you do that for me?”
Phoebe searched his face. Her shoulders dropped. “If you say so, but I’m extremely sorry. You will ask someone for help if you need it, won’t you?”
“I’ll be fine. A lot better for not worrying about anyone else.”
She sighed. “All right, then, if you insist. But really, I think— Ought that motor be coming down here?”
There was indeed a motor-car nudging its way into the narrow cobbled street. They almost never got cars down here, and the roar of the engine seemed oddly loud and echoey. Will turned and saw another, coming from the other end of the street.
“They won’t have much luck passing here,” Phoebe observed. “The street’s far too narrow. How absurd! They must see they’ll block each other in.”
“They’re not blocking each other,” Will said, to himself as much as her, as the two cars stopped and the doors opened. “Oh shit. Get in a shop, right now! In there, use the phone, call the police! Go!”
He shoved her hard, sending her stumbling away towards Norris’s shop, and lunged at the first of the two suited men who’d come from the front car, wishing he had his knife. He got in a couple of solid punches and a knee to the groin, and managed to land a couple of sharp jabs on the second man as well before someone hit him from behind, a stunning knock to the head. He went down, stumbling onto all fours, shoved himself up again, and felt a cloth clamped over his nose and mouth. Like a fool, he took in a sharp breath to swear or fight, just as a second blow descended on the back of his skull.
He didn’t remember anything after that.
WILL’S SECOND WAKING that day was a lot less pleasant than the first one.
He was lying on the floor, he realised. It was a hard floor, rough and splintery against his cheek. His shoulders hurt from the twisted way he lay. His head throbbed excruciatingly and he had a foul taste in his mouth and sore, almost scalded lips. He was very thirsty.
None of that was good. None of it was as bad as the fact that he was lying in an awkward position because his wrists were tied together.
He couldn’t find the strength to test the bonds at the moment but they were there, rough and uncomfortably tight. He did not like this development at all. He tried to move his legs apart, hating the sluggish lassitude in his brain that seemed to create a yawning gap between intent and movement, and felt the restraint. His ankles were tied too.
This was bad. The only thing that could make this worse was if they had got Phoebe. Had she got to safety? Would they have come after her? Please God, not that. He could cope on his own, one way or another. He could not let her take his punishment.
He made himself hold his breath and listen. There was no sound of anyone else breathing, which meant very little except that she wasn’t in here with him. Nor, it seemed, was a guard. He needed to sit up and assess the situation, and he would definitely do that as soon as his head had stopped spinning quite so much and he was sure he wouldn’t be sick. Five minutes to gather himself, he decided, and then he’d act.
THE THIRD TIME HE WOKE up, it seemed to be morning.
Will blinked blearily. He had a raging thirst and an equally powerful need to pee, and he hurt all over. He’d slept on less comfortable floors than this one, but not many, and never tied into one position.
He raised his head cautiously. That hurt too.
Movement started the pins and needles kicking in, a childish name for the excruciating pain of returning blood flow to his legs and shoulders. He bit back the urge to swear aloud and made himself stretch out as best he could. After a few minutes, the agony subsided a little. Some determined wriggling like a worm, with several breaks to let his headache go down to a bearable level, brought him to a sitting position leaning against the wall. Now he could take stock.
He was in a very bare room. No furniture, no pictures, distempered walls, bare floor. It was dark because the windows were secured with shutters, and the shutters were secured with padlocks, gleaming new in this dark dingy space. They gleamed from the light outside, rather than any light source in here; he couldn’t see electric switches or wiring or even a gas mantle. It was as empty as a room could be, and it seemed to be specifically empty of convenient jagged bits of metal, broken bottles, or any such useful accoutrements for the kidnap victim hoping to free himself. There was a heavy iron hasp set low on the wall next to him, secured with big bolts.
He considered his feet. His shoes had gone, and his ankles were tied with thick, tough twine; the knot had been done at the backs of his legs, which would make it that much harder to unpick if he could even get a hand to it. He wondered if he could work his bound wrists under his body and in front of him, but they had been secured quite high up the arms, which was why his shoulders hurt. He didn’t have anything like the circus skills he’d need for a manoeuvre like that.
None of this was good. Will gave a moment’s consideration to shouting for help and dismissed it. Whoever had arranged the kidnap, this room, and the bonds wouldn’t have overlooked the possibility of sound carrying. Plus, his throat was horribly parched.
The moment he thought that, he wished he hadn’t. The need for a drink overwhelmed him, clawing at his dry mouth, drowning out everything else, including the pain in his shoulders and head. He shut his eyes and tried to force it down. At least you aren’t lying in the mud with a hole in your leg this time, he told himself.
That wasn’t much help, since he had other problems. There was something brutally unfair about being desperate for a drink and a pee at the same time. If someone didn’t come in soon he had a dreadful feeling he was going to piss himself.
Maybe that was the idea. He’d assumed defiance of Zodiac—it had to be Zodiac—would bring some immediate, and nasty, consequences. But they didn’t have to do anything at all, did they? Just leave a man tied up for a day, or two days, or three, until he was soiled and humiliated and his thirst was blotting out all else, and then come in with a jug of water and offer it in exchange for what you wanted. Why would you go to the effort of thumbscrews when you could let your victim’s body do the work for you?
Will shut his eyes and did a bit of deep breathing. Then he leaned back and began to bang his heels on the floor, a dull drumming sound on the bare boards that thumped in his throbbing head. He toyed with the idea of spelling out SOS, but that was foolish: he hadn’t been left anywhere with help in easy reach. Instead, mostly to distract himself, he embarked on a lengthy message in Morse. With luck, his captors would be able to decipher it.
He’d got to the penultimate letter of UP YOUR ARSE when the door opened.
Libra had two men with him. Will recognised the gingery one as a lurker in his shop; the other was almost completely bald. They weren’t wearing masks. He’d have preferred it if they were: that would suggest they feared him being able to identify them later.
“Awake, I see,” Libra said. “Awake and noisy. You really are troublesome.”
Will would have liked to say, Feel free to let me go, then, but his effort at speech was just a croak. He forced a dry cough that did no good. “Water.”
“Thirsty?” Libra said. “Where’s the information?”
“Water.”
“You seem to think you’re in a position to make demands. You aren’t.”
Will didn’t know what to say to that; he only knew that it would not be ‘please’. Libra considered him for an endless moment, then jerked a thumb. The ginger henchman went out.
“While you can’t speak, Mr. Darling, maybe you’ll listen. Your situation is this: The house is ours, and everyone in it is loyal. It stands two miles from the nearest building, five from a village. There is no path for walkers, and we have no casual passers-by. Nobody will hear you if you scream. Nobody knows where you are. We took you out of London by our own methods and you needn’t hope they will be
discovered. You aren’t the first man we’ve brought here. None of them escaped, and nor will you.”
The ginger man returned. He had a jug and a cup, and Will’s entire body twitched convulsively at the sight.
“Not yet,” Libra said. “We’re going to reorganise the arrangements in here. When that’s done, you can have a drink. If you struggle or fight, we will pour the jug out on the ground. Do you understand?” He waited for Will’s nod. “We’re going to manacle your ankle. That way you can eat, drink, and relieve yourself. Or you can stay trussed up without any of those privileges and see how long you last. We’d rather handle this like reasonable men, but it’s up to you. Which will it be?”
There wasn’t a choice. He couldn’t fight: his head bloody hurt, and he doubted he’d be able to move his arms at all for the first few minutes once they were untied. A struggle wouldn’t gain him anything.
You’d hold onto your defiance, a voice in his head warned him. Now you’re cooperating.
He was, but he was also bloody thirsty, so he didn’t fight as they cut his legs free. One of the men brought in a heavy iron chain, with some effort. It had a cuff on one end which they locked around his ankle; they attached the other end to the hasp in the wall with a padlock, and only then cut his hands loose. His arms hurt like hell as he moved them, and he couldn’t help a wince.
“You did the right thing,” Libra said, almost sympathetically. “Over a longer period, the damage might become permanent. Give him a drink. But, Mr. Darling? This is the only cup you’ll have. If you break it, you’ll be drinking out of your hands.”
It was a pottery mug. Will didn’t break it. He drank great airless gulps, letting the water sluice down his throat like life, and refilled it three times before Libra said, “Enough for now. You’ll make yourself sick.”
That was irritatingly true. Will swallowed a couple of times to make sure the water had gone down. “I need a lavatory.”
Libra waved a hand at the ginger man, who went out again. Will wondered if his lackeys liked being ordered about that way. “You’ll have a chamber pot. If you decide to break it or tip it over, it won’t be replaced, and nobody will clean up your mess. If you throw your food around, there will be no more food. I hope you’re grasping the principle? Behave like a sensible man, and your life will be a great deal more pleasant. Unreasonable behaviour will be its own punishment.”
Will tried to keep his breath and voice even. “How long do you intend to hold me here?”
“Until the information is in my hands.”
“I told you. I burned it.”
“Yes,” Libra said. “It’s lucky for you that I don’t believe you. If I did, I would not be able to protect you from the vengeance of my superiors. Take some time to think, Mr. Darling. You’ll have plenty of that, and the sooner you realise your position, the better for all of us.”
They went out, leaving the door standing ajar. And there Will was, left alone with a chamber pot, a jug of water, a cup, and a chain on his ankle.
He made use of the pot, had another cup of water—he was still achingly thirsty but knew he should ration himself to let his tissues absorb it—and then bent to the steel cuff on his ankle. A very little bit of tugging persuaded him there was no give in the lock, whose key had gone into Libra’s pocket, or the heavy padlock that fastened the chain. The chain’s links were heavy, and welded shut. The hasp was firmly set in the wall, and the heavy bolts that secured it had no give to his fingers. He tried setting his legs to the wall and heaving with all the strength of his arms and back, but no matter how hard he pulled, there was no movement. He was pretty sure the bolts were screwed into a beam, in which case he’d need a drayhorse to pull them out.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This could be worse, and he was sure would become so in time. He knew what Libra was up to: he’d had training on this before he started trench raiding, in case of capture. They would treat you kindly and offer you advantages if you behaved as they asked. You didn’t have to betray your own side or aid the enemy: you just had to make that first little compromise of abstaining from disobedience or defiance, and it would be rewarded. Because once you’d compromised with the enemy, it would become easier and easier to cooperate with him, and from there it was a very short step to collaboration.
He’d compromised already. He didn’t want to be parched and pinioned in his own filth; it wouldn’t help him if he was. But it was the first step down the path to surrender, all the same.
That said, he had a pretty good defence against giving away the information for one simple reason. He didn’t know where it was. The only person who knew that was Maisie.
He’d spent a chaotic twenty minutes or so the other morning hiding copies of Shakespeare in bookshops up and down the Charing Cross Road, and shed his War Office and Zodiac followers in the process as they peeled off to check what he was about. Then he’d whipped round a corner and thrust an envelope into the postbox, unseen. It had held the pages, with instructions that she was to hide them in something—drop them into a vase, sew them into a cushion, whatever she thought best—pawn whatever it was, and give him the ticket with extreme secrecy.
Will had a fair collection of items in pawn, his father’s watch and his own medals among them, to be redeemed once his inheritance was in his hands. He hadn’t decided whether to take the leaf-in-a-forest approach and add the new ticket to his pile, or to hide it in a book. Either way, it had seemed the best way to keep the information concealed. He still thought it was a good idea, except for the significant flaw, which was that Maisie hadn’t given him the ticket.
He didn’t know if she’d even done the job yet. Going to a pawnshop could be a humiliating business for anyone, and doubtless far more so for a black woman than a white man. She’d presumably visited the bookshop with her silk flowers to talk about his letter, if not to give him the ticket. But there had been too many people there for a private conversation, and Phoebe had turned up, and then Maisie had had to go to her auntie in Watford since the woman was, if not at death’s door, at least leaning on the garden gate. Neither she nor Will was on the telephone, so they hadn’t communicated since. Will hoped to hell she hadn’t posted the ticket to him, given his post had been stolen on Monday morning.
What it came down to was, Will didn’t know where the ticket was. Only Maisie could point to the information’s hiding place. So if Will surrendered, he’d have to give her up to Zodiac.
That focused his mind wonderfully. The death of thousands under some dreadful manmade disease was a theoretical horror; something bad happening to Maisie Jones because of him was real, vivid, and utterly unthinkable. He couldn’t betray her to these bastards. He wouldn’t, no matter what it cost.
Unfortunately, that left him neck deep in shit with not one single bargaining chip. So he’d better find a way to get out, because he had to assume there was no cavalry coming. He was sure Phoebe would have called the police, and Kim, and it was conceivable that at least one of those might be searching for him, but if there was any likelihood of him being found, Libra would surely have gone for the thumbscrews rather than playing a waiting game.
Will thought about that. He thought about it a lot as absolutely nothing happened for hour after hour. At one point the bald henchman came in to refill the water jug and give him some cheese sandwiches. Will tried to speak to him and was ignored. Other than that, there was nothing. He couldn’t hear anything outside except the odd chirrup of birdsong, which gave weight to the contention that he was somewhere in the countryside; he couldn’t hear anything from inside the house. For all he knew, the bastards had gone to the pictures just because they could, while he was utterly trapped. They hadn’t even bothered to lock the door of his room, just left it ajar. Will thought that was overconfidence at first before he recognised it as part of the torture.
The chain was too heavy to do jumping jacks so he did press ups and sit ups, five hundred of each, and another two hundred once he was sufficiently bored to s
tart again. The sliver of light from the shutters moved steadily across the wall. Nobody had ever told him imprisonment would be so dull. He’d read The Count of Monte Cristo as a boy and come away with the idea that Edmond Dantès had suffered from the dark, rats, terrible food, and the cruelty of his gaolers. Now he thought about six years with nothing to read, nothing to see, and nobody to talk to, and realised that he’d missed the point entirely. Six years? He’d barely managed six hours.
The bald man came in again with more water and more cheese sandwiches, the same type of cheese. This time, he left a single thin blanket. Again, he didn’t answer when Will spoke. Again he left, and the room grew dark, and Will sat in shadows, realising that they weren’t going to give him a lamp. Or, he supposed, a bath when he’d sweated sufficiently into these clothes to make himself vile, or tooth-powder, or the privacy of a shut door. That was the point. No overt cruelty, just enough promises kept and physical needs met to make him want to cooperate just a little more, while the drip-drip effect of time and boredom and hopelessness wore away his resolve like water on rock.
But if it was Maisie sitting here instead of him, she’d be spending every second in an agony of anticipation as to what they might do to her, so fuck Zodiac and their games. Will’s stubbornness had at various points in his life seen him caned, sent to his room, put on report, and threatened by the War Office. He didn’t plan to give in to this lot now. But he lay in the dark as the warmth drained from the room, huddling his jacket and the inadequate blanket around him, and wished very strongly that he’d never contacted his uncle in the first place.
When he slept, he dreamed of the night with Kim. That made waking even worse.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Libra didn’t come back the next day. Will did one thousand seven hundred and forty-three sit-ups, and six hundred and eight-eight push-ups. He ate six near-identical cheese sandwiches, reflecting that it was very possible to go off cheese, and that he would do murder for an apple. He spent a solid hour with the pin that had kept the sadly crumpled silk flower attached to his coat through all the ups and downs of the past days, doing his level best to pick the lock from a starting point of never having done such a thing in his life and not having the first idea of how they worked. Really, he was prodding a pin randomly into a hole for an hour, but at least it was something to do.
