Scared

by Sarah Masters

  “Them?”

  “Yeah, the police. He said if he told them my name, they'd look for me.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Fraser stared at Croft wide-eyed. “You won't... I mean, you won't tell that other bloke what I just said, will you?”

  Croft shook his head and smiled. “No, I won't tell him.”

  “Thanks. It's just...when I get out of here, I'm going to go and find Pete again, tell him where this place is, so he can tell the police.”

  “Why can't you tell them?”

  “'Cos they'll take me back home. I don't want to go there.”

  Me neither, mate, and if everything works out, you'll be taken into care.

  Croft couldn't imagine otherwise. He'd be locked up with the rest of Frost's employees in a few hours. He gave Fraser a watery smile and, seeing that he'd finished his food, took the tray and set it on top of the drawers.

  “Right, I have to take you down into the basement now.” Fraser's eyes widened further, and Croft quickly added, “It's all right. I just have to get you showered, that's all. Tonight...” No, I can't tell him the truth. Just give him the tale you gave the others. “Tonight you'll be taken out of here. To a room with nine other boys. Some...people will be coming to take a look at you, but you won't see them.”

  Fraser frowned, his face paling. “What do they want to look at me for?”

  Croft cleared his throat. “Uh, they want to offer you a new home.”

  “Oh, right.” Fraser's shoulders relaxed. “Is this like some kind of adoption place or something?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “These people. Are they nice?”

  “I don't know them.” Knowing he was entering dangerous territory, Croft stood. “When you're in the room, someone will come in and take you to another one, okay? In there, you need to face the mirror on the wall, and when you're asked to turn around, or smile, or whatever they ask of you, do it.”

  “So they'll be inspecting me. Seeing if I'm what they want?”

  “Yeah, that's right. Come on. Shower time.”

  Croft held out his hand, but Fraser didn't take it. Knowing he had to maintain an air of authority and hating it, Croft grasped Fraser's wrist and led him to the door. After unlocking it, he took him down to the basement, letting him shower for longer than he should have.

  Russell and Toby remained silent in the corner, but with the strip-lights on, Croft knew they had seen him bring every single boy down here today. If the two men weren't dead by the time the police arrived, they'd give statements. Croft was deep in shit if they spilled everything as they saw it. Still, he hadn't touched any of the lads inappropriately, and that stood for something, surely? And Darrow knew he'd been working as an insider to free these kids.

  It'll be all right either way. If I get put inside, so be it. I'll tell Darrow later, explain Fraser needs to go into care, not back home. And if I don't get put away? I'll find somewhere to live with Fraser. I haven't spent a damn penny of my earnings from here. I felt sick getting it, didn't want anything to do with dirty money, but if it means setting me and my brother up in a flat, then I'll use it.

  After Fraser dried himself, he stood covering his privates with cupped hands. Croft wished he could give him something to wear. He led him upstairs and back to his room. If Croft didn't return to the main house soon, Frost would wonder what the fuck was going on. He couldn't afford the boss getting suspicious. Reticent to leave Fraser, he closed off his heart and used his head.

  “I might see you later,” he said, turning in the doorway to look at the boy.

  “Yeah? All right, then. You reckon someone might adopt me?”

  “I don't know, mate.” He smiled and lifted the tray. Leaving the room, he locked the door and muttered, “I fucking hope not.”

  * * * *

  Much later, Croft stared out the living room window. Darkness had come down, cloaking the front grounds so the grass disappeared and the driveway resembled a faint beige strip. Clouds swept across the sickle moon, the stars barely discernable in the murk above. He pressed a button on the keypad, and the Victorian lamps outside burst into life. Their glow wasn't enough to illuminate much beyond a few metres, but Croft knew the security team waited out there on the main road, headlights switched off, engines silent.

  He glanced at his watch as Frost entered the room, and looked up at the boss. He appeared haggard, as though Stephen's murder played on his mind. For the first time, Croft saw Frost as a man with feelings and not just a wanker out to make money off the backs of little kids.

  Don't think of him like that. He's a bastard. Deserves what's coming to him.

  “All right, boss?” he asked, staring back out the window.

  “Five minutes, Croft, then let the team in.”

  “Yep.”

  “Once security is in place, the punters will start arriving. I know I've been through this with you before, but this is your first time, and I want everything going right. So, like I said, once you open the gates, go out there and instruct the men as to where they need to be. Pick two for checking in the punters—the clipboard's in the foyer on the sideboard; watch the crystal, for fuck's sake. Ten need to be in a line guarding the front of the house, and the rest should be dispersed around the back. Tell them if anything's off, shoot on sight, unless they recognise one of us or the punters. A shot to the kneecap's preferable, just in case it's someone who shouldn't have been gunned.” Frost sighed, as if his speech had robbed him of breath.

  Croft turned his head and eyed the boss, nodding before facing the window again.

  “When the auction's over,” Frost said, “and the punters have gone with their cargo, security need to do a sweep of the property to make sure no one's been left behind. I trust no fucker, so this part of the plan is important. Parker once had some trouble—a punter had brought someone with him without signing him in. Found the nonce in the house, searching for a lad. Didn't fancy buying one, did he? Thought he could just take.” He snorted. “I'm not fucking having that happen again.” He clamped a hand on Croft's shoulder and squeezed. “You got all that?”

  “Yep, boss. Don't worry, I'm on it.” Croft looked at Frost and smiled.

  “Good lad. Oh, and those two down in the basement. Get them cleaned up. Suited nicely—you know where the spare clothes are. I want them in the viewing room with me. Been thinking of taking them on, know what I mean?”

  “Good idea, boss.”

  Frost chucked. “The fates fucking smiled on me when they sent you my way.”

  Frost stalked out of the room, and Croft blew out a huge breath. He stared out the window again, seeing headlights had pierced the darkness out on the road. Pressing the button that opened the gates, he waited until the convoy of five black jeeps eased along the track then up the driveway before he collected the clipboard from the foyer and left the house, nodding to Jonathan, who guarded the door from inside.

  At the head of the drive, he pointed the drivers to his right, waving to tell them they should go around the side of the mansion and park there on the large square of asphalt. As the last car turned, he followed, and by the time he reached the car park, the twenty security men stood together behind one car.

  Croft approached Darrow, the detective dressed identical to the other men: black combat trousers, black bomber jackets, and black baseball caps. Jerking his head so Darrow followed, Croft led him to the edge of the car park and relayed everything Frost had told him. He gave him the clipboard.

  Darrow nodded. “You'll text just before the punters get ready to leave. When everyone is still in the viewing room. Before the kids are taken.”

  “Yeah.” Croft glanced around nervously, hoping Frost hadn't planted one of his men out here in the darkness.

  “Good.” Darrow patted Croft's shoulder. “I'd rather my men storm the house when the kids are still safe.” He paused, then, “I'm sorry about your brother.”

  “Yeah, well...he'll be all right in an hour or two, won't he
?”

  “He will.”

  “If...if I'm nicked, make sure Fraser isn't returned home. Mum and Dad, they—”

  “I know.” He paused once more. “I'll brief my men, then.” Darrow patted Croft again.

  “Right. See you later.” Croft moved to walk away, remembering he'd forgotten to tell Darrow something. “Oh, the young man, Stephen?”

  “Yes?”

  “He was shot today.”

  “Fuck!” Darrow sighed.

  “Buried with the other kid.”

  “Right.”

  Croft walked away, heading for the house. The darkness spooked him tonight, seeming to close in on him like an unwelcome hug. He hurried toward the lamps, thankful for their brightness as he strode along the front of the house. As he reached the steps by the black doors, he heard footsteps behind him. He glanced back to find two officers walking toward the gates and another two approaching the steps.

  This is it, then. No turning back now.

  Croft entered the house and went back into the living room, jabbing his thumb on the button to close the gates. It wouldn't be long before the punters arrived, a caterpillar of cars wheeling along the drive, containing some of the sickest people on Earth. Croft gritted his teeth, angry that so many of these nights had gone before—and he hadn't known anything about it.

  Where are those boys now? Some are men, fucked-up in the head, no doubt.

  He couldn't lose concentration. Had to focus on the here and now.

  A shuffle of feet sounded out in the foyer, and he turned from the window to gaze through the living room doorway. Frost's men paraded past, each holding a lad by the wrist. Their cries tore into him, their sad faces streaked with tears. His heart spasmed, and his stomach clenched.

  Poor little bastards.

  Reminding himself it would all be over soon, he waited for sight of Fraser. He came last in the line, and as if his brother sensed Croft's stare, Fraser glanced through the doorway. The boy nodded in acknowledgement and held one hand up, fingers crossed.

  Christ, he really thinks he's being adopted.

  The pain of Croft's throat swelling made him turn away, and he burned that last image of Fraser into his mind in case he never saw him again.

  Focus! Focus on the fucking job at hand.

  A convoy of cars drove down the main road on the other side of the iron-railed fence. He pressed the gate button and waited until the last of the punter's cars had swerved right and headed toward the car park. He closed the gates and then the drapes, shutting out the sight of a copper's back outside the window.

  Once Croft had texted Darrow with the go-ahead, it was down to the detective from there on out. What came after that could turn nasty, what with the police and Frost's men being armed. He stood in the middle of the room and felt for his own gun, tucked snugly in his waistband.

  He only hoped he never had to use it.

  With a deep breath, he left the living room, purposely keeping his gaze away from where the kids had been taken. Upstairs, he selected a couple of suits, two shirts, ties, underwear, socks and shoes, guessing Russell's and Toby's sizes. He also grabbed fresh towels and a new bottle of shower gel. Taking everything downstairs, he walked through the kitchen to the door beside the breakfast bar, inserting his key and unlocking it. Securing it again on the other side, he strode to the basement door and did the same there. Walking down the stairs, he flicked on the light. Someone cursed. The light was too bright, then. He hung the clothes on a hook and placed the towels and gel on a chair beside the shower stall.

  He walked toward the two men on the mattress, arms swinging.

  Russell was awake. Toby appeared to be asleep.

  “Right,” he said, watching Russell blink and try to see him properly. “You've got yourself a reprieve.”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  Russell sat up and stared at Beard. Had he heard him right? “What do you mean?”

  “Frost wants you upstairs tonight.”

  “What for?” He eyed the man with suspicion. After the shit they'd been through, he didn't trust any fucker anymore except Toby.

  Beard dug into his pocket for a bunch of keys and stood on the mattress, feet either side of Russell's thighs. “If you try anything when I unlock you, just bear in mind every man upstairs is armed.” He slid the key into the manacle, lifting the top half.

  The metal drew back with a tiny squeak, the weight of it putting pressure on the edge of the lower half so it bit into Russell's skin. He cringed and held back a cry of pain, lifting his free, heavy arm to take the offending thing away. He dropped it to the mattress, the chain's jingle sending a rush of apprehension up his spine. A reprieve sounded good in one way but ominous in another. Wasn't Frost just delaying the inevitable?

  Maybe that's what the bastard's up to. Making us more scared before he finally decides to end it all. Getting pleasure out of us not knowing what the hell's going on and when he's going to off us.

  “You didn't answer my question,” Russell said. “What are we going upstairs for?”

  Beard stepped over to Toby, his footing unsteady on the springy surface. He gave Russell a sideways glance. His face looked like he was weighing up whether to tell him something. He sighed. “Look, I could tell you there's nothing to worry about. I could tell you, that after you've gone upstairs and seen whatever it is Frost wants you to see, heard whatever it is Frost has to say, everything will be all right. But I won't. D'you understand what I'm saying?”

  Did he? He thought so, but Russell didn't dare hope. Beard could be stringing them along, fucking with their minds. Despite the sincerity in Beard's eyes, Russell was confused as to what to believe. Being abducted, brought to God knew where, and whipped with a chain did that to a body.

  “So, you're telling me we ought to just do as we're told and everything will be all right?”

  Beard inserted the key into Toby's manacle. “Yeah, that's what I'm saying. It might not seem like that when you're up there, but trust me, things'll pan out.” He eased the manacle off Toby's wrist, gently, with care.

  What the fuck? He's acting like he gives a shit.

  “Trust you?” Russell said, a tired laugh leaving his parched mouth. His throat was so dry it hurt, and he swallowed, the lack of spittle bringing on more pain. “Listen to yourself, will you? Trust you, my arse. Would you trust you if you were me? I don't think so.”

  Beard backed off the mattress and stood on the floor at the end. “Listen, let him sleep for a bit longer, yeah? You need to shower, get yourself ready.”

  Russell looked down at his wrists. One was scabbed over, a ring of red craters, bruises a fierce purple backdrop to the scribble of blue veins showing prominently through his skin. The other was still raw, translucent fluid shining on the open sores, the crust of dried blood forming on the outer edges. He nearly rubbed them but stopped himself. That would hurt like a bitch.

  “I need to shower? What, doesn't Frost like killing dirty people?” He laughed at his joke, getting up on all fours and dragging himself to the end of the mattress. He winced as aches and pains took over his body. Disoriented after being prone for so long, he sat for a moment until his head stopped spinning. He looked up at Beard, who stared down at him, features showing compassion.

  “Fuck,” Beard said, sighing and rasping a hand over that black beard. He stared up at the ceiling as if asking for guidance, then back down again, pinning Russell with his gaze. “Russell, if I tell you something, you need to keep it to yourself, all right?”

  Russell nodded. What's going on? Not knowing, or knowing something was off with this scenario, set his nerves on edge. He tried to stand but failed.

  “Stay put for a minute,” Beard said. “And give him a nudge, will you?” He jerked his thumb toward Toby. “He needs to hear this too.”

  Russell studied Beard for a minute. The bloke looked on pins and needles, like he was about to break a motherfucking big rule. Russe
ll's instincts told him to trust the guy, and he reasoned that was all he had left now, instincts. Maybe having everything stripped away—dignity, life as he knew it—left him with only the tools he needed to survive.

  He leaned back and reached across to Toby, digging his elbow in the mattress for support, careful to lay his hand on a part of Toby's skin that wasn't covered in welts. Shaking his lover's shoulder, he whispered, “Toby. Wake up.” Toby shifted, pain scrunching his face even in sleep. “Come on, mate. You've got to wake up.”

  Toby opened his eyes, blinking in the light. He frowned, probably wondering why the light was on, and moved to sit up. He groaned and flopped back down, lifting one hand to shield his eyes. “What's going on?”

  “The big bastard who took us is here.” Russell gave Beard an apologetic glance, though why he did was anyone's guess. He didn't owe the man sod all, shouldn't even be trusting him, but survival was on his mind, and he'd do anything to make sure he and Toby got out of this mess alive.

  “My name's Croft,” Beard said. “Just so you know. I'll wait over here, but try and get a move on, yeah?” He glanced at his watch then walked back to the stairway and leaned on the wall, staring down at fingers that played against one another in an agitated beat.

  Russell regarded him a minute. Something about—Croft, did he say?—told him the man wasn't acting like someone loyal to his boss. Him telling Russell everything would be all right wasn't consistent with what Russell knew of him prior to now. What was his game?

  He's fucking going against Frost! Jesus Christ...

  “What's going on?” Toby eased up onto his elbows, face creasing once again, a gasp and curse leaving him.

  “I'm not sure,” Russell said, pushing up and shunting back down the mattress. He looked over his shoulder. “But we need to get showered and dressed. And Croft there,” he indicated the man with a nod, “has got something to tell us. Reckons it's going to be all right when we go upstairs.”

  Toby shifted to sit beside Russell. “All right? What the fuck is all right about this place? And does all right mean not dead? Fuck, this shit is doing my head in.”