Scared

by Sarah Masters

  Jonathan lifted his chin by way of greeting. Stephen lowered his eyes and headed toward the kitchen. He was hungry, had been since he left home last night, what with popping to the shop just before Mum dished the dinner up. But could he eat now? He hadn't managed to last night.

  In the kitchen, he glanced around, still surprised at the opulence even though he'd seen this room already. Fuck, how much did Frost earn? And what did he do for a living? The house was massive, and everything in it must have cost a pretty penny.

  Stephen went over to the double-wide fridge and pulled open both doors. It was filled with everything a person could want, a vast difference from theirs at home, which held what they needed for each week and nothing more. He'd peeked in the freezer this morning, and that had been the same. Packed to fucking bursting.

  Surprisingly, Stephen had the taste for pizza, despite the early hour. Someone must have had take-out last night, because a Domino's box rested on one of the fridge shelves. He lifted the lid and looked inside. Meat feast.

  Stomach griping, the sound loud in the cavernous kitchen, Stephen pulled the box out and placed it on a centre island topped with black marble. He searched the cupboards underneath until he found a plate then laid three large slices on it. He put the box back in the fridge.

  While waiting for the pizza to heat in the microwave, he browsed the room, taking in the stark white cupboards and the black tiled floor. Everything was so neat and tidy. So clean. Nothing homely about it, all pristine and perfect like some fucking show house. He puffed out a laugh. Mum had been right. If you were rich, you could have anything. Do anything.

  Including abducting people and fucking their arse whenever you damn well please.

  The microwave dinged. Stephen took his plate out and settled gingerly on a cafe stool at the breakfast bar that spanned the far end of the room furthest from the door. He glanced to his left out one of the windows, through the black slatted blinds, seeing nothing but a great expanse of grass and a small forest at the bottom. He shuddered at the thought of people like Jonathan and Kevin standing guard down there in the shadows. Guns at the ready.

  He saw no dogs.

  A faint sun struggled to shine in the murky grey-blue. Would be ages before it changed places with the moon. A long day ahead.

  Stephen sighed and returned his attention to his plate. He picked up a slice of pizza and bit into it, waiting for his stomach to clench, rebel. When it didn't, he chewed slowly then swallowed. Waited a few moments in case the pizza wanted back out. It didn't.

  Stephen ate the whole slice before a yell came from behind a door to his right. Why hadn't he noticed that there before? He stared at it, noted a keyhole beneath the brass handle, but no key. Was that where the “guests” were? Behind there?

  Getting off the stool, he approached the door and dared to try the handle. He lowered it slowly, but the door didn't budge. Like it would have been unlocked. Frost wasn't stupid enough to do that knowing Stephen had the run of the house. Another yell came, and, like the last, wasn't one of pain but of anger. Like someone was frustrated as hell and needed to shout to release some tension.

  What was going on?

  The yells had been muffled. As though far away.

  Curious, yet scared shitless in case Jonathan or Kevin came into the kitchen any minute, Stephen lowered to his haunches, ignoring the burn of his arsehole. He peered through the keyhole.

  A long corridor, lit by spotlights recessed in the ceiling.

  Several plain white doors on either side, spaced out like each room was maybe eleven by eleven.

  One door at the end, different from the rest, mahogany, studded with carved squares.

  Someone yelled again. Angry. Violent.

  Another voice came, plaintive, heart-wrenching. “Mum! I want me mum!”

  “Oh, fuck,” Stephen whispered.

  They have someone else in there? They abducted someone else?

  He stood and went back to his seat. Sat there and stared at the cooling pizza, unable to eat another bite. What the hell kind of place had he been brought to? Bile zipped up into his mouth, burned his tongue. He swallowed, desperate for a glass of water. Almost running to the centre island, he opened doors, trying to remember where he'd seen the glasses. Finding them, he took a crystal tumbler from one shelf and staggered over to the sink, praying he wouldn't be sick. He filled the glass, gulping down the cool liquid, standing stock-still, waiting for it to come back up.

  It did, in a torrent, splashing up the sides of the white sink.

  Frantic, petrified he'd be caught making a mess, he ran the tap and cleaned up, thankful the pizza had stayed down. Another yell came, this time one of pain, chilling Stephen to the bone. What were they doing to whoever had cried out like that? Who was doing it? Frost? One of his men?

  Shutting out the questions, Stephen retrieved his plate and dumped the pizza in the bin. He found the dishwasher masked as a cupboard and stacked his plate and glass inside. Unable to stand being in the kitchen with yet more sounds coming through that door, he rushed out into the foyer. Jonathan's smile freaked him the fuck out, and he ran up the stairs and into his room, slamming the door and pressing his back against it.

  He'd been brought into a nightmare, one he didn't think he'd ever get out of.

  “Mum. I want me mum.”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  Russell winced at the pain biting into the top of his arm. He struggled to break free of the man's hold, but the bastard wouldn't let go.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asked, knowing the damn answer but needing to hear it for himself.

  “Would have thought that was obvious,” the man said, gripping tighter. “You can't run forever. Not from Frost.” He glanced sideways at Russell, sheeting rain wetting his cheeks. The slugs drew together at the top of his nose, and his lips disappeared inside that thick beard.

  Russell shuddered, a few droplets of rain finding their way down his coat collar. “Frost? Who the hell is that?” He racked his brain to try and recall whether Toby or the police had mentioned him at some point. Did Toby even know the name of the guy who had drugged him? Was it even the same guy or just one of his cronies? Nothing came to mind; the only thing swirling there was questions and the stark fact he was being dragged down an alley out of the cemetery.

  A large black transit van with tinted windows sat parked on the curb at the end of the alley. It reminded Russell of the one used by the A-Team. If this was any other time, and any other situation, he'd have pissed himself laughing.

  Oh, Christ. Shit!

  “Where are you taking me?” he demanded, trying to sound hard and failing. He just came off as a squeaky-voiced wimp. “What does this Frost want with me?”

  “Russell?” The man stared at him again and dug his fingers harder.

  “Yeah?” Russell clamped his jaw and glared at him, jogging to keep up with his fast walk.

  “Shut the fuck up, all right?”

  They reached the end of the alley. The man glanced left and right. Russell did the same. The street was empty of people. Typical. What he wouldn't give for some housewife to come out of her house now, on her way to getting her shopping. Or for someone to be cleaning their damn windows. Mind you, this wasn't the kind of estate where anyone cleaned their windows, and if Russell was seen being bundled into a van by a fuck-off burly bloke, the residents were more than likely to keep their mouths shut.

  Criminals looked after their own.

  “Come on,” the man said, dragging him to the van.

  He flung the back doors open and shoved Russell forward. Refusing to get in, Russell tried to make his feet grip onto the road, but the bloody things wouldn't hold on the wet surface. The man pushed him in the back, and Russell went sprawling forward, the edge of the van floor jabbing just below his knees. His hands met with a square of rough blue carpet, the fibres chafing his palms.

  “Look, I'm not getting in until you tell
me what—”

  Russell was hauled up by the back of his jacket and unceremoniously dumped inside. He cracked the side of his head on one of the two metal bench seats down either side of the interior and curled himself into a ball. Hand over the injury, he scrunched his eyes closed and focused his mind away from the spearing pain. “Jesus Christ!”

  The man climbed inside and bent at the waist, fists bunched and ready. The scent of rain came off him. He shoved Russell onto his side and planted a heavy boot on his stomach. “Now, do as you're fucking told, or things will get worse for you, yeah? Frost wants you brought back. Wants some questions answered. I'm just the collection boy, know what I'm saying? Like, don't shoot the messenger. Get up.” He took his foot away and straightened up. He stared down at Russell, the whites of his eyes creepy in the semi-darkness.

  Russell scrabbled onto his knees, head throbbing, and pushed the bench top with his hands to help him stand. Out of breath from the anger that surged through him, he stared at the man, his heart thumping hard, his jaw muscles aching from him clenching his teeth. “I don't know anything. All I did was get someone out of that grave. Yeah, I was told to keep my mouth shut, but shit! How could I when I saw them put a body in that hole? I could have lost my job if I'd left him there. I could have gone to prison if I hadn't reported it.”

  He cursed himself for babbling, but hell, he'd try all he could to get out of this situation. Going back to London? Meeting this Frost? Fuck, no.

  “Oh, you're going to a worse place than prison now, mate, and believe me, the surroundings might be nicer, but the torture is something else. Sit.” The man reached inside his jacket and brought out a bright yellow cable tie.

  Oh shit.

  “Drop your bag and hold your wrists out.”

  Russell obeyed, eyeing the way to freedom behind the man, quickly working out whether, if he nutted the guy in the guts, he'd make it out and back to the cemetery in time to get help. As though it had been planned this way, no one occupied the street. No cars, nothing.

  “Don't bother.” The man began tying Russell's wrists. “No one will come out to help you. Quiet here this time of day. People at work and whatnot.” He slid the end of the tie through the small square that would keep him bound. “And no cars. Funny that, eh?”

  “Who the hell are you lot?” Russell drew in a sharp breath as the cable tightened and dug into his skin.

  “People with a lot of clout.” He took hold of Russell's backpack handle. “You won't be needing this.” He poked about inside. “Baguette. Ain't you thoughtful. I didn't have breakfast this morning. Don't like doing my business on a full stomach. This'll do nicely, thanks.”

  The man climbed out, Russell's backpack bumping the side of his leg. The doors slammed, leaving Russell stunned and still trying to work out if this had actually happened.

  He'd been taken from his digger, shoved in a van, and would be going back to London. Surreal wasn't the word. Shitting himself wasn't the word.

  “Fuck it!”

  He lifted his bound hands and cradled his forehead. Rain bounced on the roof, exacerbating the throb in his temples.

  Toby. Had they got him too?

  “Oi!” he shouted, glancing toward the driver's seat.

  A metal grate with a small door in the centre partitioned him off from the front of the van. What was this, a former prison van? An old bloke sat in the passenger seat, his white-haired head facing forward. The black-bearded man paced back and forth in front of the windshield, phone clamped to his ear. The rain drenched him despite his hat and coat.

  “Don't bother wasting your time,” the old man said. “He's a nasty one.”

  Russell recognised his voice. He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “Mr Jacob?”

  What the fuck is Toby's boss doing here?

  “Yes, lad. That's me.” He turned his head a little to look through the grate, seeming to want to keep his other eye on the man outside. “He's picking Toby up next. Heard him there, talking on the phone.” He nodded to the windshield.

  Russell frowned, battling to comprehend the madness of this situation. “How did you...? What did he...?”

  “Got hold of me this morning. Early. At the produce yard.”

  “But it's around about eleven o'clock now. What's he been doing with you since then?” Russell's mind went crazy, questions popping up like bubbles in a glass of soda.

  “They'd seen Toby at the yard before. Didn't know he usually works in the office. Needed me to show them where it was. He's got something he wants me to do in a bit. Don't know what, though. Thought it best I didn't ask.” He turned fully and pointed to his face.

  A bruise was coming out on the old man's cheek, just below his left eye.

  “Jesus.” Russell swallowed.

  These men meant business. The future didn't look too bright.

  Russell cleared his throat. “So where have you been since this morning?”

  “Driving around. Went to your flat. Watched you get in the car; saw Toby dropping you off at the cemetery. We followed him after but lost him in traffic. The plan was to get him first. Then he got hold of some bloke on the phone and ranted about needing a street cleared. Something about road blocks.”

  What? This is like being in some fucking movie! “He say whether he was letting you go?” Russell jerked his head toward the bearded bloke, who was speaking into the phone as though angry, cheeks stained pink.

  “Yes. If I do what they want and keep my mouth shut after.” Mr Jacob gave a wry chuckle. “And if this debacle is anything to go by, I'm doing as I'm told. Besides, the threat to my wife— He's coming. Shush.”

  The bearded man snapped his phone closed and climbed into the van. “Right, onward and upward!” He started the engine and pulled the van away from the curb.

  “What d'you want Mr Jacob for?” Russell asked, wanting to sound menacing and someone Beard didn't want to mess with.

  Who am I kidding?

  “Keep your fucking nose out,” Beard said, his tone weary.

  “Just do as he says,” Mr Jacob said, keeping his gaze forward.

  Beard's arm shot out, his fist connecting with Mr. Jacob's cheek. “And you can keep your nose out and all.”

  Mr Jacob's head smacked into the side window, and he let out a whimper. Poor old bastard didn't deserve that.

  “Leave it out, yeah?” Russell said, looking at Beard in the rear-view mirror.

  “Look.” Beard sighed. “Shut. The fuck. Up.” He paused, then, “Or the old man gets another one.”

  Russell clamped his lips together and breathed heavily through his nose. Adrenaline surged through him, making him sick to his stomach. Who the hell hit old men?

  Evidently, people who worked for a guy named Frost.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask who Frost was again, to find out more information, but he stopped himself just in time.

  They travelled into town, the van pulling up beside a post box.

  The rain had ceased on the journey, but it looked like it wouldn't be long before it started up again. Russell had the inane thought that the weatherman needed shooting for giving out the wrong information.

  Beard cut the engine and swivelled in his seat so he faced Mr Jacob. “Right, you're going to ring your office and tell whoever answers that Toby needs to post some mail.”

  “But the letters won't be ready yet. We don't do them until—”

  “Shut up.” Beard scowled, looked at the ceiling, and huffed out an angry breath. “The letters are already on the reception desk. So, I'll start again. You're going to ring the office. Get someone to tell Toby you rang and asked him to post those letters. You don't say anything else, right? No hidden messages, nothing. Do as you're told, and I'll let you go. But, as I said earlier, if you don't keep your mouth shut, I'll come back for you. Wherever you go. Got it?”

  Mr Jacob nodded frantically. “Yes, yes. I'll do whatever you say. Whatever you want.”

  “Good. Progress at last.” Beard handed
him his phone. “There you go.”

  Mr Jacob swallowed audibly. “So, you want Toby—”

  “To deliver the fucking mail now, yeah.” Beard shook his head, lips tight together as though he was holding back on what he really wanted to say.

  “Right. Okay. Right.”

  Mr Jacob took the phone in a shaking hand, and Russell bowed his head, staring at the carpet. Easing forward, he pinched some of the fibres and, although it was awkward, managed to put them in his jacket pocket. Who knew whether they'd come in handy later for the police? If he was lucky enough to get out of this shit.

  He closed his eyes while Mr. Jacob spoke, the poor old duffer's voice quavering and full of fear. Or did it sound like that because Russell knew Mr Jacob was shitting his pants? Would whoever answered pick up on the change in his voice?

  “The letters are in reception, Martha,” he said. “No, I know I haven't been in yet today, and yes, I know we don't usually send letters this early, but I'm your boss, and if you question me again... Yes. Right now... Martha... Now!”

  The sound of the phone clicking shut brought Russell's head snapping up, and he looked through the grate. The old man shook as though a damn palsy victim.

  He'll fucking have a heart attack in a minute.

  “Good man,” Beard said, taking the phone. “Once Toby's in the back, you can go. No need to tell you he won't be returning to work in the morning. Reckon you'll be busy this afternoon putting a job ad in the paper.”

  Russell's guts churned.

  Beard stared past the old man and down the street to their left. “Won't be long and you can get back to your spuds and bananas, me old mate.” He laughed, somewhat sadly, and rasped his hand over his beard. “Now, both of you be quiet. I'm getting a fucking headache.”

  Russell stared down Fountain Street, his eyes straining for the first sight of Toby. Although he felt badly for thinking it, at least they'd be together in this. If he had to go through whatever lay ahead alone, he reckoned he'd crumble at the first sign of being hurt. Or would he? If he was alone in this, would thoughts of returning to Toby give him the strength he needed to carry on?