Scared (18 page)

The sound of piss slapping the floor was loud in the darkness, and despite him being alone with only rats for company, shame burned his cheeks. Urine bounced back up to splash his feet, the stench of it heady and nauseating.

He'd said quick and painless.

What were they going to do? How were they going to kill him?

He entertained various scenarios. Being stabbed, the blade long and sharp, slicing at his skin, piercing his heart. Blood, lots of blood. Being shot, bullets peppering his body, ripping through flesh and muscles, speeding through bones. Being strangled, a noose or hands around his neck, choking the life out of him. Being suffocated or beaten to death. None of them were any way to die, but he'd prefer a shot to the head any day. The quicker they killed him, the better. But he had the minutes hanging here beforehand to get through first, and that would be infinitely worse than the actual killing, he was sure. Anticipation was a killer in itself.

He cursed being young and fit. Wished he was old so a heart attack would get him first. Or a brain aneurism.

"Who's there?” came a voice.

Stephen cried out in alarm.

Oh, fuck. Someone else is down here?

He sobbed from the fright, letting the hot tears burn his cheeks. Past giving a shit about anything now, he cried for a few more minutes, remembering his life and the happy times he'd had at home. He'd had a good life up until Frost's men had taken him, and had much to reflect on. The pain of knowing he'd never return to it tore at his heart, and his throat felt like it was closing up—too much emotion balling there. He saw his mum's face, his brother's, their happy smiles as they'd shared jokes over dinner. They'd been so close, and with him being gone, he imagined their family unit ripped to pieces, never to be the same again. Mum would become even more protective now, and his brother wouldn't be able to move a muscle without her knowing it. And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. At least he'd be safe.

A terrible thought struck him, as snot dribbled over his lips and down his chin:
What if they go and get him next?

The sound that emerged from his mouth, then, frightened him with its intensity and alien quality.

What if they go and hurt Mum now, because of what I did?

He released a long, drawn-out wail, feeling so desperately helpless that he wished himself dead. He deserved that for what might happen to his family. All he could do now was pray Frost would leave them alone.

His sobs receded, leaving him with hitching breaths, a tight chest, and burning eyes. He closed them, mind blank, body giving up the fight. He didn't care that the manacles bit into his skin, that his arms ached beyond measure at being stretched the way they were. That shit dripped from him, the knowledge that death was only moments away.

"Hey,” the voice said. “What's your name?"

"Stephen Brookes,” he said, voice flat and emotionless.

"What are you down here for?"

"Doesn't matter. Nothing does."

"Are they going to...kill you?"

"Yes."

"Where do you live? Can we get a message to anyone somehow?"

"You can't."

"Shit. There must be a way."

"If you get out of here,” Stephen droned, “there's an office upstairs on the first floor. Internet access. No phones anywhere."

"Okay. So where do you live?"

"Dowey Avenue. Fifty-four."

"All right, mate. Anything you want us to say?"

Stephen pondered that for a minute. What
could
he say? “Just tell her...thanks for my life. And I'm sorry."

The door to the basement creaked, and a fresh splash of shit hit the floor. This was it, wasn't it? His last moments.

Jonathan appeared just at the edge of the circle of light, his gaze fixed on the floor. He sighed and raised a hand. A clang sounded, and Stephen lowered to the floor. He trod in his own mess, beyond caring, and held out his hands for Jonathan to remove the manacles. Wrenched along, Jonathan led him into the darkness, saying, “He's shit. Need the lights on."

Whoever he spoke to obeyed, and the blinding illumination of strip-lights blazed above. A crude shower stall stood on the left-hand corner, and Stephen was thrust inside. He wondered why, as the water cascaded down on him, he had to shower, but guessed Frost wouldn't want crap traipsed through his pristine house.

"Use soap,” Jonathan ordered, turning his back on Stephen and looking into the far right-hand corner.

As he washed, Stephen glanced that way too, spotting an alcove with a mattress on the floor. Two sets of bare feet protruded, but he saw nothing else. He couldn't make out whether the feet belonged to two men or a man and a woman, but at least one man lay there, the voice in the dark had told him that much.

Clean now, Stephen stepped out of the stall, taking a towel from Jonathan and drying himself off. The fabric smelled like it hadn't been washed for a while and harboured the scents of continually being wet and dried, wet and dried. Who cared how many people had used it before him?

He allowed himself to be led toward the stairs.

As the lights snapped off, the man from the corner called, “We'll tell her."

Stephen's eyes stung with tears he refused to shed. There was no point in crying, no point in hoping he wouldn't be taken to the forest. The only hope he had was that the man back there would manage to keep his word.

He trudged up the steps, knowing what condemned really meant, and walked down the white corridor, head bent and shoulders slumped. In the kitchen, he felt the stares of the other men, felt the malice coming off them in waves, and shrugged it off. Jonathan led him out into the foyer, past the stairs, and through a doorway Stephen hadn't noticed before. They walked down another hallway, a windowed door to the outside world at the end. At one time he'd have been ecstatic to see it, the blue sky bright through the glass, the sun high in the sky. The sight chilled him now, and once at the door, he bowed his head so he wouldn't have to look at what he'd never see again.

Outside, Jonathan and Kevin flanked him, their grip tight on his upper arms. Stephen walked over the grass, the pointy blades tickling the soles of his feet, and remembered how it had felt as a child when Mum had chased him around the garden with the hose that long-ago summer day. His brother had been a baby, sitting up in his pram and squealing, chubby hands clapping.

The memory hurt his chest.

The forest arrived in front of Stephen in no time. Led through the trees, the mulch and fallen leaves squelching between his toes, Stephen entertained the past. A thousand and one treasured memories sped through his mind. He smiled, laughed at one point, uncaring whether the two men thought him crazy. He'd had it good, there was no doubt about that, and didn't regret one minute of his childhood. The regrets he
did
have, well, they were in God's hands now, and only He could keep Stephen's mum and brother safe.

A clearing appeared, an ominous mound of loose mud sticking out like a sore thumb to his right. Someone else had been led here recently, then. Someone small. He winced. Soon Stephen would join whoever it was in the cold, dark earth.

The men drew him to a stop at the far edge of the circular clearing, releasing his arms and stepping back a few paces. Jonathan reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. Stephen was grateful for that. Even if they messed with his mind, shooting him in places where it would take hours for him to bleed to death, at least he'd know that by the time the sun set he'd be gone from this world.

Jonathan raised the gun level with Stephen's head.

And pulled the trigger.

Frost stared out of the office window, the best place in the house to see into the clearing. The gunshot startled him, even though he'd expected it, and Stephen's body sagged to the ground. Birds cawed and flew from the trees, a murder of crows. Stephen laid there, legs bent at the knees, arms splayed out by his sides, so much whiteness against the green grass. He recalled how that body had felt against him, and a tear trickled down his cheek. Hot. A sign of weakness.

Swiping it away, Frost watched Kevin stride over to the small shed at the back of the clearing and bring out two shovels. His two men worked tirelessly, digging the grave that would hold the man Frost had such high hopes for. He thought of Russell and huffed out a wry laugh that he could have done with him in the clearing now, what with him used to digging graves.

As he stared, eyes glazing as though gauze covered them, he thought about what he should do with those two in the basement. Their love for one another had struck him somewhere deep inside, and despite what his intentions had been when he'd ordered Croft to go and fetch them from Wraxford, he couldn't bring himself to order them killed. Besides, Jonathan and Kevin had their work cut out for them already today. They wouldn't relish digging two more holes.

Having Russell and Toby working for him seemed the best bet.

A couple of hours passed, the sun rising higher, clouds coming and going, their shapes changing as they chugged across the sky. Once Stephen had been lowered into that hole and the first shovels of dirt had been thrown in on top of him, Frost left the window. He still needed to speak to his men, remind them of their duties, and he wanted to ensure Croft understood when to open the gates for the security team and the punters.

Weary and out of sorts, Frost left the office, leaving it unlocked now the threat had been removed. He went into Stephen's room, sat on the bed and fisted the quilt, bringing it up to his nose. He inhaled deeply, remembering how the scent had smelled fresh from Stephen.

I didn't get to read him a bedtime story.

With one last sigh, he told himself to move on now—plenty more fish in the sea. Leaving the room, he made his way downstairs to the kitchen. Everyone waited for him, and he barked out instructions. They nodded, not one of them rolling their eyes at his need to continually repeat instructions.

A loyal lot, his men.

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Croft entered Fraser's room, the last boy he would visit today. He felt guilty at rushing the others with their breakfast this morning, and after their afternoon snack he'd urged them to hurry in the shower. He'd had to explain to them that they'd be leaving tonight and what was expected of them when they were taken to the waiting room before the viewing. Some had cried, others had looked at him with a vacant stare, and his heart broke for every one of them. He'd bitten his tongue, holding back the words that hopefully the police would rescue them later, and once they were checked by the doctor and interviewed, they'd get to see their parents.

If they had any who gave a shit.

Fraser lay facing the wall again, this time beneath the covers. Croft placed the tray holding a sandwich and a glass of milk on the chest of drawers and locked the door. Last night, when he'd texted Darrow, the detective had replied with a message that so long as Croft let the “security” men through the gate tonight, everything was in place on his end. Croft had sighed with relief that the past six months had been worth all the effort and he'd be rewarded in seeing those boys leaving this place with the police instead of perverted freaks.

"Fraser? I've brought you some food. Sorry that it's just a sandwich again.” He'd toyed with giving Fraser too much so his belly expanded. The punters wouldn't want him then. If things went wrong and Fraser ended up staying here for another six months, it would give Croft time to work out how to get his brother out of here before the next auction.

What could go wrong, though?
He thought about it for a minute.
Frost could catch on that the security guards are coppers and shoot the fucking lot of them, that's what could go wrong.
But Darrow had the whole police force behind him, and it wouldn't be long before more officers showed up if Darrow didn't radio in.
I'm panicking, that's all.
One way or another, this stops tonight.

Fraser turned, a small smile on his lips. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, his long hair unkempt from where he'd slept. He'd been chatty this morning, and it seemed like he would be again now. “I dreamed about my brother."

"You did? That's great. And what was the dream about?” Croft took the tray over to the bed and placed it on Fraser's knees.

"That I found him. He left a long time ago, see, and when
I
left, I looked for him all the time. Didn't see him, though."

Croft's throat swelled. “Oh, right."

Fraser picked up one half of his sandwich—sliced chicken breast with mayonnaise. “Reckon I didn't find him ‘cos I wouldn't know what he looked like now. I was only about seven when he left. He'll have grown, won't he? Would look like a man these days."

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Croft turned away as the boy took a bite of his food. Hands dangling between his open knees, Croft toyed with his fingers. Something to focus on other than the tears burning his eyes. “What d'you reckon he'd look like now, then?"

"That's easy,” Fraser mumbled around the food. “He'd look like you."

"Ah. Poor bastard."

Fraser laughed, and Croft chuckled, looking at him. Seeing the smile in the lad's eyes lightened his heart. Should he tell him who he was?

I can't. He might blab. And if Frost finds out I know this is my brother...

He shivered at the thought and turned away from Fraser to stare at the carpet. “So you ran away, then?” he asked, knowing the truth but wanting to make conversation.

"Yeah."

"How come?”
You know why.

"Just...'cos."

"Same with me, mate."

"Why did you leave home?"

Croft saw the milk glass rise in his peripheral vision. “Long story. Mum was a drug dealer, my dad was an alcoholic, and my granddad...” He'd said too much. Knew it as soon as the words left his mouth.

"Hey! That's the same... That's shitty, that is. Where did you go?"

"Where everyone else goes. The city. Blended in with the other kids and older tramps."