Scared (11 page)

He rushed over to the frame and hefted the boxes off. They contained more paper, so the labels said. Opening one box, he removed the paper, piling it on the floor. Placing the box back on the frame's base, he filled it with the printed information.

Now to get it back to my room.

With a deep breath, Stephen gripped the black rubber handles and wheeled his precious cargo to the door. Pushing it fast down the corridor, he winced as one wheel let out a piercing shriek. Heart thudding too hard, his breath held, he stopped walking and stood still. Waited for sounds that told him someone was coming to investigate.

He stood this way for some time before moving toward the door that led to the landing opposite his room. Opening the door a crack, he peered out. Redhead's and Stocky's loud laughter snaked up the stairs. Quietly, Stephen opened the door wider, took hold of the handles again, and pushed the frame out onto the landing.

The wheel shrieked again.

Stephen swore his heart had leaped into his throat.

The men's laughter stopped.

"What was that?” Stocky.

"Fuck knows. Reckon the kid's awake?” Redhead.

"Go and check."

Holy fuck!

Panicked beyond measure, Stephen had no choice but to wheel the frame to his room, teeth clenched, nerves on edge in case that damn wheel cried out again. It didn't, but the little black tyres made a
thwap-thwap-thwap
sound on the wooden flooring.

Oh, God, let me make it. Please, just let me make it to my room.

Footsteps smacked on the foyer floor. Donked on the stairs.

In his doorway, Stephen wrestled to get the wheels over the wooden strip of the threshold. It seemed they wouldn't budge, were caught on something. The footsteps came closer. Any second now, he'd be seen through the banister spindles.

Shit, shit, shit!

The wheels stopped being stubborn and glided over the strip. Stephen had enough time to park the frame behind the door, leave the door ajar, and clamber onto his bed. He
didn't
have time to steady his breathing—the footsteps were on the landing.

Holding his breath, eyes closed, Stephen waited for one of the men to burst in and discover the evidence. The door creaked a little—he guessed it had been opened a bit—and softly knocked against the metal frame.

Oh, God. I'm caught. I'm—

The footsteps began again, changing beat as the man went back downstairs. Stephen released the air from his lungs, tears stinging his eyes, and quietly got off the bed. At his door, he listened, straining to hear any conversation from Redhead and Stocky. Soft murmurs reached him, then a burst of laughter.

Relief spread through him, making his limbs shaky and his pulse bang in his throat.

"Come on. Get this done. It'll be all right. Just get on and do it,” he whispered.

The only place available to hide the papers, apart from the wardrobe, was the chest of drawers. The bottom one held nothing, so he filled it with the information he hoped would put these men down for a damn long time.

If it wasn't discovered.

He took some clothes—ones he hadn't worn yet—out of the wardrobe and folded them, placing the items on top of the paper. That would have to do for now.

With the job of getting the frame back into that office yet to do, Stephen made short work of it, carrying it across the landing and down the corridor so the wheel didn't get a chance to squeak. Once in the office, he replaced the paper into the now-empty box and left everything as he'd found it. With a wipe of the frame's handles, he scoured the room, making sure he hadn't left any clue that he'd ever been there.

Outside the office, he wiped the door handle, sped down the corridor, and made it back into his room without incident. He took a moment to compose himself, freaked the hell out that he'd had the balls to do what he'd done. He didn't contemplate what to do next—or what would happen if those papers were discovered.

Deal with one step at a time.

Once the adrenaline rush dispersed and he felt reasonably normal, he left his room and went downstairs. At the living room doorway, he nodded to Stocky and Redhead, who sat on a sofa, cards spread out on a coffee table before them.

"Just getting something to eat. Do you want anything?” he asked.

The men looked at one another.

"Yeah, why not,” Stocky said. “Sandwich would go down nicely."

"Yeah, and a cuppa,” Redhead added.

Relieved to have something mundane to do to take his mind off the recent events, Stephen nodded again and went into the kitchen. He prepared the food and drinks, absolutely starving himself, which he supposed was the after effect of his adrenaline rush. His stomach growled as he carried the men's food and drink into them on a tray and set it on the coffee table.

"Sounds like you need some food yourself,” Redhead said, reaching for a ham salad sandwich. “Go on out there and eat.” He took a bite, stuffing the food to the side of his mouth, cheek bulging.

Stephen gave a tight smile and returned to the kitchen, devoured two sandwiches, and gulped down tea. It tasted like the cuppas his mum made, and he bit back a sudden sob. Clamping his teeth onto a knuckle, he paced the room in an attempt to give his mind something else to think about.

The door beside the breakfast bar snagged his attention, and he tried the handle again.

Locked.

Why did I think it would be otherwise?

Hearing the men converse, Stephen quietly opened drawers. There had to be a landline phone here somewhere.
Had
to be. Or a spare mobile.

His search brought nothing but cutlery, serving spoons, and the usual kitchen drawer paraphernalia.

Shit!

Mind working overtime, Stephen tried to plan his best course of action while putting his plate and cup in the dishwasher.

No phones. No way of getting help unless one of them leaves a phone unguarded. I can't get out. I can't trust anyone here to take a message outside this house. I—

A thought came to him then, that he'd been so intent on what he was doing in that office he'd failed to take perhaps the only chance of communicating with the outside world.

The computer desktops had displayed the Internet Explorer icon.

Fuck! You stupid bloody moron. Jesus fucking—

Letting out a growl of frustration at how narrow-minded he'd been, Stephen moved to rush out of the kitchen then stopped himself. If he did anything but walk casually up those stairs, the two men would automatically be suspicious. Excitement bubbled inside him, and it took all his strength to force himself not to run.

As he passed the living room door, Redhead called out, “Here, take these plates and cups out, will you?"

Stephen turned woodenly and clamped his teeth. He collected the dirty crockery and went into the kitchen, trying not to ram the items in the dishwasher. Back in the foyer, he walked nonchalantly to the foot of the stairs, his excitement at the thought of freedom and going back home spiralling through his veins. He lifted his foot to take the first step—and heard the shower of gravel as a vehicle parked outside the house.

No. Fuck, no. Please...

He turned to face the front door as it swung open to reveal Jonathan and Kevin, a black-haired, teenage boy held between them.

"Here we go,” Jonathan said. “Home sweet home."

"For a bit, anyway.” Kevin chuckled.

"What the fuck are you staring at?” Jonathan said, his gaze fixed on Stephen.

Gut rolling, Stephen turned back to face the stairs and began the long climb, his limbs suddenly heavy, his mind awhirl with how he could get back to that office now there were more people in the house.

I'm not going to be able to.

He climbed the stairs, hearing the front door snick shut, the sound of the men dragging the boy toward the kitchen. He recalled how that felt when they'd done the same to him, how his heart had thundered, and his eyes had burned with the fierce sting of tears. How he'd called for his mum and been laughed at.

"She ain't coming, kid."

Back in his room, Stephen slumped down on the window seat and remained there. More of Frost's men returned, one of them—Croft, he thought—with two men who looked scared shitless when they'd got out the back of the van.

Now, a slice of moon hung like a broken shard of pearl in a sky of black velvet. The house had erupted with jovial chatter and the clinking of knives and forks a short while ago. The scent of Chinese food wafted up the stairs, but Stephen wasn't hungry.

The sound of Frost's voice in the foyer churned his stomach.

The sight of that man, a few moments later, standing in Stephen's bedroom doorway, almost had him being sick.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Croft was a wily bastard as a kid and a wily bastard now.

He couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this shit.

When Frost's men had picked him up that night six months ago, he'd been the first to admit he'd messed up. His decision to leave home at fifteen had been an easy one. No kid liked living in a house where abuse was the norm and going hungry didn't make you bat an eyelid. Four months after his fifteenth birthday, his father had beaten him one time too many, and Croft had stuffed a blanket and a change of clothes into a rucksack, raided his mum's drug money tin, and fucked off.

One of the only sad aspects had been leaving his granddad behind—the man who had tried to stop the beatings and bad treatment for as far back as Croft could remember.

He did wonder, though, why his granddad hadn't informed the police or the authorities about a grandson who endured more neglect than any kid had a right to put up with. But his granddad lived with them, cruelty dished out to him, too, and Croft supposed the old fella's self-esteem had been stripped away along with his dignity and sense of what was right.

Life was a bitch and then some.

Leaving his little brother had been tough, too, but Croft had made an anonymous phone call to the police about his mum and dad and hoped they acted on it. He didn't give his name, just said there was a seven-year-old boy living in Montgomery Lane who needed rescuing from his parents.

It was the best he could do.

Croft's life formed a pattern after a few weeks of trial and error living rough. He spent his days asleep in hidden alleyways, beneath bypasses, and his nights awake roaming Central London. It was safer that way. Forced to share his arse with whoever paid for it just so he could eat, he'd learned to judge who posed a threat and who didn't. The hours of walking the night time streets had seen Croft grow into a burly sod over the years, and despite wanting a better life, with a wife, two kids, and, let's go for it, a bloody dog, he remained homeless.

Was a bit of a bugger to get out of.

He reflected that his judgment hadn't been sound after all—or as sound as he thought it was anyway. Jonathan and Kevin had approached him on a night where the rain lashed down and the wind blew more than the cobwebs away. Croft was cold, a little depressed, and possibly at his most vulnerable. The two men had seemed friendly enough, asking if he was for rent, that they'd pay triple if he'd engage in a threesome. That meant enough money to spend the night in a cheap hotel. Have a bath or shower. Get a comfortable bed with dry sheets and blankets.

Croft agreed and followed them down the street, his hands bunched at his sides in case he needed to defend himself. He should have listened to his instincts then, that tiny worm of unease that started growing in his gut the minute they led him down an alley filled with refuse and a rat the size of a Jack Russell.

But the money and the thought of that hotel erased the doubt.

At the end of the alley, a black van idled, grey exhaust fumes billowing into the air like the rapid breaths from Croft's mouth. He glanced back, judging how quickly he could run before the men ahead caught on to him legging it. If he darted now...

A proper bed. A bath...

Croft continued to follow.

Once at the van, Jonathan opened one of the back doors and held his hand up in a gesture for Croft to climb inside. Again the worm of unease wiggled, and again Croft ignored it. He entered the van.

Looking back on it, compared to other abductions, Croft's must have been one of the easiest. Jonathan and Kevin must have been pissing themselves at how docile Croft appeared, how readily he went with them.

One lapse, that's all it took, and they had him.

They'd travelled out of inner London. The dense bright lights tapered off, the spread-out twinkles of the outlying homes taking their place, and that worm turned into a fuck-off anaconda.

"Hey!” Croft said from his seat on the bench, staring at Jonathan and Kevin through the metal grate. “Where are we going?"

"Home, mate.” Kevin chuckled.

"What, to your place?” Croft bit his lip.

"No, it doesn't belong to us,” Jonathan said, “but it'll be home to you for the next six months. Now shut the fuck up."

Jonathan drove faster.

Croft remained silent, not through fear but to gather his wits. He had no fucking clue why he had to stay wherever for the next six months—why six months was even the stated number—but he had a good idea of the duties he'd have to perform.

After travelling a while, Croft sifting through his options along the way, the van arrived at a mansion in the countryside. They'd escorted him inside, gave him the basement treatment, and at the point where Frost usually tested the “cargo", Croft got a break.

His arse hadn't been used, and Frost offered him a job.

Of course, Croft took it. Knew he'd have to pretend to enjoy what they asked him to do. Feeding the kids—he even saw the ones over eighteen as such, seeing as he was older—making sure none of them did themselves any harm. Their skin had to remain unblemished—no bruises, no cold sores, nothing. At first the rooms were empty, and Croft had been informed he was the first pick-up since the last batch of ten had been auctioned off. He'd had a few seconds to wonder what that meant, then Frost informed him that over the period of a week they collected ten lads and brought them here. Over the next six months, they were primed for sale, incarcerated in those rooms, no contact with anyone except when Croft fed them, made sure they were clean, gave them fresh sheets, dropped off their laundry.