Scared (7 page)

"Fuck it!"

He lifted his bound hands and cradled his forehead. Rain bounced on the roof, exacerbating the throb in his temples.

Toby. Had they got him too?

"Oi!” he shouted, glancing toward the driver's seat.

A metal grate with a small door in the centre partitioned him off from the front of the van. What was this, a former prison van? An old bloke sat in the passenger seat, his white-haired head facing forward. The black-bearded man paced back and forth in front of the windshield, phone clamped to his ear. The rain drenched him despite his hat and coat.

"Don't bother wasting your time,” the old man said. “He's a nasty one."

Russell recognised his voice. He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “Mr Jacob?"

What the fuck is Toby's boss doing here?

"Yes, lad. That's me.” He turned his head a little to look through the grate, seeming to want to keep his other eye on the man outside. “He's picking Toby up next. Heard him there, talking on the phone.” He nodded to the windshield.

Russell frowned, battling to comprehend the madness of this situation. “How did you...? What did he...?"

"Got hold of me this morning. Early. At the produce yard."

"But it's around about eleven o'clock now. What's he been doing with you since then?” Russell's mind went crazy, questions popping up like bubbles in a glass of soda.

"They'd seen Toby at the yard before. Didn't know he usually works in the office. Needed me to show them where it was. He's got something he wants me to do in a bit. Don't know what, though. Thought it best I didn't ask.” He turned fully and pointed to his face.

A bruise was coming out on the old man's cheek, just below his left eye.

"Jesus.” Russell swallowed.

These men meant business. The future didn't look too bright.

Russell cleared his throat. “So where have you been since this morning?"

"Driving around. Went to your flat. Watched you get in the car; saw Toby dropping you off at the cemetery. We followed him after but lost him in traffic. The plan was to get him first. Then he got hold of some bloke on the phone and ranted about needing a street cleared. Something about road blocks."

What? This is like being in some fucking movie!
“He say whether he was letting you go?” Russell jerked his head toward the bearded bloke, who was speaking into the phone as though angry, cheeks stained pink.

"Yes. If I do what they want and keep my mouth shut after.” Mr Jacob gave a wry chuckle. “And if this debacle is anything to go by, I'm doing as I'm told. Besides, the threat to my wife— He's coming. Shush."

The bearded man snapped his phone closed and climbed into the van. “Right, onward and upward!” He started the engine and pulled the van away from the curb.

"What d'you want Mr Jacob for?” Russell asked, wanting to sound menacing and someone Beard didn't want to mess with.

Who am I kidding?

"Keep your fucking nose out,” Beard said, his tone weary.

"Just do as he says,” Mr Jacob said, keeping his gaze forward.

Beard's arm shot out, his fist connecting with Mr. Jacob's cheek. “And you can keep your nose out and all."

Mr Jacob's head smacked into the side window, and he let out a whimper. Poor old bastard didn't deserve that.

"Leave it out, yeah?” Russell said, looking at Beard in the rear-view mirror.

"Look.” Beard sighed. “Shut. The fuck. Up.” He paused, then, “Or the old man gets another one."

Russell clamped his lips together and breathed heavily through his nose. Adrenaline surged through him, making him sick to his stomach. Who the hell hit old men?

Evidently, people who worked for a guy named Frost.

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask who Frost was again, to find out more information, but he stopped himself just in time.

They travelled into town, the van pulling up beside a post box.

The rain had ceased on the journey, but it looked like it wouldn't be long before it started up again. Russell had the inane thought that the weatherman needed shooting for giving out the wrong information.

Beard cut the engine and swivelled in his seat so he faced Mr Jacob. “Right, you're going to ring your office and tell whoever answers that Toby needs to post some mail."

"But the letters won't be ready yet. We don't do them until—"

"Shut up.” Beard scowled, looked at the ceiling, and huffed out an angry breath. “The letters are already on the reception desk. So, I'll start again. You're going to ring the office. Get someone to tell Toby you rang and asked him to post those letters. You don't say anything else, right? No hidden messages, nothing. Do as you're told, and I'll let you go. But, as I said earlier, if you don't keep your mouth shut, I'll come back for you. Wherever you go. Got it?"

Mr Jacob nodded frantically. “Yes, yes. I'll do whatever you say. Whatever you want."

"Good. Progress at last.” Beard handed him his phone. “There you go."

Mr Jacob swallowed audibly. “So, you want Toby—"

"To deliver the fucking mail
now
, yeah.” Beard shook his head, lips tight together as though he was holding back on what he really wanted to say.

"Right. Okay. Right."

Mr Jacob took the phone in a shaking hand, and Russell bowed his head, staring at the carpet. Easing forward, he pinched some of the fibres and, although it was awkward, managed to put them in his jacket pocket. Who knew whether they'd come in handy later for the police?
If
he was lucky enough to get out of this shit.

He closed his eyes while Mr. Jacob spoke, the poor old duffer's voice quavering and full of fear. Or did it sound like that because Russell knew Mr Jacob was shitting his pants? Would whoever answered pick up on the change in his voice?

"The letters are in reception, Martha,” he said. “No, I know I haven't been in yet today, and yes, I know we don't usually send letters this early, but I'm your boss, and if you question me again... Yes. Right now... Martha...
Now!
"

The sound of the phone clicking shut brought Russell's head snapping up, and he looked through the grate. The old man shook as though a damn palsy victim.

He'll fucking have a heart attack in a minute.

"Good man,” Beard said, taking the phone. “Once Toby's in the back, you can go. No need to tell you he won't be returning to work in the morning. Reckon you'll be busy this afternoon putting a job ad in the paper."

Russell's guts churned.

Beard stared past the old man and down the street to their left. “Won't be long and you can get back to your spuds and bananas, me old mate.” He laughed, somewhat sadly, and rasped his hand over his beard. “Now, both of you be quiet. I'm getting a fucking headache."

Russell stared down Fountain Street, his eyes straining for the first sight of Toby. Although he felt badly for thinking it, at least they'd be together in this. If he had to go through whatever lay ahead alone, he reckoned he'd crumble at the first sign of being hurt. Or would he? If he was alone in this, would thoughts of returning to Toby give him the strength he needed to carry on?

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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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.