Scared (20 page)

Maybe that's what the bastard's up to. Making us more scared before he finally decides to end it all. Getting pleasure out of us not knowing what the hell's going on and when he's going to off us.

"You didn't answer my question,” Russell said. “What are we going upstairs for?"

Beard stepped over to Toby, his footing unsteady on the springy surface. He gave Russell a sideways glance. His face looked like he was weighing up whether to tell him something. He sighed. “Look, I
could
tell you there's nothing to worry about. I
could
tell you, that after you've gone upstairs and seen whatever it is Frost wants you to see, heard whatever it is Frost has to say, everything will be all right. But I won't. D'you understand what I'm saying?"

Did he? He thought so, but Russell didn't dare hope. Beard could be stringing them along, fucking with their minds. Despite the sincerity in Beard's eyes, Russell was confused as to what to believe. Being abducted, brought to God knew where, and whipped with a chain did that to a body.

"So, you're telling me we ought to just do as we're told and everything will be all right?"

Beard inserted the key into Toby's manacle. “Yeah, that's what I'm saying. It might not seem like that when you're up there, but trust me, things'll pan out.” He eased the manacle off Toby's wrist, gently, with
care
.

What the fuck? He's acting like he gives a shit.

"Trust you?” Russell said, a tired laugh leaving his parched mouth. His throat was so dry it hurt, and he swallowed, the lack of spittle bringing on more pain. “Listen to yourself, will you? Trust you, my arse. Would
you
trust you if you were me? I don't think so."

Beard backed off the mattress and stood on the floor at the end. “Listen, let him sleep for a bit longer, yeah? You need to shower, get yourself ready."

Russell looked down at his wrists. One was scabbed over, a ring of red craters, bruises a fierce purple backdrop to the scribble of blue veins showing prominently through his skin. The other was still raw, translucent fluid shining on the open sores, the crust of dried blood forming on the outer edges. He nearly rubbed them but stopped himself. That would hurt like a bitch.

"I need to shower? What, doesn't Frost like killing dirty people?” He laughed at his joke, getting up on all fours and dragging himself to the end of the mattress. He winced as aches and pains took over his body. Disoriented after being prone for so long, he sat for a moment until his head stopped spinning. He looked up at Beard, who stared down at him, features showing compassion.

"Fuck,” Beard said, sighing and rasping a hand over that black beard. He stared up at the ceiling as if asking for guidance, then back down again, pinning Russell with his gaze. “Russell, if I tell you something, you need to keep it to yourself, all right?"

Russell nodded.
What's going on?
Not knowing, or knowing something was off with this scenario, set his nerves on edge. He tried to stand but failed.

"Stay put for a minute,” Beard said. “And give him a nudge, will you?” He jerked his thumb toward Toby. “He needs to hear this too."

Russell studied Beard for a minute. The bloke looked on pins and needles, like he was about to break a motherfucking big rule. Russell's instincts told him to trust the guy, and he reasoned that was all he had left now, instincts. Maybe having everything stripped away—dignity, life as he knew it—left him with only the tools he needed to survive.

He leaned back and reached across to Toby, digging his elbow in the mattress for support, careful to lay his hand on a part of Toby's skin that wasn't covered in welts. Shaking his lover's shoulder, he whispered, “Toby. Wake up.” Toby shifted, pain scrunching his face even in sleep. “Come on, mate. You've got to wake up."

Toby opened his eyes, blinking in the light. He frowned, probably wondering why the light was on, and moved to sit up. He groaned and flopped back down, lifting one hand to shield his eyes. “What's going on?"

"The big bastard who took us is here.” Russell gave Beard an apologetic glance, though why he did was anyone's guess. He didn't owe the man sod all, shouldn't even be trusting him, but survival was on his mind, and he'd do anything to make sure he and Toby got out of this mess alive.

"My name's Croft,” Beard said. “Just so you know. I'll wait over here, but try and get a move on, yeah?” He glanced at his watch then walked back to the stairway and leaned on the wall, staring down at fingers that played against one another in an agitated beat.

Russell regarded him a minute. Something about—Croft, did he say?—told him the man wasn't acting like someone loyal to his boss. Him telling Russell everything would be all right wasn't consistent with what Russell knew of him prior to now. What was his game?

He's fucking going against Frost! Jesus Christ...

"What's going on?” Toby eased up onto his elbows, face creasing once again, a gasp and curse leaving him.

"I'm not sure,” Russell said, pushing up and shunting back down the mattress. He looked over his shoulder. “But we need to get showered and dressed. And Croft there,” he indicated the man with a nod, “has got something to tell us. Reckons it's going to be all right when we go upstairs."

Toby shifted to sit beside Russell. “All right? What the fuck is all right about this place? And does all right mean not dead? Fuck, this shit is doing my head in."

"All right means not dead,” Croft said. “All right means going home."

Russell snapped his head forward, staring at Croft like he'd grown two heads. He hadn't heard him say that, had he? Not dead? Going home? “Look, stop fucking with us, mate. I'm too tired for this bullshit."

Croft pushed off the wall and strode toward them, face lighting up, animated, as though he had new purpose. “I reckon I can trust you, so—"

Russell's laugh cut him off. “That's rich! Bloody hell, you're something else, you are."

Croft hunkered down before them, hands dangling between his splayed knees. “I know what this looks like, but I'm not what or who you think I am."

"And what's that? You're not a fucking nutcase?” Russell asked.

Toby rested a hand on Russell's knee and waited for Russell to look at him. “Hear the bloke out. We've got nothing to lose at this point. We could be dead either way...” He shrugged.

Russell turned back to Croft. “Okay. Give us what you've got."

As Croft explained what he'd been doing the past six months, admiration for him grew inside Russell, despite telling himself this could all be some elaborate trick. What a turnabout if Croft was telling the truth. He'd gone from distrusting him to admiring him, yet still a frisson of doubt writhed in his belly. This could be one massive mind-fuck, designed to make them let their guard down.

Once Croft had finished, Toby said, “So, they're trafficking little kids?
That's
what I interrupted last year? A fucking
abduction?
"

"'Fraid so.” Croft put his hands on his knees and pushed himself standing. “Darrow and his men are in place.” He glanced back at the stairs, obviously worried they were being overheard. “Frost's got it into his head you two will want to work for him. Now, this is where you have to play along. When he puts the suggestion to you—and really, if I hadn't told you this shit you'd have no choice but to agree if you wanted to live—try and react like you would have if you didn't know what's going to happen. If he suspects... That's why I never said anything before. I had to play it carefully, make him think I was ‘one of the boys'.” His bottom lip quivered. “And believe me, at times it's been fucking hard."

Russell felt sorry for the man. He couldn't imagine doing something like that for six months. And that kid hanging himself—man, that was fucking awful.

"Right,” Russell said, easing slowly off the mattress. “Shower time, yeah?"

Standing proved more difficult than he'd thought. His muscles protested at him using them so soon after they'd been damaged, and his skin, taut from the crusted blood around the welts, drew tighter as he took a tentative step. But the promise of going home in a few hours—shit, even going to the police station for questioning would do him nicely—gave Russell the determination to walk over to the shower.

Two fresh towels with a bottle of shower gel on top had never looked so normal, a signal that the terrible turn his and Toby's lives had taken might be about to take a different direction again—one that led to better things.

I need to trust Croft. If he's lying, then... Don't think about that. Deal with that if it happens. Just trust him for now.

He allowed hope to blossom inside him, relishing the warmth it gave his tired and hurting body. His mind became more alert, and he set the shower to warm, knowing anything hotter would have him screaming in pain. Before stepping into the stall, he glanced back at Toby, who nodded. Croft gave a wonky smile, his eyes pleading with Russell to believe him. Returning the grin, feeling better than he had even two minutes ago, he got under the spray.

The sound of the water, the feel of it on his skin, made Russell's bladder release the piss he'd been holding for so long.
Damn lemonade
. He didn't give a shit that urine splashed into the tray at his feet, or that Croft might be looking and see it. Nature's call was strong, and if he'd tried to control it, he'd have failed. The expulsion was both sweet and painful. His bladder cramped, sending sharp pains throughout his abdomen, and he almost doubled over in agony. The heat of the water spraying directly onto his belly eased the gripes there, although it brought fresh bursts of pain to his angry welts.

He reached out to the chair, grabbing the shower gel. Was it wise to wash with soap? It would sting, he knew that, but thought he'd better use it. His cuts needed cleaning before they festered with infection, and besides, he wanted to wash away the stink of fear ingrained in his skin.

The soap did sting.

Gritting his teeth, he carefully washed his wounds, the soap bringing on prickles of sharp pain. The lather turned pink as the crusty blood dissolved, and Russell watched the rose-coloured water swish down the drain.

He lifted his face, opening his mouth to let the sprinkle of water fill it. Though warm, it tasted like a drink from Heaven, easing his arid throat and taking away the fuzz that had coated his tongue. He felt guilty for drinking when Toby sat back there, his throat undoubtedly as dry as a nun's chuff, and told himself to hurry up so his lover could have the same blessed relief he'd had.

Quickly, he inspected his body, seeing the welts didn't look so bad now they'd been cleaned up. The bruises were another matter. A blue, purple, and bright pink map of the damn world covered his body. The towel against them brought fresh pain, though, and dressing was even worse. Material chafing on raw wounds wasn't something he relished, but if it meant getting out of here, he'd endure it.

The shirt was a little too big, the suit trousers a little too long, but the jacket was roomy enough that he could move without the fabric rubbing too much. He stepped into the shoes—a tad tight on the toes, but nothing compared to what he'd suffered so far—and felt a million times better; less a prisoner of war, more human.

As Toby showered, Russell spoke with Croft, who elaborated some more. “Like I said to Toby when you were showering...Frost had someone killed today."

"Shit. Who?"

"Young bloke called Stephen. They'd picked him up thinking he was younger than he was. Turns out he was eighteen, and Frost took a liking to him, if you catch my drift. Thing is, the bloke wasn't into that kind of shit, but...the lemonade, the injections.” Croft shrugged apologetically, as though saying sorry for giving Russell and Toby the drink and drugs. “The kid signed to say he agreed with Frost fucking him."

"Jesus. And the boys? Don't tell me Frost—"

"Yeah, he did."

Russell felt sick. Bile painted the back of his tongue, and he swallowed, breathing deeply to combat nausea. “So this Darrow. How come you never got arrested for abducting us if he knew you'd done that? I don't get it."

"I wouldn't tell him where this place was until I had to. If he came here before tonight, there was a risk of some of Frost's men getting away. Even Frost himself. I don't know, maybe I should have let Darrow in on everything right from the start, but I wanted the punters caught too, you know?"

"Yeah, but Frost's got to have information on them somewhere. No way would he not have kept a log of who they are. It's his insurance in case any of them grassed him up."

"Yeah, but I heard he's got this hi-tech computer system.” He paused, frowning. “Saying that, Stephen accessed the information. Printed it all out. That's why Frost had him shot."

"Makes no sense. If the information was available, Darrow could have caught the punters that way. Look, I'm not saying what you did was wrong, but those kids could have been home with their parents
sooner
, know what I mean?"

Croft nodded, his marred brow showing he wrestled with his conscience now. “Yeah, I see what you're saying, but I had my plan in place, didn't want to deviate from it. Reckoned if I did, everything would go wrong. It's done now, and we are where we are. I can't undo the past or fix that mistake now, and the boys...I made sure they were well cared for all the way. If I thought they'd be harmed after Frost initiating them, I would've told Darrow where to come sooner."

Russell nodded, realising Croft was justifying his actions while dealing with a shitload of guilt over his decisions. “Yeah, what's done is done, mate. All we can hope for is everything works out so no innocents get hurt."

He glanced over to the shower stall. Toby stepped out and gingerly wrapped a towel around his body. Russell returned his attention to Croft—he couldn't deal with watching Toby in pain when he knew how bad that towel felt as it abraded the skin.

"Besides,” Croft said. “Frost's been playing a game with me.” He gave Russell a grim look, eyes moist, lips a thin straight line.

"By doing what?"

"You know I told you earlier one of the kids hung himself?"