Scared

by Sarah Masters

  Locked.

  Why did I think it would be otherwise?

  Hearing the men converse, Stephen quietly opened drawers. There had to be a landline phone here somewhere. Had to be. Or a spare mobile.

  His search brought nothing but cutlery, serving spoons, and the usual kitchen drawer paraphernalia.

  Shit!

  Mind working overtime, Stephen tried to plan his best course of action while putting his plate and cup in the dishwasher.

  No phones. No way of getting help unless one of them leaves a phone unguarded. I can't get out. I can't trust anyone here to take a message outside this house. I—

  A thought came to him then, that he'd been so intent on what he was doing in that office he'd failed to take perhaps the only chance of communicating with the outside world.

  The computer desktops had displayed the Internet Explorer icon.

  Fuck! You stupid bloody moron. Jesus fucking—

  Letting out a growl of frustration at how narrow-minded he'd been, Stephen moved to rush out of the kitchen then stopped himself. If he did anything but walk casually up those stairs, the two men would automatically be suspicious. Excitement bubbled inside him, and it took all his strength to force himself not to run.

  As he passed the living room door, Redhead called out, “Here, take these plates and cups out, will you?”

  Stephen turned woodenly and clamped his teeth. He collected the dirty crockery and went into the kitchen, trying not to ram the items in the dishwasher. Back in the foyer, he walked nonchalantly to the foot of the stairs, his excitement at the thought of freedom and going back home spiralling through his veins. He lifted his foot to take the first step—and heard the shower of gravel as a vehicle parked outside the house.

  No. Fuck, no. Please...

  He turned to face the front door as it swung open to reveal Jonathan and Kevin, a black-haired, teenage boy held between them.

  “Here we go,” Jonathan said. “Home sweet home.”

  “For a bit, anyway.” Kevin chuckled.

  “What the fuck are you staring at?” Jonathan said, his gaze fixed on Stephen.

  Gut rolling, Stephen turned back to face the stairs and began the long climb, his limbs suddenly heavy, his mind awhirl with how he could get back to that office now there were more people in the house.

  I'm not going to be able to.

  He climbed the stairs, hearing the front door snick shut, the sound of the men dragging the boy toward the kitchen. He recalled how that felt when they'd done the same to him, how his heart had thundered, and his eyes had burned with the fierce sting of tears. How he'd called for his mum and been laughed at.

  "She ain't coming, kid."

  Back in his room, Stephen slumped down on the window seat and remained there. More of Frost's men returned, one of them—Croft, he thought—with two men who looked scared shitless when they'd got out the back of the van.

  Now, a slice of moon hung like a broken shard of pearl in a sky of black velvet. The house had erupted with jovial chatter and the clinking of knives and forks a short while ago. The scent of Chinese food wafted up the stairs, but Stephen wasn't hungry.

  The sound of Frost's voice in the foyer churned his stomach.

  The sight of that man, a few moments later, standing in Stephen's bedroom doorway, almost had him being sick.

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  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  Croft was a wily bastard as a kid and a wily bastard now.

  He couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this shit.

  When Frost's men had picked him up that night six months ago, he'd been the first to admit he'd messed up. His decision to leave home at fifteen had been an easy one. No kid liked living in a house where abuse was the norm and going hungry didn't make you bat an eyelid. Four months after his fifteenth birthday, his father had beaten him one time too many, and Croft had stuffed a blanket and a change of clothes into a rucksack, raided his mum's drug money tin, and fucked off.

  One of the only sad aspects had been leaving his granddad behind—the man who had tried to stop the beatings and bad treatment for as far back as Croft could remember.

  He did wonder, though, why his granddad hadn't informed the police or the authorities about a grandson who endured more neglect than any kid had a right to put up with. But his granddad lived with them, cruelty dished out to him, too, and Croft supposed the old fella's self-esteem had been stripped away along with his dignity and sense of what was right.

  Life was a bitch and then some.

  Leaving his little brother had been tough, too, but Croft had made an anonymous phone call to the police about his mum and dad and hoped they acted on it. He didn't give his name, just said there was a seven-year-old boy living in Montgomery Lane who needed rescuing from his parents.

  It was the best he could do.

  Croft's life formed a pattern after a few weeks of trial and error living rough. He spent his days asleep in hidden alleyways, beneath bypasses, and his nights awake roaming Central London. It was safer that way. Forced to share his arse with whoever paid for it just so he could eat, he'd learned to judge who posed a threat and who didn't. The hours of walking the night time streets had seen Croft grow into a burly sod over the years, and despite wanting a better life, with a wife, two kids, and, let's go for it, a bloody dog, he remained homeless.

  Was a bit of a bugger to get out of.

  He reflected that his judgment hadn't been sound after all—or as sound as he thought it was anyway. Jonathan and Kevin had approached him on a night where the rain lashed down and the wind blew more than the cobwebs away. Croft was cold, a little depressed, and possibly at his most vulnerable. The two men had seemed friendly enough, asking if he was for rent, that they'd pay triple if he'd engage in a threesome. That meant enough money to spend the night in a cheap hotel. Have a bath or shower. Get a comfortable bed with dry sheets and blankets.

  Croft agreed and followed them down the street, his hands bunched at his sides in case he needed to defend himself. He should have listened to his instincts then, that tiny worm of unease that started growing in his gut the minute they led him down an alley filled with refuse and a rat the size of a Jack Russell.

  But the money and the thought of that hotel erased the doubt.

  At the end of the alley, a black van idled, grey exhaust fumes billowing into the air like the rapid breaths from Croft's mouth. He glanced back, judging how quickly he could run before the men ahead caught on to him legging it. If he darted now...

  A proper bed. A bath...

  Croft continued to follow.

  Once at the van, Jonathan opened one of the back doors and held his hand up in a gesture for Croft to climb inside. Again the worm of unease wiggled, and again Croft ignored it. He entered the van.

  Looking back on it, compared to other abductions, Croft's must have been one of the easiest. Jonathan and Kevin must have been pissing themselves at how docile Croft appeared, how readily he went with them.

  One lapse, that's all it took, and they had him.

  They'd travelled out of inner London. The dense bright lights tapered off, the spread-out twinkles of the outlying homes taking their place, and that worm turned into a fuck-off anaconda.

  “Hey!” Croft said from his seat on the bench, staring at Jonathan and Kevin through the metal grate. “Where are we going?”

  “Home, mate.” Kevin chuckled.

  “What, to your place?” Croft bit his lip.

  “No, it doesn't belong to us,” Jonathan said, “but it'll be home to you for the next six months. Now shut the fuck up.”

  Jonathan drove faster.

  Croft remained silent, not through fear but to gather his wits. He had no fucking clue why he had to stay wherever for the next six months—why six months was even the stated number—but he had a good idea of the duties he'd have to perform.

  After travelling a while, Croft sifting through his options along the way, the van arrived a
t a mansion in the countryside. They'd escorted him inside, gave him the basement treatment, and at the point where Frost usually tested the “cargo", Croft got a break.

  His arse hadn't been used, and Frost offered him a job.

  Of course, Croft took it. Knew he'd have to pretend to enjoy what they asked him to do. Feeding the kids—he even saw the ones over eighteen as such, seeing as he was older—making sure none of them did themselves any harm. Their skin had to remain unblemished—no bruises, no cold sores, nothing. At first the rooms were empty, and Croft had been informed he was the first pick-up since the last batch of ten had been auctioned off. He'd had a few seconds to wonder what that meant, then Frost informed him that over the period of a week they collected ten lads and brought them here. Over the next six months, they were primed for sale, incarcerated in those rooms, no contact with anyone except when Croft fed them, made sure they were clean, gave them fresh sheets, dropped off their laundry.

  He wondered why they'd taken him, what with him being twenty-three, but he did look a lot younger. Maybe, after Croft had downed the lemonade, he'd revealed his true age, and Frost deemed him too old. The punters liked them young. Croft couldn't remember what he'd said after that drink, so yeah, it made sense he'd blabbed his age.

  He talked to the boys. Eased their fears without telling them what life held in store. Croft couldn't risk any one of those lads blabbing. It had been hard not to become attached. Some, those as young as twelve and thirteen, were so fucking distraught to begin with that Croft had a difficult time not revealing his plans.

  He just couldn't risk it. To get them to safety meant playing Frost's game, following the rules.

  Frost had a smooth operation going on, Croft had to admit it, one that gave Frost the lifestyle he'd grown accustomed to. Maybe some of those lads would get a better life if they were purchased—those who'd led a life like he had prior to coming here—but surely being placed in care was a safer bet. Then again, through the friends Croft had made while living on the streets, he'd heard tales that even good foster parents and care homes seemed rare.

  What the fuck was the world coming to?

  Sickened, Croft vowed to work his arse off for Frost, gain his trust quickly—in time to release the ten kids currently in residence.

  Tomorrow night they'd be auctioned if his plan went wrong.

  Earlier, when he'd left this place and headed for Wraxford, he'd contemplated fucking off, driving past that small town and on into Scotland. Starting again up there. But he reminded himself how Frost had tracked Russell and Toby down, how even though it had taken well over a year, the man had reached his goal. Croft had no doubt whatsoever that he'd be found too.

  And the thought of abandoning those kids...

  He couldn't do it.

  Before he'd picked up the old man Jacob, he'd telephoned the police and asked to speak to a detective. He'd known him from the times he'd been picked up for “soliciting", a policeman who concerned himself with Croft's welfare for no reason Croft could fathom. Maybe the guy was just a good bloke. Maybe he saw something in Croft's eyes—an abused kid living the best way he knew how, still abused as an adult but on his own terms. Detective Mick Darrow had made it his business to appear on Croft's turf a couple of nights a week, asking if he'd eaten, whether he'd made enough money to survive another day.

  Darrow had come on the line, his tone jovial but with a tinge of unease. Croft didn't want to fully believe this fella really did give a shit, but the concern in the policeman's voice had warmed him, gave him hope that what he was about to do this day would change more than the ten innocent lives in those rooms.

  Quickly explaining his plans, Croft had secured Darrow's attention and support and also his mobile phone number. Scribbling the digits down on a pad, Croft had explained why the police couldn't storm the mansion now—Croft wanted the purchasers caught too.

  Croft agreed to telephone Darrow when he had further news or needed a little help along the way. That call had come in the form of Croft asking for the roadblock to be set up. The original plan had gone awry—him picking Toby up first hadn't panned out, and Croft had to quickly remedy the situation. After shoving Russell in the van, he'd called Darrow and explained that if he was to snatch Toby without some do-gooder member of the public telephoning the police, Darrow would have to help.

  The detective had agreed, sending a police colleague to visit Jacob & Sons offices and place the pile of mail on the reception desk. As for the roadblocks, the colleague had taken that job on, too, nodding to Croft as he drove past the van on his way to propping the fake signs either end of the road.

  Darrow had promised no one would follow Croft—Croft had to trust him on that, had to trust someone in his damn sorry excuse for a life—but the detective did insist on knowing the vicinity he'd need to be in the following night. Croft had yet to pass on the exact information, but Darrow did know whereabouts to meet Croft tonight.

  He left the mansion now, the bellyful of noodles he'd eaten churning in his stomach.

  Croft took one of the many black vans Frost owned and drove off the property, having had Jonathan open the gates from inside. He released a heavy breath, his heart ticking fast and his hands a little shaky. What he was about to do would either sign his death warrant or get him arrested. He just had to pray Darrow stuck to his promise of only moving in on Croft's command.

  On the journey to a town a few miles away, Croft thought about his day. It had been a long one, and he was fucking tired, but after tomorrow night he hoped he could sleep the sleep of the dead—though not literally. He was so tense his neck muscles ached like a bastard, and his head felt a little muzzy. Still, he'd sworn he'd see this through to its conclusion, and he wasn't about to back out now.

  He'd hated punching Mr Jacob. It had been like hitting his granddad, but a necessary evil, a means to an end. Darrow had promised his colleague would drive to the other end of Fountain Street and wait for the old man once he'd been released, putting the poor sod's mind at rest that he wouldn't have to live in fear for the rest of his life, that the police were aware of what had happened.

  And Croft hadn't had a headache like he'd said when he told Jacob and Russell to shut the fuck up. It was the only thing he could think of, so he had time to blank his mind from what he'd done. Blank his mind of the fact he wanted to cry.

  Yeah, cry.

  With Mr Jacob gone and the journey to London well underway, Croft had heard every word between Russell and Toby. Several times he'd had to bite his tongue to hold back from telling them that everything would be all right, that they didn't have to worry. But for all he knew, the van was bugged. Also, he knew the basement treatment was coming their way, and most men gave up information once the chain started striking their flesh.

  Croft couldn't risk it.

  Shaking his head, clearing it of the past and focusing on what he had to do now, Croft turned into a countryside pub car park, The Red Lion, and left the van in plain sight. He could have been followed by a couple of Frost's men. He knew the deviousness of the bloke, expected that he hadn't quite earned the sadistic bastard's trust, and knew meeting with Darrow in such a public place wasn't an option.

  Which was why he wasn't meeting Darrow here.

  Croft entered the pub and sat by a window facing the car park, non-alcoholic pint in one hand, the other resting along the sill. He had a good view of outside here and spotted one of Frost's cars straight away—a red Fiat Punto, two shadowed figures inside.

  They can sit there as long as they fucking like.

  They remained in the car park for two hours then slowly peeled away, the Fiat's taillights fading into the darkness of the road leading back to Frost's place. Croft sat on for another hour, casually glancing out the window every so often and scoping out the cars.

  They were all empty.

  His instinct telling him it was safe to move, he dialled Darrow's number and waited for him to answer. The detective picked up on the second ring and agreed to m
eet Croft at The Spotted Duck in the village of Framcott. On the way there, Croft kept glancing in the rear view mirror to check for any tails and went through everything he needed to tell Darrow.

  Framcott's sign glowed in his headlights all too soon, and Croft's gut clenched. Blowing out through pursed lips to steady his pattering heart and rapid pulse, he drove into the pub's car park and cut the engine. He sat for a moment, waiting for any traffic to drive past or someone else to enter the car park. They didn't. Telling himself he was doing the right thing, he got out of the van and pushed the pub door wide, approaching the bar on legs that were a bit unsteady.

  Again ordering a non-alcoholic beer, he finally chanced a look around the pub. Darrow sat in the far corner at a small round table beside a roaring fireplace. The detective nodded a greeting, and after checking his surroundings again, Croft walked over to him and took a seat.

  “Fucking fair can of worms you've opened for me, Croft.” Darrow leaned forward and rested his elbow on the table, cupping his cheek in his hand.

  Croft wondered whether this was to shield his face from anyone who might be sitting outside. Nice touch.

  Darrow lowered his gaze to an A4 pad on the table. “I'll need the layout of the house. And the address.”

  Croft took a sip of beer then placed the glass on the table. Taking a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, he began sketching the ground floor, paying specific attention to the door in the kitchen and the corridor beyond.

  “This is where the lads are right now,” he said, jabbing the pen nib on the pad. “But when you arrive—if everything goes all right—the lads will be in here.” Croft added more of the mansion's layout on the other side of the foyer, drawing the large dining room then the showing room beside that. “A bloke called Jonathan usually mans the front door, and one called Kevin mans the back. In the viewing room, when you first go in, you'll see a row of chairs, the bidders sitting in them. Frost will be there, too, plus some of his employees.

  “On the opposite wall to the door, there's a massive two-way mirror. The lads will be taken in there one by one so the punters can see what's on offer.” Croft winced and swallowed. Adding more of the layout, he said, “There's a door here, to the right of the mirror. One of Frost's men will be standing in front of it. Armed. Behind that door is a corridor. First door on your left leads into the room behind the mirror. Second door on the left is the room where the boys are kept while they wait to be shown off.”