Scared (22 page)

Frost entered the room again, jolting Toby out of his thoughts. He made his expression blank—at least he hoped it looked blank—and faced ahead, gaze focused on the cone of light behind the mirror.

"Gentlemen!” Frost took up residence in front of them, nodding and smiling to each man in turn. “Tonight is the night you've all been waiting for. For those of you who haven't been here before, if you lift up the right arm of your chair, you'll find a keypad inside. When each item of cargo is brought into the room behind me—possibly your precious new plaything!—you may use the buttons there to bid. As you'll see, at the top of the keypad is a small screen, which will show you the starting price. As each one of you bids, the price will change. Of course, some of you may not bid on one particular morsel—he may not be to your liking, I understand that—but if you
do
bid, please note that once no one has continued to bid three minutes after the last, the auction for that particular bundle of arse is closed. The last bidder wins. You may bid for as many lovers as you wish, but as you know, at the start of the auction there is one lover for every one of you. It is up to you whether you manage to go home with a new addition to your bedroom, or end up with two or even three. As you're aware, as soon as your funds have reached my account tonight, you may take your prize home."

Frost beamed, clapping his hands once. “Any questions?"

No one spoke.

"Good. So, without further ado, let the bidding begin!” Frost strode across the room toward the big, crop-haired bloke, nodding for him to go through the door.

So the big bloke's the one who'll take the kids into that room, then.

Toby didn't have his suspicions confirmed. Around a minute later, the door to the room behind the mirror opened toward them, and a young boy walked inside. Toby's stomach contracted, and it took every ounce of strength he had not to rush over and get the kid out.

The boy stood beneath the light, as he'd no doubt been instructed, and stared straight ahead. He'd undoubtedly be looking at his own reflection, as from what Croft had told them earlier, he'd be thinking someone had come to adopt him.

Fucking sick. This really is just fucking sick.

Don't cry. Don't break down now. Remember they're being saved.

It was difficult to remain stoic, uncaring, as though what was happening was normal. Nothing. All in a day's work.

A few of the men leaned forward, and one, a wiry bald bloke with a goatee to compensate for his lack of hair, got out of his seat to press his face to the glass for a better look. He returned to his chair and jabbed his keypad, earning quick glances from the other customers.

Customers. Christ, like they're just buying meat at the market.

And they were, if he was honest. To most of them, that kid was just a prime piece of steak, tender and ready to be pulverised.

Toby swallowed bile.

Frost raised a walkie-talkie to his lips and said, “Turn around."

The lad did so, presenting his back to the window and gaining the men's full attention. His backside, was, after all, their main concern.

Oh, God...

Another sting of tears pricked Toby's eyes.

He wanted to look at Russell but didn't dare. If he saw tears in his eyes too, he'd come undone.

They'll be going home or into care. They're not really being sold. It's all right. They'll be fine.

Knowing this didn't make this situation any better. Thoughts of previous boys bought like this filtered into Toby's mind, and he had to fight to keep from thinking about what they went through once they left this house. Despite what Frost had been doing all these years, at least the kids were well fed and cared for, albeit left alone for the most part to become catatonic or crazy from loneliness and fear, from missing their families.

Stop it. Don't think about that shit.

Russell's hitching breaths brought Toby up short, and he glanced at his lover. Tears streamed down Russell's face, and his lips quivered as he struggled to maintain composure. Toby reached out a hand and grasped Russell's, giving it a small squeeze. He leaned across and whispered, “Get a hold of yourself. I know how you feel, but think on what Croft said."

Russell hastily wiped his face and swallowed, nodding and staring at the strip of wall above the mirror.

"Focus on something else. Anything other than what's going on here,” Toby murmured.

He should take his own advice, but he was fucked if he could. This was too real, too shocking, too damn much. He sucked in a breath, battling his own tears, and glanced over at Frost to make sure he hadn't spotted the pair of them crying. It appeared he hadn't. The man was too intent on studying the lad behind the glass.

"Turn to the side,” Frost said.

The boy did as he'd been instructed, showing the room his slender profile. This kid was one who had withdrawn into himself. Passivity came off him in waves, and Toby wondered where he'd gone inside that head of his. Was he imagining himself back at home, safe with his parents? Or had he locked himself in a virtual room, where emotions didn't play a part and he was kept safe?

Another flurry of jabs at keypads, and then a tense three minutes passed.

Frost pulled a phone-like machine from his pocket and glanced at it. He looked up and beamed at the men. “Sold, to Mr Ainsworth, for the sum of two-hundred thousand pounds!"

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Frost loved this part of the process almost as much as he loved the beginning, when new boys were brought home. To see the culmination of the past six months coming to fruition gave him a hard-on. That and looking at the boys through the mirror, remembering the time he first saw them, the time he'd sampled their delights.

The ninth boy stood behind the mirror now, looking surly and nothing like how he'd been told to look—
if
Croft had explained everything right. Frost had expected as much from this kid. He was about fifteen, clearly knew why he was here and what tonight was about, even though Croft had been instructed not to tell them. He didn't doubt Croft. No, far from it. This lad had sense enough to put two and two together. After all, who the fuck put boys in rooms while they were naked and ordered them to turn around on demand?

This kid had taken it upon himself to put the punters off, Frost saw that as plain as day. It didn't matter. Mr Hawthorn there, the customer rubbing his cock through his trousers in full view of everyone, liked a lad with a bit of the “little bastard” about him. With his free hand, Hawthorn jabbed at the keypad, making it crystal clear he expected to win the boy.

Hawthorn, a jowly fucker with bushy black eyebrows and a penchant for the booze, if the broken veins on his nose were anything to go by, had been recommended by another punter. Frost had checked him out, finding nothing untoward on paper or via his contacts. But upon meeting him for the first time, a couple of months ago now, Frost had experienced a touch of the heebie jeebies. This bloke, for all the world trying to make an impression on Frost, hadn't quite made the right one. Frost didn't like a know-it-all, and Hawthorn knew it all in spades. Or so he seemed to think. He'd spoken over Frost when he'd been explaining the process, and couldn't get to grips with having to wait for his new toy.

After thinking about Hawthorn for several days, the time away from the man had dulled Frost's unease. Consoling himself with the fact his men were armed and wouldn't hesitate to take Hawthorn out if he caused trouble, Frost had let the burly, overbearing man be accepted as a customer.

Frost smiled now at Hawthorn's frantic rubbing of his cock and prodding of the bid button. The man's hair, reminiscent of a brown scouring pad, bobbed with his movements, and Frost turned away, his gaze now fixed on the kid.

Jonathan and Kevin told him, back when they'd brought the boy home, how he'd fought them all the way. They'd spotted him as he stood at a bus stop in Harrow Wield, the eleven o'clock night time hour creating a desolate street with only the boy occupying it. Houses, curtains drawn, shut out the road and what went on in it. Jonathan had no doubt they'd picked a perfect abduction spot.

Watching from the driver's seat of the van, which was parked opposite the bus stop, Jonathan waited for the right moment. He knew all the bus timetables by heart, and the next bus wasn't due until eleven-twenty—plenty of time to grab the kid and get the fuck out of Dodge.

Jonathan said he'd mentally ticked off all the boxes, making sure the lad fitted their criteria. Slim build, young, innocent-looking. There had been something about him, though, that made Jonathan question whether they should proceed with taking him home. The boy may have appeared innocent, but there was a hard edge to his demeanour, almost as if he was a tough street kid who knew how to handle himself. Yet he wasn't a street kid, that much was obvious.

He wore good clothes, the branded kind, the pair of Nikes on his feet likely to have cost upward of one hundred pounds. He kept them clean, unless they'd been a recent purchase, and appeared to take pride in his appearance. Even the black baseball cap would have set his parents back twenty or thirty quid. Either they were well off people, or this was an only child. Or a spoiled brat.

The kid leaned against the plastic interior of the bus stop like he owned the damn thing. He must have been comfortable with his surroundings, knew his way around the area, and Jonathan had wondered where the boy had been that night. A friend's house? The local youth club, perhaps?

A navy blue rucksack dangled from one shoulder, branded again, the bright logo of a white cat mid-leap evidence of that. He lowered it to the seat—if two metal poles side by side could be classed as such—and unzipped the main compartment. He pulled out a long strip of material—black, a fucking black belt—and Jonathan had another bout of indecision. If the belt belonged to the kid, he was risky business. Jonathan knew how to handle himself all right, but he wasn't sure he could take on a black belt, even if it
was
a young one.

Frost had told Jonathan he'd have to find some time during his day to learn karate. Jonathan hadn't found that particularly funny, but Frost remembered almost wetting his fucking pants over it.

After admiring the belt, rolling it up, then putting it back into his bag, the boy stared across the road, directly at the van. Although the windows were tinted, Jonathan felt the kid could see right through the glass and into his eyes. He'd shuddered, quickly shaking off the foreboding sensation, telling himself he could handle the little bastard if he started kicking off.

He nodded to Kevin and got out of the van, leaving Kevin to get out once Jonathan made it across the road. Kevin would open the back doors in readiness and offer help if Jonathan couldn't handle the cargo alone.

He approached the bus stop, walking over the rain-slicked road that reflected the amber glow of nearby streetlights, splashes of colour in an otherwise dull street. Jonathan had a third warning in his gut not to touch the kid, to go back to the van and pick up the lad they'd been watching over in Bethnal Green. Never to be thwarted, though, Jonathan ignored the tightening of his stomach and quickly gripped the boy by his jacket lapel.

As Jonathan had expected, the kid lashed out, giving him a swift roundhouse, his foot connecting with Jonathan's groin. Reflexively bending double, Jonathan groaned in pain, hastily reminding himself they couldn't afford to let the boy go now he'd had a good look at him and the van. Lunging forward, head in the cargo's belly, he gripped the boy's upper arms and spun him round, standing upright to clamp the kid's back to his chest. Arms holding the lad in place, Jonathan dragged him across the road, bracing himself to clamp a hand over his mouth if he started getting vocal.

Too late.

The kid had a good set of lungs on him and belted out his yells, screaming for help, that some motherfucking cocksuckers were trying to kidnap him. Jonathan smacked his hand over the lad's mouth, pressing hard, his finger blocking his nostrils. Kevin had the van door open and, laughing despite them coming close to being caught, helped Jonathan bundle the cargo inside. As Kevin took over driving, Jonathan stayed in the back. The kid fought some more, regardless of the confined space and the van careening along the road, and shouted, “Let me go. Get off me. Fucking let me go!"

After a tussle, Jonathan managed to pitch the boy to the floor and hold him down with his knee at the small of his back. He wrenched the lad's arms back and tied his wrists. The boy screamed blue murder again and, sick to death of his fucking voice, Jonathan stuffed a rag in his mouth to put a stop to the tones that sounded manlier than the body it belonged to.

The boy screamed through the gag all the way to Frost's mansion.

Taking the latest addition down into the basement, Jonathan returned upstairs and reported back to Frost, who lounged in the living room, a well-earned whiskey in hand. Frost had changed into his pyjamas, a blue-and-white pinstriped affair beneath a matching terry-towelling robe, and rested his bare feet on a white footstool, which still had the plastic covering on it from when he'd bought it.

"Give you a spot of bother, did he?” Frost asked.

"Yeah. Fucking little bastard's a black belt. Kicked me in the nuts."

Frost roared with laughter at Jonathan's pained face. “Ah, mate, you do pick them. Was he chosen off the cuff?"

"Yeah."

"There you go then. Serves yourself right for not checking him out over a series of days. I don't have these rules for no reason, you know."

"Yep. I know. Lesson learned.” Jonathan looked suitably chastised, but a sparkle of mischief lit his eyes.

He enjoyed a tussle, did Jonathan. Earned his money, that one.

"Good. What happened about the kid in Bethnal Green you've been watching?"

"We went to pick him up but he wasn't in his usual spots. Drove around for a bit, but didn't want to trawl so much we'd be taken notice of, know what I mean? Black vans...I don't want to speak out of turn here, boss, but maybe you ought to think about changing them to white. Shitloads of white vans about."