Self-preservation alone would do it.
He coached himself to remain strong, despite his body getting the shakes and his teeth chattering. Shit, he was scared—scared out of his fucking mind.
Toby rounded the corner. Russell's heart leaped. He lunged forward, kneeling on the other bench, and hammered his fists on the window.
Got to warn him.
In his peripheral vision, Russell caught sight of Beard's fist shooting toward Mr Jacob again. Shit, he should have known that would happen, so why did he do what he did?
Because Toby means more to me than some old man, that's why.
That sounded harsh, but it was the damn truth.
Mr Jacob's sobs added to the weight of guilt pouring down on Russell's shoulders. Russell reared back and slumped onto the seat he'd occupied before, a huge breath gushing out of him. Dejection took hold, sheer helplessness that he was a grown man and couldn't do a bloody thing to stop this madness. His eyes stung. That was all he needed, to cry now.
Toby drew closer, nearly at the post box. Russell resisted the urge to leap forward again. What good would it do? Beard had eased open the driver's-side door, one hand on the steering wheel. Toby brought his hand up and dropped the letters inside the slot. He turned and looked up as he walked back down the road.
The rain had started again.
Beard got out of the van and closed the door. Russell shouted until his voice broke and smacked the windows with both hands made into one fist. He glanced at Mr Jacob, who sat with his head bent, shoulders bobbing. Turning away and looking back at Toby, Russell sucked in a breath and shouted again.
“Toby! Fucking run! Toby!”
Beard grabbed Toby's jacket, and Toby swung around, fist raised. His eyes widened along with his mouth. Beard yanked him toward the van, and Toby tried to stop him—Russell saw him doing the same as he had, trying to dig his feet into the ground.
It won't work, mate.
As Beard and Toby approached the back of the van, Russell scooted along the bench, ready to kick out at Beard the minute the door opened. His breaths stuttered, and pains lanced his chest, his heart rate kicking up speed.
“Please don't do anything stupid,” Mr Jacob whimpered. “He'll take it out on me.”
Sorry old man, but fuck you.
Beard pre-empted Russell and kept Toby in front of him. Toby's face pressed against one of the door windows, and Beard fumbled inside his jacket. Cable tie. As Beard yanked Toby's arms behind him and worked on his wrists, Toby jolted against the glass, his cheek white from the pressure.
We're fucked. So fucked.
Beard shoved Toby aside, meaty hand gripping his upper arm. He opened one of the doors. Toby spotted Russell, and his mouth worked with no sound coming out. Face paling, he blinked then frowned. Shoving Toby in the back, Beard sent him sprawling onto the van floor, closing the door quickly behind him just as Russell flung out a foot. The end of his boot smacked into the door, and he bit back a yell, his toes mashing against the steel toecap inside. Leaning down, Russell pushed Toby onto his side. Toby's eyes were closed, and a nasty gash on his forehead bled, a crimson river dribbling down his temple.
“Fuck! Toby. Wake up, mate. Wake up!” Russell went down on his knees, barely aware of Beard getting back into the van and telling Mr. Jacob to get out. Breaths unsteady, his heart beating way too fast, he leaned forward, cheek in front of Toby's face.
Please be alive. Please...
He was still breathing.
Releasing an unsteady breath, Russell hauled Toby into a sitting position by pulling his arm. He dragged him to the space behind the passenger seat so he could watch Beard while tending to Toby. He sat wedged in the corner, hefting Toby against him, and looked out the window. Mr Jacob ran down the street, his bandy legs looking like they'd give out any second. Russell turned back to Toby and pressed his jacket sleeve to his lover's forehead.
“I'll fucking have you for this,” he snarled at Beard.
Laughing, Beard started the engine and nosed away from the curb. “Whatever, mate. Whatever.”
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* * *
Chapter Six
Toby's mouth felt like it was filled with cotton wool. His clock radio blared, some song where the singer was young, free, and all right. Lucky him. He kept his eyes closed, recalling the fuck-off weird dream he'd just had where he'd been at work, and sent out to post letters. That seemed off in itself. Mr Jacob was a stickler for routine, the post never sent before four p.m. Some black-bearded bloke had grabbed Toby at the post box—and it was well odd that no one was in the street too—tied his wrists and shoved him in a black van. Russell was inside, his wrists tied, too, and Toby had smacked his head on the van floor and blacked out.
So bloody strange.
He moved his head—was it against Russell's arm?—and tried to prise his heavy eyelids open. They refused to budge. One seemed stuck closed with sleepy dust. He frowned, the world around him penetrating the fug of sleep.
Was that the sound of an engine? And was the bed rocking?
Realisation slammed into him at the shriek of brakes and his body lurching sideward into something hard. A metal bench. His eyes snapped open then all right, and he flung back the other way, staring at the bench opposite. Fuck. He hadn't dreamed.
Shit!
Turning his head, grimacing at the pain in his brow and at his bound wrists behind him, he glanced at Russell, whose head had flopped back into the corner. He slept, and Toby would bet if Russell knew he'd dropped off, he'd be pissed as hell. Toby looked through a metal grate between the back of the van and the front. The guy who had shoved him in here tapped the steering wheel, clearly agitated he'd had to stop at a red light. Toby's heart rate sped up, and a ball of something lodged in his chest. Fear? Anxiety? Both, probably.
How long had they been travelling? He'd posted the letters around eleven this morning, and it was clearly evening now. Outside, dark grey clouds scudded across a navy blue sky studded with faint stars. What looked like shops—what he could see of them anyway; the rooms above, perhaps—lined either side of the road. Lights blazed from some of the windows, and a green-and-pink neon sign in the shape of a scantily clad woman flashed on and off high up on one of the building's walls. A club?
Fresh raindrops clung to the outside edges of the windshield, indicating a recent downpour, but the wipers weren't swishing to and fro now. Light made the droplets appear like diamonds, shimmering and perfect on a van holding an imperfect driver and passengers.
Toby craned his neck in order to see better, see below the shop signs. See people. Not many walked the street, but there were enough to show Toby it was well into the evening now, their attire making it clear they were out for a night on the town. Women in short skirts—in this weather!—and halter neck tops. Men in jeans, dress shirts untucked, hands in suit jacket pockets. Smart casual. This wasn't some lowlife town, then. More upmarket than most places.
He studied the scenery for a street sign, anything to give him some clue.
Where the fuck are we?
He didn't need to ask the why—this had something to do with what happened last year, didn't it? Even a dense person would know that. Yeah, he'd been waiting for this to happen, but hadn't really thought it would.
Why was that? The men had been organised back then, gave him a good going over. Meant business. Why had he been so stupid as to think they wouldn't bother coming after him and Russell?
'Cos, so they say, shit like this just doesn't happen, does it?
Of course it did. Just like Sasha being killed, him beaten and drugged, and him being dumped in a grave had happened.
How quickly the mind forgot or dulled reality so a body could cope.
The lights turned green. The big bastard pulled off smoothly and blended into traffic in the next lane. Horns honked, loud and persistent, drivers protesting that the big bastard should have been in the correct lane in the first place. That the bloke had to veer across
like that screamed the man was in unfamiliar territory, or his mind was occupied with other things. Either way, the driver was at a disadvantage. Maybe if Toby scooted down to the doors and tried to open them, they could get out, van moving or not, and find help.
Like he's going to have left them unlocked.
Toby sighed. Him and Russell weren't going anywhere except the driver's destination. Maybe once they arrived there would be an opportunity to get the fuck away.
He jerked his shoulder, the one pressing against Russell, gently trying to wake him. The volume of the radio, now blasting about some woman who kept bleeding love, would disguise anything they had to say. They could make a plan.
Or something.
Yeah, running with my hands tied behind my back will be a fucking breeze...
“Russell!” he said, voice low.
Russell snapped his eyes open and glanced from the driver to Toby. He let out a sigh and briefly closed his eyes again. “You all right? Shit, I fell asleep.”
“Yeah. I'm fine. Head hurts, but I'm okay.” Toby shot a look at the driver then propped his chin on Russell's shoulder so he could speak with less chance of the big bastard hearing. “I had the thought of trying the door, but these guys are from a fucking big outfit, I reckon. Don't make mistakes often, know what I mean?”
Russell nodded, eyes narrowed at the driver.
“So,” Toby said, “when we get to wherever it is we're going, d'you reckon we can make a run for it?”
“Depends where we're headed and how many blokes are at the other end.”
“Fuck.” Toby paused, then, “How did he get hold of you? What happened?”
As Russell explained, Toby listened with anger boiling inside him. These fucking tossers were something else, weren't they? Who the hell did they think they were, flouting the law like that? And as for them snatching Mr Jacob...shit, he was surprised the old duffer hadn't died of shock. His boss being hit didn't sit well with Toby. No need for that kind of thing, was there? An old bloke posed no threat whatsoever. The driver was just being an arsehole. Showing who was in charge. Toby would like to see how in control the man was with a boot in his bollocks. No matter how strong a fella was, their crown jewels being whacked always bent them double—unless they wore steel jockstraps.
Toby raised his eyes at the part in the tale where the road by the post box had been blocked off. They had to have some contacts to be able to get that sort of thing done. Was this some kind of network of criminals then, for fuck's sake? People all over the country helping one another out?
Russell said the main boss’ name was Frost, but Toby had never heard of him.
“If he was one of the blokes who did me over, I wouldn't know it because no names were mentioned. None that I can remember anyway.” Toby scrunched his eyes closed to loosen the tight skin on his cheek.
“Dried blood,” Russell said, nodding. “Thank fuck that gash stopped bleeding. Thought for a minute back there it wouldn't.”
“Is it bad?” Toby asked, wanting to touch it. A burst of irritation sparked inside him at being unable to. He stared at Russell's bound wrists and guessed his sported a gaudy yellow cable tie too. Tasty.
If he didn't crack an internal joke or two, he'd break under the pressure.
“It'll leave a scar. Too late for it to be sewn up.” Russell eyed the driver again, who nodded to the beat of a rap song. “He's a right mean son of a bitch. No way we're going to be able to get away from him.”
“But there's two of us now.”
“Like I just said, it depends on how many are at the other end. Who knows where we're going? Who's to say there isn't an army of nutters waiting for us when we arrive?”
A dark thought hit Toby. “Who's to say we're being taken any place where there are people. Might be some warehouse. Torture equipment set up.” His imagination ran riot. “A river close by. Ready for us to be dumped into. Concrete tied to our ankles. Drowning—”
“All right, all right!” Russell said, tone testy and harsh. “I get it. We're fucked.” He sighed again, a bloody great big one, and shook his head slowly. “Never thought it would end like this. Never thought I'd be this young when I karked it either. Oh, I fucking knew this lot were coming. Knew they wouldn't just let us go, but shit, I'd hoped we'd have had a few more years on the run, know what I mean?”
Yeah, Toby did. The same thoughts had been running through his mind as he'd painted the grim picture of their potential destination. The image of concrete blocks around their ankles—man, that was a hard one to get rid of. It sat in his mind like a damn sentinel, refusing to budge no matter how hard he tried to conjure up another vision.
And God, his eyes stung. He really didn't need to be crying right now, but wouldn't anyone when faced with a very short future and the undeniable possibility that torture, or at least some form of pain, was on the cards?
He sniffed, blinked, cleared his throat. “Love you, man.”
Russell didn't answer right away. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe, like Toby, a big lump of love had stuck in his throat and he couldn't speak past it.
“Love you too,” Russell managed, staring ahead at the side of the van, eyes watery, Adam's apple bobbing.
Toby gritted his teeth. “This fucking stinks!”
“Yep.”
“I'm not going down without a fight.”
“Me neither.”
They sat in silence for a time, the place they'd driven through giving way to ominous countryside. Trees stood starkly in the beam of the headlights, like moss-covered skeletons, arthritic hands clawing the blackness. The road was narrow. If another driver approached from the other way, the big bastard slowed. He veered to the left each time, and branches from hedges scraped the side of the van, sending Toby's mind reeling with the creepy image of long, dirty fingernails scratching, the dead trying to get in at them. It felt like death waited, the air in the van a tangible thing, smothering them, letting them know it would be their turn to die soon.
Shaking off those thoughts, Toby wondered what Russell was thinking. Was he silently cursing Toby, wishing he'd never met him, that he'd had a damn day off back then, had never even dug the grave that held Toby for that short time?
Toby glanced at Russell. “I'm so sorry, man.”
“Don't be.” He gave Toby a sidelong glance, a small smile playing about his lips. “Wouldn't change a fucking thing.”
Toby longed for a kiss, just a brief brush of the lips would be enough, but he didn't want to risk the driver having something else to hate them for. One glance in his rear view mirror was all it would take. But if this gang, or whatever the hell it was, had been watching them, they'd have already gathered him and Russell were gay.
Toby settled for leaning in to land a kiss on Russell's neck. His lover smelled of fear, and Toby licked the proof of it from his lips—salt from sweat. Would that be the last time he'd ever kiss Russell? Was this journey the only time they had left together? That was a fucking grim thought—he hadn't considered they might be separated once they got to wherever the hell they were going.
A large green road sign edged in white stood up ahead, taking Toby's attention from morbid thoughts. The headlights made the white glow, but he couldn't read the wording yet. From the image on the sign of a road and a roundabout at the top, he hoped they approached civilisation. Well, he did and he didn't. While they travelled, they were relatively safe. Together. But if they headed toward London—Russell had said they were being taken back down south—who knew whether this mob's headquarters—if they even had one—was in the middle of the city?
He nudged Russell. “Road sign coming up.”
Russell straightened and looked out the windshield. Toby had to lean across in order to see now, but the words became suddenly clear. They approached London—only a few miles away—and roads to various other surrounding places sprouted off the roundabout image.
“Reckon we're headed for the city. Stands to reason, doesn't it?” Toby mused quietly into Russell's
ear, a tinny pop tune overriding his voice.
“Probably. Who fucking knows?” Russell slumped back against the side of the van and stared at the ceiling. “What does it matter where we're bloody going? The result will be the same whether we're in Camden Town, Ladbroke sodding Grove, or someplace else. We're dead, mate. End of story.”
Fuck. Russell had given up already. Toby saw it in his eyes, the slump of his shoulders. Well, if he had to be strong enough for both of them, he'd do it. No way would he give up at the first hurdle. They had no idea what lay up ahead, he knew that, but there might be all manner of opportunities presented to them in the near-distant future. Ones where they could try and get away.
Those concrete blocks didn't appeal.
Dying in any fashion didn't appeal.
The van going around the roundabout had Toby watching out the windshield again. His shoulders ached from his arms being wedged behind him, and craning his neck added to the pain. But if, as he suspected, the pain was going to get worse later on, and meted out by bullies’ fists and whatever the hell else they chose to use, he could stand it for now.
Streetlamps around the edge of the roundabout gave the sky a strange, muted orange glow and enhanced the blackness beyond. Toby shivered involuntarily and held his breath, waiting to see which road the driver would take. The big bastard ignored the London fork and continued round, slewing onto one of the roads that led elsewhere. Toby's stomach rolled over as yet more countryside whipped past.
The concrete blocks were becoming more of a reality than he would have liked.
We could still be going to some town or other. Somewhere we can shout for help.
He chuckled at the unlikelihood of that. These blokes would have a hideout somewhere. Stood to reason, didn't it?
As though his thoughts had predicted the truth, the van slowed then turned right down a rutted track. Trees, branches bare and knobbly, lined either side, creating a canopy overhead. The headlights picked out the track, tightly packed, dark mud that the rain had barely penetrated. A stripe of grass ran down the middle, the tops brushing the undercarriage as the van trundled on. Ahead, the lights of a building shone out, several yellow squares and a few dots that Toby supposed were garden lamps.
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