The Edge of Sanity (18 page)

He didn’t bat a bloody eye. Charlie studied him, bemused. Like he didn’t care? Yeah, right. He didn’t want to hand Charlie any more Aces, more like.

‘Man, that was
some
bad trip. Real scary,’ Charlie continued chattily, determined to illicit a response from Daniel, who sat in steely-eyed silence.

‘Course, I gave her something else to, like, quieten her down,’ Charlie said magnanimously, noting with immense satisfaction as Daniel flinched.

Better, Charlie thought, getting to his feet. ‘Had to.’ He shrugged as he walked idly to the dressing table to spray himself liberally with after-shave.

He turned back to face them. ‘What else is a bloke supposed to do?’ he asked, with another innocent shrug. ‘If a person starts trying to pluck maggots off of themselves, you gotta do something, haven’t you?’

Nice one, Charlie. He congratulated himself. Graphic enough, he thought, to ensure they didn’t let their little girly suffer any longer than necessary. His mouth curved into a slow smirk as the woman clamped a hand over her mouth and stumbled to the bathroom. Charlie let her go. She didn’t have time to close the door.

****

Daniel sat immobile, his head resting on steepled hands, his eyes closed—and seeing with crystal-clear clarity his daughter, either screaming in absolute terror, or scared half-to-death, bewildered and utterly alone. No amount of counting could block that out. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, his throat tight.

‘Your money,’ Charlie said, matter-of-factly. ‘In exchange for which you get your daughter back, relatively unharmed.’ He rested the gun on his shoulder and hitched himself on the edge of the dressing table, legs crossed and waiting expectantly.

Daniel nodded slowly, lowered his hands to his chin and eyed the bastard thoughtfully. ‘No dice,’ he said at length.

‘No …?’ Charlie gawped, incredulous. ‘No w
hat
?’ He aimed the gun at Daniel in a split-second flat.

‘No dice,’ Daniel repeated, easing himself painfully from the chair. ‘Not unless I get certain assurances.’

‘What the …!?’ Charlie lowered the gun, apparently flummoxed. ‘This is not open for negotiation, you prat. Who the
hell
do you think you are?’

‘The man with the money,’ Daniel suggested.

He was pushing his luck, he knew. But that sicko thought he was going to sit back and let him do Christ-knew-what with his family.

‘I have something you want—and you’re obviously going to get it,’ he paused to allow Charlie to assimilate, hopefully forestalling any reaction. ‘If you don’t get what you want, someone is going to end up dead, aren’t they?’ Daniel went on, choosing his words carefully. ‘I don’t particularly want to be that someone, any more than you’d want to sit in a six-by-four cell for the rest of your life.’

Charlie narrowed his eyes, watching Daniel’s casual pace around the room with suspicion. ‘So?’ he asked.

‘So we negotiate.’ Daniel faced him. ‘Let my wife and daughter go and we’ll discuss it.’ The spineless little psycho wasn’t about to give up his bargaining power and actually let them go, Daniel was well aware of that. But he might compromise.

Charlie sneered. ‘Hah! Do us a favour. No way. And for future reference, I don’t much like people tellin’ me what to do. So don’t.’

‘I’m not telling you anything.’ Daniel eyed him levelly. ‘I’m asking you to see sense. The money you want—’

‘Nine-hundred odd grand,’ Charlie cut in.

‘Yes.’ Daniel nodded, expressionless, though his stomach turned over. That could only have come from Kayla, along with the other stuff about Emma. How much information had she offered freely to the smooth sicko who’d offered her a shoulder to cry on, and a few drugs to make it all better? And how much had she said under duress?

‘How many odd?’

‘What?’ Daniel asked, confused.

‘Loose change to you, I suppose?’ Charlie looked at him contemptuously. ‘I said—’

‘Nine-hundred and fifty thousand,’ Daniel clarified, wishing dearly he could stuff every single pound coin down the sick bastard’s throat.

Charlie nodded, his face passive, a greedy glint in his eye. ‘Sounds good,’ he said, straightening up. ‘So you go and get it, I tell you where your daughter is, and we can all get on with our lives.’

‘Small hitch in your plan,’ Daniel pointed out. ‘It’s on two days’ notice of withdrawal.’ He didn’t bother with the details, such as there actually being less than half that amount, once the business mortgage was cleared. ‘Obviously, I can’t give notice until tomorrow, which makes it two days and three nights before you have any hope of seeing any money.’

He paused, and prayed harder than he’d ever prayed in his life.

‘You’d have to pump her with a truckload of drugs to keep her quiet for that long. Bit risky, don’t you think?’ Daniel kept his tone moderate, though what was going on in his head was close to screaming insanity. If anything was risky, it was putting ideas into the psycho’s head.

Daniel gauged Charlie’s reaction carefully. He could almost hear the cogs going around. He watched the man as he deliberated, saw him twitch and scratch, as if imagining what the results of not having his own next fix might be, and knew he was right. He hadn’t got a truckload of drugs. Chances were, he was carrying, but that would be for his own use.

He might have an accomplice though. Panic rose in Daniel’s chest. But, even then, keeping hostages in two locations, meant two people to watch them, ergo, the psycho was stuffed. No one to go shopping for him.

What if he didn’t go for it? Daniel’s head swam. His legs felt like lead, and his lungs … He felt as if he were drowning from the inside. The freak had chosen his spot well. The ribs were definitely close to going. Daniel prayed they didn’t, because he’d need every breath in his body, all the strength he possessed, if he had to take a chance and kill the bastard with his bare hands. The man had to sleep sometime.

But he didn’t, did he? Daniel almost laughed at his own stupidity. The guy ran a candy shop. He’d be up as long as he needed to be—and “coming down”, as he obviously was now. He watched Charlie chew doggedly on a thumbnail as if it were his last meal, a myriad of expressions on his face as he mulled over his options.

‘Look, if you won’t let them go,’ Daniel hesitated, then suggested the only real option he’d thought Charlie might go for, ‘then let Kayla come home.’

‘Nah, not on.’ Charlie shook his head, and paced agitatedly—towards the bedroom door and back again, to the bathroom door, and back again. ‘I’ll just shoot her.’

‘Nothing to bargain with then,’ Daniel said, quickly, as Charlie paced towards the bed. ‘You have the gun,’ he went on before Charlie thought about what other bargaining tools he might have. ‘You’re in control.’

Daniel glanced at Jo, whose short nod told him she understood, but whose eyes told him what she was hearing was nothing short of sheer torture.

‘And if I see my family’s safe, I’ll do whatever you say. You’ll get the money,’ he paused. ‘All you have to do, Charlie, is stay in control.’

Chapter Twelve

Kayla blinked grainy eyelids, frantically trying to wash away the black. Black so oppressive, she could almost reach out and touch it.

She eased her head back, trying to relieve the crick in her neck, and attempted to tuck her hands under her chin, to curl up and let slumber reclaim her, but found she couldn’t. Panic-struck, she wriggled onto her back and tugged hard on her hands, only to find them restrained. She pulled harder, and succeeded in tightening the grip on her wrists further.

Oh, God, where was she? She gulped back a sudden sweeping nausea and tried to slow her pounding heart. Someone … Something was here with her, wherever she was. She concentrated hard, shifted the rhythm of her breathing, but still she could hear the rise and fall of soft breath, which echoed her own.

‘Hannah?’ she croaked, her throat like sandpaper.

No answer.

Kayla lifted her sluggish head as far as her arms would allow, twisted her knees from side to front, and hit a hard surface.

‘Oh, God,’ she whispered as the bed swayed, then see-sawed slowly beneath her, ‘
I’m so sorry.
’ She prayed hard.
Don’t let me be dead. Please, don’t let me be dead.
A sob escaped her throat. Where
was
she?

She tried to focus her mind, but came up with only patchy images: Her dad, going ballistic; pulling his arm tight around the bouncer’s neck until it snapped with a sickening crack.

But it wasn’t the bouncer who lay on the floor, bloodied and motionless. It was her dad.

She fast forwarded. He was leaning over her. She was in a strange room. His face was close to hers, except … it wasn’t her dad. He wasn’t wearing the right eyes. They were dull, lifeless—Devil’s eyes.

‘Hannah!’ she called louder, her voice trembling. ‘Hannah, please, where are …?’

Kayla stopped mid-sentence, clamping her mouth shut and straining her ears over her own rapid breathing. Scraping, she could hear it distinctly now. Scuffling and scraping, below her. Down underneath her almost. ‘Hannah!’ she screamed, petrified.

Rats! There were rats under the bed, and she was strung up like Jesus on the crucifix. And there were rats. But she wasn’t in bed. There was no
roof
on her bed. She screamed again, loud, shrill and long.

She kept screaming. The surface beneath her dipped and swayed violently, and still she kept screaming. A light sliced across her vision, so bright it left white imprints on her eyes, but still she kept screaming.

Pounding and scuffling rocked her world further, then, ‘Bloody ‘ell! Pack it up!’ she heard as she drew her knees up beneath her, ready to fight, and kick and scream, even it
was
the Devil himself.

But it wasn’t. She blinked, panting and breathless. ‘Steve?’ Kayla tried to make out the silhouette against the semi-light.

‘Yeah, it’s … Ouch! Bloody thing.’ Steve rubbed his head. ‘It’s me,’ he said, targeting the beam of a torch on Kayla’s face.

‘Steve!?’ Kayla said again, her voice something between a sob and a choke. ‘What’s going on? What’s …’ She tried to gulp back her tears, but couldn’t.

‘Shush. Shush.’ Steve brushed a hand clumsily over her hair. ‘Shush,’ he cooed again, as if to a baby. ‘It’s okay.’

Kayla recoiled, squirming away from him. ‘Get it off,’ she pleaded. ‘Please! Keep them off me.’

‘What?’ Steve furrowed his brow. ‘Keep what off?’ He shone the torch around the space she was in. ‘There’s nothing on you. Not even the blanket.’ He sighed, and reached for the duvet, which Kayla had scuffled to the end of the bed. ‘Cum’on. You’re freezin’!’ Steve pulled the duvet up over her.

‘Course, that might have something to do with the combined effects of dope, crack and bloody tranquillisers,’ he muttered, half under his breath. ‘Bloody Charlie, sadistic little—’

‘Rats!’ Kayla whimpered, her body trembling. ‘They’re chewing through the bed. They’re going to—’

‘Nah,’ Steve tried to reassure her. ‘There’s no rats. Look.’ He moved the torch around again.

‘There are!’ Kayla sobbed. ‘I can hear them.’

Steve cocked his head to one side. ‘You daft sod.’ A relieved smile split his face. ‘That’s not rats. It’s just some silly bleedin’ swans pecking at the bottom of the boat. Heard it myself earlier. Put the wind up me, as well, I must admit, till I plucked up enough courage to poke me head out. Thought it was the freakin’ Loch Ness Monster got loose on the canal, at first.’

Kayla stared at him, calmer, but still shaking.

‘My hands,’ she said. ‘They hurt.’

‘Stupid bugger,’ Steve cursed. ‘Stopped her circulation, daft prat.’

Kayla watched as he slackened the ropes, and then hesitate, seeming to debate, before untying them altogether. Cautiously, she lowered her aching arms, crossed them over her chest, and studied Steve guardedly. It was swans. Just swans, she thought, a tiny sliver of relief bubbling to the surface. She was on a boat. Of course she was. She was on one of the lower bunk beds … tied up … on a boat, with Steve?

Kayla shuffled back and eased herself to sitting, her arms now wrapped protectively about herself. ‘Where’s Hannah?’ she asked quietly, a new kind of fear surfacing.

‘Gone home.’ Steve shrugged, apparently indifferent, his attention focused on trying to light the wick of a lantern.

‘Why?’

He shrugged again. ‘Cos she wanted to.’ He placed the lantern mid-table, casting a gloomy glow around. ‘Lights are not working,’ he said.

Kayla said nothing. She shuffled well into the corner of the bunk bed, brought her knees up to her chin and challenged Steve with a disbelieving glare.

‘I
wanted
her to,’ Steve clarified. ‘Ain’t got no time for tarts.’ He eyed Kayla accusingly. ‘I’m only being nice to you, because Charlie gave you a hard time, so don’t try anything stupid, or there’ll be trouble.’

Steve turned to take the few steps required to the sink. He turned on the tap, twiddled it; turned it back again. ‘Cobblers,’ he muttered. ‘No lights. No water. What a dump.’

‘It’s a boat. Doesn’t run off the mains,’ Kayla informed him flatly, as she studied his back through a curtain of hair. ‘And Hannah’s not a tart.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Steve faced her. ‘Going to give it away for free tonight, were you? Still makes you tarts in my book.’

Kayla tightened her grip around her knees. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked shakily, her eyes brimming anew. ‘Where’s Charlie?’

Steve ran his hand over his kanji’d head and gawped at her. ‘Why am
I
…?’ He laughed incredulously. ‘Blimey, he’s got you pumped so full of tranqs, you ain’t seein’ straight, are you? Darlin’ it’s
Charlie
who’s
doing
this.’

‘Charlie?’ Kayla blinked, equally incredulous. She clutched a handful of hair from her face, and groped through her hazy memory.

‘Charlie?’ she repeated, trying desperately to make the pieces fit together. ‘I don’t under—’
Hell!
The spliff! She saw herself taking it, recalled Charlie nodding approvingly.

‘Yes, charming
Charlie.
’ Steve spelt it out. ‘Who is up at your house at this very minute, wielding a sawn-off. Still think the sun shines out his backside?’