Terror's Reach

by Tom Bale

  back to the window and hoisted himself up onto the cistern. He leaned

  out, gripping the underside of the window frame as his head protruded

  into the cool night air.

  He stopped for a moment, considering whether he possessed either

  the aptitude or the will to go any further. He was no one’s idea of an

  athlete. His arms and legs were pitifully weak, and if they gave out

  on him now it might be the last thing he did. He wouldn’t survive

  landing on his head.

  And he didn’t like heights: a fact he’d been neatly skirting around

  until now, when it was impossible to block out any longer. Even

  though he was trying not to look down, he could sense the void that

  existed between his body and solid ground.

  He took a deep breath and pushed the fear away. He imagined that

  Priya was in the bathroom with him. Do this right, she was saying, and I’ll give you anything you want. Anything you desire . . .

  Oliver wriggled backwards, his thighs digging into the frame. The

  window was set into one of the dormers that his father had incorporated

  into the house design, and it meant there was a small rectangle

  of flat roof directly above the bathroom. Thanks to his long limbs,

  Oliver was able to reach up and grip the edge of the roof, while his

  feet were planted on the toilet cistern.

  That left him crouching, half in and half out of the house. Now

  the void beneath him had assumed mythic proportions. He levered

  himself up, knowing he must present a comical but precarious sight,

  clinging on for dear life. And the worst was yet to come.

  The dormer roof was clad in some kind of smooth dark material possibly

  lead. It was slightly raised at the front, presumably to direct

  rainwater towards the gutter at the rear. Oliver found he could hold

  it quite comfortably. But could he lever himself up onto the roof?

  Only the thought of outflanking his father gave him the impetus

  to try. Because it wasn’t just Priya’s admiring gaze that spurred him

  on. It was picturing the look on his father’s face when his goons came

  to report Oliver missing.

  The guards ushered Joe, Liam and Valentin back across the room and

  forced them to sit on the floor between the sofas. When Felton didn’t

  emerge from the dressing room, Yuri strode over to the doorway and

  said something.

  A moment later Felton stepped into view, nestling one of the large

  gold ingots on his forearm as though it were a favoured pet. He dropped

  it on the bed and smiled as it sank deep into the covers.

  'What did you mean about Cassie and the children?’ Joe asked.

  Acting as though he hadn’t heard, Felton poured himself another

  glass of champagne.

  'Had an idea for a wager. Yuri’s chomping at the bit to have some

  quality time with his erstwhile colleague, so we may as well spice it

  up a little. It’s some sort of private dispute, I take it?’

  Felton addressed the question to Valentin, who played it dumb. Joe

  gathered that Felton was talking about him.

  'What did you mean about Cassie?’ he asked again.

  'My agenda, Joe.’ Felton raised the glass to Valentin. 'That one bar

  will fetch about two hundred and twenty thousand. Interested?’

  Valentin looked mystified. 'You are offering me this … for what?’

  'I just told you,’ said Felton, exasperated. 'My man Yuri versus your

  man Joe.’

  'So what is the deal?’

  'If Joe wins, you get the gold bar. If Yuri wins, Joe gets to stay alive.’

  Felton turned to Yuri. 'Unless you’d prefer a fight to the death?’

  Yuri shrugged: Fine with me.

  'Well, let’s keep an open mind on that. If Joe dies, maybe I’ll take

  whatever’s left in your safe. That seem fair?’

  Valentin still looked perplexed. And this is it? The whole deal?’

  'Lord, no. This is just a side bet, purely for our amusement. Rather

  like the sort of stunts your pal Liam used to pull in the City. No, the main deal we’re doing here concerns your mineral rights in Kajitestan.’

  'No,’ said Valentin. It was a gut response, but Felton took no notice.

  'You’re going to sign it all over to me. Every last drop of oil, every

  scrap of copper and zinc. And I want a signed undertaking that you’ll

  provide all the necessary permits, introductions and inducements

  necessary for the maximum exploitation of those rights.’ A beat of

  silence. 'Oh, and I’m taking your house as well.’

  'What?’

  'I want you off the Reach. This is my island now.’

  Valentin finally tried to speak, blustering something that sounded

  like gibberish in English or any other language.

  'Don’t get so worked up,’ Felton cautioned him. 'This is a very

  generous proposition. You’ll still have that nice apartment in

  London, and that tacky one in Miami where you entertain your whores.

  I’m letting you keep all the decent art, the stuff you sneaked into

  hiding. In fact, you can still go ahead with your fraudulent insurance

  claim for all I care.’

  And what about the rest of us?’ Liam asked.

  Felton gave a sombre nod, as if to say he had been coming to that.

  'Your role will be to take the rap for what’s happened here, and

  think yourselves lucky. You get to escape with your lives, providing

  you keep your mouth shut about Valentin’s involvement.’

  And if we don’t?’

  Felton clicked his tongue. 'Even when you’re detained at Her

  Majesty’s pleasure, don’t for one second think you’re beyond my reach.’

  'What about the other residents?’ said Joe.

  'They’ll be released unharmed. At the appropriate time, they’ll

  receive a very generous offer to sell up. From now on I intend to

  control who lives here.’ He flapped his hand in Valentin’s direction.

  'No more foreign undesirables, for a start.’

  Valentin spat on the carpet. And if I refuse?’

  'If you refuse, well. . .’ Felton took a slow, measured sip of champagne.

  'What do you think might happen, Joe?’

  Oliver split a fingernail, clawing at the roof as he hauled himself up.

  Oddly, the sight of blood gave him a comforting rush. He was engaged

  in the type of strenuous physical challenge that real men welcomed with

  gusto. It was a mindset he normally despised: right now he could

  appreciate the thrill of it.

  Kneeling on the tiny rectangle of lead, he breathed slowly and waited

  for his nerves to settle. It was extraordinarily quiet out here. A brilliant

  starry night with only a sliver of moon, the sea black and glistening

  like oil. White flashes in the air revealed themselves as seagulls, gliding

  through the darkness. For a moment Oliver felt humbled by his lowly

  place in the universe: as though anything that happened here tonight

  could possibly matter in the scheme of things.

  Eventually he felt secure enough to plan his next move. The main

  roof rose above him at a pitch of about forty-five degrees. It was clad

  in grey slate, with contrasting red clay tiles on the ridge. By lying flat,

  Oliver thought he should be able to crawl the thirty feet or so to the

  top, then work his way along to the opposite
side of the house.

  Scared and yet exhilarated, he stood up and pressed himself against

  the interlocking slates. They felt rough to the touch, still warm from

  the day’s heat. He knew they would bear his weight, but was the angle

  of elevation shallow enough to prevent him from sliding to his death?

  'Guess I’ll soon find out,’ he murmured.

  'Why are you asking me?’ said Joe. Even before the words were out,

  he realised he knew the answer.

  'Your boss doesn’t seem too bothered about his family’s whereabouts,

  but I take it you are.’ Felton grinned. 'That was impressive work,

  fighting your way free. And some nifty driving, from what I heard.’

  'They’re safe,’ Joe said. But it was a hollow declaration, the words

  of a man endeavouring to convince himself.

  'Sure about that?’

  'I won’t give them up.’

  'You misunderstand, Joe,’ said Felton, his voice silky in victory;

  almost musical. 'You see, you might have foiled the first attempt to

  snatch them. But the second attempt succeeded.’

  Fifty

  'You’re lying,’ said Valentin.

  You don’t really believe that,’ Felton said. 'I have them all. Cassie,

  and her boy, and your baby daughter. My ultimate insurance policy

  against any mishaps tonight. Any over-confidence, any defiance or

  displays of rebellion, and it all ends badly for the children.’

  'Felton’s bluffing,’ Joe told Valentin. 'I got them to safety. No one

  knows where they are.’

  A cackle from across the room, to which Felton added: 'Not quite

  true.’

  Joe turned and saw Yuri holding a mobile phone between his finger

  and thumb. Joe’s phone. Yuri had taken it when he’d captured Joe

  down on the deck. But it shouldn’t have been of any use to them,

  unless . . .

  'She left message for you,’ said Yuri. 'Stupid bitch didn’t use her

  cellphone. She called from landline.’

  A homely little B&B in Chichester, wasn’t it?’ Felton said. 'I really

  have to thank you for bringing them so close to home. It took us no

  time at all to fetch them.’

  'So where are they now? Here?’

  'Nowhere you’ll find them.’

  'If any harm comes to them . . .’ Joe said, but Felton only laughed.

  You won’t be in a position to defend anyone. Besides, as Valentin

  says, this is business. Once the paperwork’s been signed and authenticated

  by lawyers, they’ll be released untouched. A matter of a few

  days at most – providing I have Valentin’s complete cooperation.’

  'Prove it,’ Valentin said. 'Prove this is not a bluff.’

  'Very well.’ Felton produced the voice recorder and selected a file.

  For a second or two all they heard was a low electronic buzz. Felton

  noticed Joe desperately listening for background noise that might give

  a clue to the location of the recording. He shook his head: You won’t

  do it.

  Then a woman’s voice broke the silence. 'Valentin? It’s me, Cassie.

  Please give them what they want.’ They heard the tears spill over into

  her voice. 'Don’t let them hurt us. Please, Valentin . . .’

  Felton cut the tape. 'I think that’s more than sufficient.’

  He was Batman. A creature of the night. A dark avenger.

  Oliver smiled. He adored The Dark Knight, had watched it a

  hundred times, knew every line and move and nuance. But it was

  never the Batman whom he wanted to emulate. It was Heath Ledger’s

  Joker that had spoken to him, made a connection deep in his soul.

  Amoral, adrift and utterly alive in every moment of his existence.

  That was the lesson Oliver took from the movie. That was the lesson

  he tried to apply now.

  The climb to the ridge of the roof was perilous but exciting. He

  clambered up and sat astride the red clay tiles. Riding the house like

  a mighty steed. He giggled at the image, and wondered if he wasn’t

  a little too high on adrenalin. Might have to tamp it down a bit.

  Shuffling along to the front of the house was easy, but he wasn’t

  looking forward to the descent. Much easier to fall when you were

  already heading down: the momentum always threatening to take

  control.

  In the end he was able to negotiate it without too much difficulty.

  There was a valley on the roofs north-east corner, which lessened the

  gradient. Oliver crept down and eased across to the next dormer.

  It was about the same size as the one he’d emerged from, but with a

  narrow pitched roof. It too had a single window, just large enough to

  accommodate him.

  He stood to one side of it, his toes pointing into the gutter. Gripping

  the top of the dormer roof tightly with both hands, he braced one foot

  against the main roof and used his other to kick at the glass.

  The impact was horribly loud and hurt his toes, but it failed to

  break the glass. He should have anticipated this and brought a tool.

  He kicked the window again, aiming for the top corner rather than

  the centre of the glass. He’d read somewhere that it was weaker around

  the edges than in the middle. The window still didn’t break, but it

  cracked. Almost broke his foot as well.

  The third time did it. The glass shattered with a sound that

  seemed to expand and fill the universe above him. It made Oliver

  jump so badly that he nearly let go. He clung to the dormer roof,

  too petrified to move, waiting for the inevitable response: shouts,

  doors slamming, even gunfire.

  But none came.

  After a couple of minutes he leaned out and confirmed that the

  attic room, his beloved sanctuary, was empty. He kicked the remaining

  shards of glass from the frame, swung his body round and went in

  feet first. He landed as softly as he could, crunching on the broken

  glass, and waited again, his heart racing.

  Still nothing. Oliver pressed the button to open the hatch. More

  noise as the ladder began to extend: a low-pitched metallic grinding

  that seemed to rattle through the house like a dentist’s drill.

  He made it down the ladder, and there was no ambush; no one

  came running. He debated whether to put the ladder back up and

  decided that he must. After pressing the button he hurried away,

  pushed through the door to the main corridor, and that was when

  he heard footsteps coming towards him.

  He ducked into the nearest room. Crouched behind the door and

  listened as several people tramped past. Risked a look and glimpsed

  the tail end of the group – Valentin Nasenko and one of the guards – turning the corner onto the short landing that led towards the games

  room.

  It seemed a peculiar destination, but Oliver had long ago given up

  trying to fathom the logic of his father’s actions. At least they were

  moving beyond the main stairs, which meant he should be able to

  get out of the house safely.

  But why the games room? What on earth could they want in there?

  Fifty-One

  Liam watched in sullen silence as the other prisoners were herded

  from the room. It stung his ego that he wasn’t deemed important

  enough to be taken along for the s
how. He was left in the custody of

  a single guard, a thin-faced man with eyes as small and black as rabbit

  droppings.

  He consoled himself with the thought that at least he wasn’t

  being fed to Yuri in the name of sport. Yuri was an ogre, a fact that

  Liam had conveniently managed to ignore all the time he was Valentin’s ogre. Now that Yuri belonged to Felton, he was a very

  different proposition.

  Joe had proved himself pretty resourceful so far today, but Liam

  couldn’t see him putting up much opposition to the Ukrainian. No

  doubt that was why Felton was so enthusiastic about the wager in the

  first place. It might be all over in a minute or two.

  And then what?

  His guess was that Felton would carve out the deal he wanted, and

  Valentin would meekly go along with it. With his wife and daughter

  held hostage he really had no choice. Then Felton and his men would

  melt away into the night, leaving Valentin to summon the police and

  let nature take its course.

  Liam felt a tightening in his throat at the thought of what lay ahead:

  decades of incarceration, impossible to endure. He noticed the guard

  smirking at the misery etched on his face, and he found the strength

  to push the self-pity aside. He nodded towards the dressing room.

  'Don’t suppose your man left the panic room door open?’

  The guard said nothing.

  'Only I’m thinking, we grab ourselves a couple of bars each and

  get the hell out of here. What do you say?’

  The guard shook his head. 'What I say is: I’m earning plenty for

  this. And I’m going nowhere with a fucking Paddy. It was you bastards

  killed my uncle, on patrol in Armagh.’

  Liam almost had to laugh. Just his luck.

  His thoughts turned to Priya, and whether she had survived the

  assault on the garage. He was certain he’d felt Turner go down, and

  maybe someone else as well. If Priya was alive, it was odd that she

  hadn’t been brought next door. Such an exotic creature would

  definitely intrigue a ladies’ man like Felton. Unless he didn’t know

  that much about her—

  The revelation was stunning – a forehead-slapping moment, if his

  hands hadn’t been taped behind his back. Liam felt a turbulent mix

  of emotions. Anger at himself for not working it out sooner. Disgust

  that he’d wasted such an opportunity, and made a bloody fool of