by Ben Cheetham
Butterfly smiled at the news, but always the shadow of her missing baby hung over her. In the same way that Jack felt himself growing closer to her, she felt herself growing more distant from her baby.
The following morning, at Butterfly’s request, Jack bought her some clothes – tracksuit bottoms and a sweatshirt – and they went for a walk in the hospital grounds. She moved like someone learning a complicated dance. Jack held her elbow, steadying her. She inhaled deeply of the cold air. “Smells good, doesn’t it?” he said, remembering how he’d felt after being discharged.
The walk put new colour in Butterfly’s face, bringing out a depth of beauty that Jack hadn’t seen in her before. They didn’t go far, not because she was tired – walking renewed her strength – but because of concerns for her safety. Two armed officers shadowed them, but that wouldn’t prevent someone with a long-range rifle from taking a pot-shot.
The next day and the day after that, they went on more walks, varying the time and route just to be on the safe side. Jack no longer needed to hold Butterfly’s elbow. Her step was firm and sure. She eyed the city beyond the hospital grounds as if eager to go exploring. “It’s funny,” she said. “I don’t remember any of it, yet when I look at it I get the strongest feeling of déjà vu.”
“Maybe when you go out there you’ll start remembering things,” said Jack.
“Maybe,” Butterfly echoed as if she wasn’t sure whether that would be a good thing.
She remained silent for the rest of the walk, a knot tightening between her eyebrows. Jack sensed that something was brewing inside her. When they got back to her room, the storm broke. She clutched her belly – which had been slowly but surely deflating day by day – as if she was in agony and said, “It’s gone!”
Jack tried to calm her down, but she kept crying out, “It’s gone,” until her voice was shrill with hysteria. When a doctor tried to sedate her for fear that she would injure herself, she fought him wildly, kicking and screaming. It took four nurses to hold her still enough to inject her safely.
After the medication dragged Butterfly down into sleep, Jack sat staring at her, his forehead furrowed. The lines remained even when the doctor informed him that her vital signs were stable, He couldn’t stop thinking about her face as she’d lashed out. It had contorted into an unrecognisable mask of rage. Almost as if she was possessed by a malevolent entity.
Butterfly slept right through the day. Jack was about to leave when her eyelids fluttered apart. “Where are you going?” she asked, her voice hoarse but otherwise back to its normal self.
He looked at her intently, searching for signs of that other face. There were none. “To pick up Naomi.”
“But you only just got here.”
“It’s almost three o’clock.”
Butterfly’s eyebrows lifted. “Did I fall asleep?”
Jack nodded. She clearly had no memory of what had happened. Her surprise turned to disappointment. “I’m sorry, Jack.”
He gave her a strained smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Butterfly’s tattoo came alive as creases spread from the corners of her eyes. “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are we OK?”
Jack hesitated – only for a heartbeat – before replying, “Yes.” He stooped to kiss Butterfly’s forehead.
He could feel her eyes on him as he left the room. The raw need in them made him want to rush back to her side and reassure her that his feelings hadn’t changed. But one question wouldn’t allow him to do so – what if Butterfly had one of those episodes around Naomi?
He was still turning the question over in his mind as he pulled away from the hospital. He drove on automatic pilot, silently arguing with himself. How can you risk exposing Naomi to that? It’s just stress. Once the baby is back with her, she won’t have any reason for those kinds of hysterics. But what if we don’t find the baby? Or what if we do and the episodes continue?
An extended beeeep! jerked Jack’s full attention to the road. A car was pulling out of a side-street to his left. He slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding ploughing into it. The driver gesticulated angrily. Jack raised a hand in apology and the car accelerated away.
His phone rang. He took it out – ‘Butterfly’. He heaved a breath as a pair of all too familiar questions came to mind – why couldn’t life be simple just for once? Why did there always have to be anxiety and uncertainty? He put the receiver to his ear. “Hi there.”
“Hi,” Butterfly replied tentatively. “I just wanted to make sure that… Well it seemed like something was bothering you.”
“Hang on a second, Butterfly. Let me pull into the side of the road and we can–” The roar of a vehicle fast approaching from the rear interrupted Jack. Twisting around, he saw a Range Rover bearing down on him like a charging rhino. Shiny steel bull bars enclosed the SUV’s front end. Tinted windows masked the driver. He just had time to shout, “Shit!” before the vehicle slammed into his bumper. The back end of his car crumpled like a Coke can under the impact. His head whipped back against the seat, then forwards into an exploding airbag.
Blood dripped from his nose as he groggily lifted his head. The pain in his injured shoulder was almost as intense as when he’d first been shot. But it was nothing compared to the jolt that went through him as, in the wing mirror, he saw the face that had inhabited his nightmares for the past week-and-a-half. Ryan’s dark stubble had thickened into a beard. He was advancing towards Jack with his usual dead-eyed calm, pistol in hand.
“Jack,” Butterfly’s worried voice came through the receiver. “Are you there?”
“It’s Ryan,” hissed Jack. There was no time to say anything else. Ryan was at the window and Jack found himself staring into the handgun’s barrel.
Jack flung one hand up in front of his face as if he could deflect a bullet with it. With his other hand, he stuffed the phone down his trousers. Naomi’s perfect little face flashed through his mind. He heard himself saying to her, I promise. It seemed he was about to break his promise. He braced himself for the flash of the muzzle, the explosion of noise and the impact of the bullet. At this range, he was sure he wouldn’t feel much. It would all be over in a split second.
Instead of pulling the trigger, Ryan motioned for Jack to get out. Jack did so, his hands spread, his muscles coiled and ready. Ryan’s eyes gleamed dully from their deep sockets, giving away nothing. His voice was equally emotionless as he said, “Get down on your face.”
“Think about your children, Ryan. Give yourself up.” Jack knew his words would have no effect, but every second that passed was a second in which a chance to fight or flee might present itself.
“Get down on your face,” Ryan repeated in the same flat tone.
Taking his time, Jack did so. Ryan pressed the gun against the back of his head. Jack fought against a rising tide of panic, telling himself, He won't shoot you – at least not here – otherwise you’d already be dead. Ryan’s next words confirmed the thought, “Put your hands together.”
Jack grimaced as a plastic zip-tie was slipped over his wrists and yanked tight. It felt like his injured shoulder was being twisted out of joint. The grimace turned into a yelp as Ryan hauled him upright. “You can still stop this, Ryan,” gasped Jack. “You can still live to see your children grow up.”
Ryan thrust him towards the Range Rover. A hundred or so metres further on a van pulled out of an industrial unit. This is your chance! Jack’s mind yelled. Run for the van.
Steely fingers closed around Jack’s arm. “Don’t try anything,” Ryan warned as if reading his mind.
The van drove away in the opposite direction. The chance passed as quickly as it had come.
The Range Rover’s boot was open. Ryan shoved Jack into it. He looped a zip-tie around Jack’s ankles and pulled it tight.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” said Jack as Ryan picked up a roll of Duct tape and tore off a strip.
“Yes it does,” stated Ryan,
slapping the tape over Jack’s mouth. He closed the boot, confining Jack in darkness. The engine came alive and they accelerated away as casually as if Ryan had stopped for groceries.
Chapter 36
Jack tried in vain to work his wrists and ankles free. The zip-ties cut into his flesh. He felt warm blood running over his skin, but even with that lubrication the ties were too tight to escape from. He squirmed around, feeling for anything that might be of help – a sharp edge to saw through the ties, a latch to open the boot. There was nothing. Scrunching himself up, he kicked at the underside of the boot until he was breathless and soaked with sweat. He rubbed his face against the boot’s carpeted base, peeling away the Duct tape.
“Help!” he yelled over and over until he was hoarse.
Finally, he lay motionless and concentrated on breathing slowly and conserving his strength. He could feel the phone pressing into his groin. While it remained there he had a chance. Butterfly heard what happened, he told himself. She’s called the police. Wherever this bastard’s taking you, they won’t be far behind. Just do as he says. Don’t give him any excuse to kill you too quickly.
“If you’re still there, Butterfly, I’m tied up in the boot of a black Range Rover with tinted windows and bull-bars,” Jack said as loudly as he dared. He strained his ears for a reply. Nothing. “I was on Waterloo Road in Cheetwood when Ryan got me. He has a handgun.” Again, only silence in reply.
After maybe ten or fifteen minutes, the Range Rover came to a stop. There was a muffled metallic rattling. The SUV pulled forwards a short distance. “We’re stopping,” Jack said on the off-chance that the call hadn’t been cut off. “I think we’re in a building.” There was more rattling. “Sounds like it has a roller door.” A breathless moment passed, then the boot swung open.
Jack blinked as what seemed like blindingly bright light streamed into his eyes. Pain lanced through his shoulder as Ryan pulled him feet-first out of the boot. The breath whooshed from his lungs as he dropped onto an oil-stained concrete floor. He squinted at his surrounds as he was dragged along the floor. They were in some sort of industrial building. High overhead strip-lights dangled from cobwebby wooden beams that supported a corrugated roof. Hulking machinery clogged with grease and rust inhabited the shadows to either side. Alongside the machines was a collection of high-end vehicles – SUVs, BMWs, Mercedes, Audis. Ryan had clearly taken him to a storage unit similar to those at Hawkshead Manor. But they hadn’t been driving long enough for this one to be located outside the city.
“Where are we? Is this another of your stolen car warehouses?” Jack said more for the benefit of Butterfly or anyone else who might be listening in than because he expected an answer.
In reply, Ryan got hold of Jack’s arms and lifted him into a wooden chair. Next to the chair was a scratched old Formica table. Panic welled up inside Jack again at what was on the table – pliers, a hacksaw, bolt-cutters, knives, what looked to be a blow torch, bundles of zip-ties. Keep it together! he commanded himself. Say something to delay this fucker. But what? Anything!
“What do you want from me?” Jack asked, fear threatening to snatch away his voice. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Ryan wordlessly set to work on securing Jack to the chair with zip-ties.
“I can help you,” continued Jack, “I can tell you how many constables are at the hospital and where they’re posted.”
Ryan took off his jacket and laid it on the table, exposing his ‘LOVE::. ALICE::’ tattoo. There were two freshly inked dots. Ryan’s unreadable eyes roamed over the table’s contents. He selected the bolt-cutters.
“Don’t do this, Ryan,” pleaded Jack. His mind scrambled for something else to say that would give Ryan pause for thought. “I… I…”
Ryan raised a finger to his lips. He tapped his tattoo. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
He traced a finger almost tenderly over the new dots. “PC Tim Jones. PC Craig Barton.” His finger came to rest on an unadorned patch of skin. “This is where you’re going.”
Jack looked at the blank space as bleakly as someone surveying a graveyard plot reserved for them.
Ryan’s finger moved towards Jack’s feet. “I’m going to cut off your toes,” he said matter-of-factly. “Then I’m going to cut off your fingers, your ears, your nose, your tongue, your arms and legs. And when there’s nothing else left, I’m going to cut off your head. And then I’m going to do the same to your sister.”
In an instant, Jack’s expression transformed from fear to fury. He bucked in the chair, straining against his bonds, not caring about the pain in his shoulder. The chair tipped over but didn’t break apart. Ryan looked on impassively until Jack lapsed into gasping stillness. Then he bent to lift the chair upright.
Jack bit down on his anger, telling himself, Don’t give this psycho the satisfaction. Somehow, from somewhere deep inside, he found sufficient calm to say, “We both chose this life. We accepted the risks. But Laura didn’t choose this. Don’t involve her.”
“It’s a bit late for that.”
Ryan put down the bolt-cutters and moved into the shadows behind Jack. There was the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. Ryan retreated into view, pulling a chair with a gagged figure zip-tied to it. Jack’s eyes swelled at the sight. Laura’s hair was glued to her face by sweat, her cheeks were as white as his knuckles, her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. The collar of her nurses’ uniform was torn as if she’d fought with Ryan, but she appeared to be unharmed.
“Motherfucker!” exploded Jack, straining so hard that the veins on his neck swelled like overinflated inner-tubes.
Ryan positioned Laura so that she had an unobstructed view of her brother.
Jack’s voice echoed from the rafters as he raged, “Hurt her and I’ll kill you! I swear to fucking god!”
Ryan stared at him as if to say, Is that it? Are you finished?
Jack subsided into trembling silence. Ryan squatted to undo Jack’s shoelaces. He drew back as Jack kicked at him. “Do that again and I’ll start with her,” warned Ryan, glancing at Laura.
Jack hauled in a shuddering breath. The AFOs are on their way, he told himself. They could be creeping up on this place right now. Even if Butterfly somehow doesn’t realise what’s going on, the officers assigned to protect Laura will be searching for her. The longer you can keep your head, the better her odds of getting out of this alive.
Ryan reached for Jack’s laces again. Jack remained motionless as Ryan removed his shoes and socks. Laura gave out a muffled cry, squirming against her bonds as Ryan retrieved the bolt-cutters. It’s alright, sis, Jack tried to tell her with his eyes. Everything will be alright.
He held her gaze as Ryan positioned the cold steel jaw of the bolt-cutters against one of his small toes. Ryan brought the handles together in a single effortless movement. There was a crunch of bone. Jack expelled his breath in a spittle-flecked rush. Little convulsions shook him. Laura sobbed and writhed as if it was her toe that had been severed. Ryan picked up the toe and examined it with clinical detachment. Blood was rapidly pooling around Jack’s foot.
Ryan tossed the toe aside, sparked a lighter and lit the blowtorch. He adjusted the yellow flame to a fierce blue hiss and aimed it at the bloody stump. There was a sizzle of burning flesh. The pain was worse than anything Jack had ever experienced. He would rather have been shot again. Somehow he held himself still so that Ryan could get the job done, but he couldn’t stop a scream from tearing out of him.
Ryan stepped back and surveyed his handiwork with that same detachment. “One down, nine more to go.”
“Fuck you!” Jack spat.
He stiffened as Ryan opened the bolt-cutter’s jaw and placed it against the next toe in line. Jack glared defiantly at his torturer. His head jerked backwards as if he’d been punched as the handles snapped together again.
“Oh you bastard,” gasped Jack, wrenching his gaze back to Ryan. “You sic
k bastard. I hope they put a bullet in your head like you did to Butterfly.”
“You’d like that wouldn’t you. You fucking murderer,” said Ryan.
Jack let out a semi-hysterical laugh. “You’re off your head!”
Ryan reached for the blowtorch. Jack hyperventilated as the flame moved towards the fresh stump. That same sizzle. That same bitter, roast pork stink of burning flesh. His scream echoed to the furthest reaches of the cavernous building. His head lolled, eyes rolling. He felt himself losing his grip on consciousness. Ryan tapped his cheek like a parent rousing a child from a deep sleep. “Jack. Jack.”
Through a sea of pain, Jack’s vision swam back into focus. His heart was playing a rapid, irregular beat that made him feel as if he couldn’t catch his breath. You can’t take much more of this, said part of his reeling mind. Yes you can! retorted another part. You’ll take it because Laura has to survive. Naomi needs her. He wondered how long it had been since he was kidnapped. Half-an-hour? An hour? Surely the police couldn’t be far away.
