Star Crossed (Starlight #3) (19 page)

Chapter 24

Everything is a patchwork of strange sounds and colours. A car door slams. I’m being carried. More black.
Then a single image. The front of an ordinary-looking London house.

A house?

I know the picture should mean something. But it doesn’t. I slip into sleep again before I can consider what’s happening.

The next thing to strike my senses is sound.
A woman’s voice. It’s completely dark but the sound is unmistakable.

I know that woman.

She doesn’t sound happy. The words muddle but I make out; ‘you didn’t give her enough. She can hear us.’

Are they talking about me?

The man answers but I don’t hear it. Then the sounds of their conversation melt into some other language which I don’t understand. The last thing I hear is the woman’s voice again, raised and sharp.

‘
Just deal with it.’

And then there’s nothing.

I wake to a searing pain in my side. My head is pounding and my mouth is dry. My first thought is I’ve been out drinking and have woken up with a hangover. Then I open my eyes fully and realise my true situation is far
far worse.

I’m lying on a cold concrete floor, and my wrists have been manacled to
something metal and heavy. I try to swallow, blinking away the pain in my head. My eyes focus on where my wrists are restrained.

I make out a solid shape. I’ve been handcuffed to an ancient radiator.

The ache in my side now makes sense. I’m slumped against the uncomfortable pipework of the radiator. The whole side of my body is pressed into the metal, restricting the blood flow. I shuffle to move to a better position, and as I do the blood rushes back to my side and I cry out in pain.

It’s then I hear footsteps above me.

Shit. I’ve alerted someone to the fact I’ve woken up.

Quickly I try and make sense of my environment. From what I can see I’m in a basement. It’s cool, dark and the walls have a heavy damp feel. The concrete floor too, fits with the picture. And the space is small enough to be a domestic basement.

A memory flashes back. The image of the ordinary-looking house. Is that where I am? In the basement of that house?

There’s a c
rack in the ceiling and a slice of light floods in. I wince, shutting my eyes tight at the sudden brightness. Then there are footsteps. Someone is walking down the cellar stairs.

I force my eyes back open and when they finally adjust,
a man is standing in front of me. The driver who kidnapped me. This time he isn’t holding a gun. But I guess since I’m manacled to this radiator, he doesn’t need to.

‘
So,’ he says, ‘You’re awake.’

I’m taking more of him in this time around. He’s
stockily built, with an east London accent.

Is he connected to
Dez?

It’s certainly a possibility. But he could also be hired muscle. Half the gangsters in London come from the east end. It would be the natural place to recruit someone.

‘What do you want?’ I ask.

My voice comes out husky. Whatever drug he gave me has made my throat dry.

The man considers me for a moment. Then he hands me a bottle of water.

‘
Here,’ he says, ‘drink it.’

I take the water and for a second consider not drinking it. But the demands of thirst are too great. I gulp it gratefully.

The man squats so he’s level with me.

‘
Make sure you drink all the water,’ he says. ‘You were given rohypnol. It dehydrates you.’

He says it as though drugging and kidnapping a person
were the most ordinary thing in the world.

‘
And you’ll be needing your voice,’ he continues. ‘Because you’re going to be making a video.’

What?

I stare at him in utter disbelief.

He raises his hands.
‘Not a music video,’ he says. ‘You don’t need to worry about that. It’s just a straight recording.’

It’s all falling into place.

‘You want a ransom?’ I guess. ‘You want me to record a ransom request?’

But the man shakes his head.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I want you to record a statement. Saying you’re out of Sing-Win. You’ve had it. You no longer wish to compete. And I want you to make it believable.’

I shake my head slowly at what he’s asking.

‘It’s not a request,’ says the man. ‘I’m not asking you to do it. I’m telling you.’

‘
I won’t do it,’ I say simply.

The man sighs.

‘I’d hoped,’ he says, ‘that you wouldn’t be difficult.’ He shakes his head. ‘But if that’s the way you want to play things…’

He stands and begins walking away from me. I feel suddenly incredibly powerless. It takes every ounce of control not to call after him.
To beg him to come back. I don’t want to be left alone down here.

But I force the feeling back down. I need to at least try to use what little power I have. And I refuse to hand my kidnapper an easy life.

The man walks slowly back up the steps and the trap-door to the basement creaks shut behind him.

There’s total darkness now and it takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust. I can hear the man walking about above me and try to dismiss fearful thoughts of what he might be preparing for me.

Instead I concentrate on escape. I tug experimentally at where my hands are secured to the heavy old radiator. It’s bolted tight to the wall.

I turn my attention to the handcuffs. I have small hands, and I try squeezing them through the narrow metal cuffs.

Arrrgh!

The metal bites deep into my hands as I pull. The pain intensifies as the handcuffs dig against the bone. But after three painful attempts I give up. There’s no slack there.

I resist a whimper of hopelessness.

Think
Summer!

The radiator is solid. So are the cuf
fs. What about the lock?

I peer down at the handcuffs in the dark room. I can make out the keyhole. It’s fairly large. Can it be picked?

I know nothing about lock picking, but I’ve seen in done in movies. I just need a pin or…
A hairclip.

My mind seizes on this. I’m wearing hairpins.

Quickly I force my head level with my bound wrists, and search my hair with my fingers. At first I find nothing and my heart sinks. I clipped my hair with two pins this morning, but I can’t find them. Perhaps my kidnapper had the foresight to sweep my hair for pins before locking me in the basement.

But then my fingers find a single pin. It’s been dislodged
so as to be nearly falling out, but it’s there. Carefully I tease it out with my fingers.

There’s a sudden sound above me and I start, dropping the pin.

Damn!

It’s fallen down somewhere behind the radiator. I sweep for it with my f
oot.

The
sounds above are getting closer now. The man is coming back into the basement. Better to leave the pin, I decide. I can find it later. There’s no sense in being discovered in the act of picking the handcuffs.

The basement
trap-door eases open again, but this time the light is not so dazzling.

Footsteps sound and the man
comes into view. He’s holding something. A video camera and some other equipment.

Without a word to me, he begins setting it up. He places the camera on a little tripod, facing me.

I feel a shudder of unease.

‘
I told you,’ I say. ‘I’m not recording anything.’

The man turns to me.

‘You will,’ he says simply. ‘After I’ve shown you this.’

It’s then I realise the camera is the wrong way around. The lens is pointed away. The part facing me is the playback screen.

My blood turns to ice.

What is he going to show me?

Terrible thoughts are going through my head.

Has he hurt someone I know?
Adam? Tammy?

Almost instantly my resolve to resist him vanishes. If someone I love is in danger…

The man leans forward and clicks on the playback. A tinny sound comes from the camera and the little screen flashes to life. It takes me a moment to realise what’s been recorded.

It’s the
Sing-Win show.

I frown in confusion. The video is playing the part of the show when the singer’s families give pep talks.
Deven’s parents are there, on their plush sofa, smiling out at me and telling me how much they admire their son. Then Scandelous’s friends come on the screen.

At this point the man darts forward quickly and fast-forwards. I study him carefully as he presses buttons. Is it my imagination, or did he just give something away?

Everything about this man has been so calm and collected. Why has he suddenly rushed to the screen to fast-forward the part about Scandelous. Are they involved in my kidnap?

The video gets to the part I’ve been dreading – my family. Up until now, being kidnapped and thrown in a basement hasn’t seemed real. The only thing occupying my mind has been thoughts of escape.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold it together when I’m forced to confront the real world of people I love.

Do they know I’m in danger? Are they worried?

My thoughts are already flicking desperately between Adam and my parents.

The sound of my mother’s voice rolls out and I can’t keep the tears from my eyes.

I love you mum.

Then my dad speaks, and finally my nephew. I’m forcing myself back into a semblance of calm when the man pauses the video.
Right on my nephew’s face.

Oh no. No.

I have a sudden horrified idea of why the man is so sure I will comply with his request to make a video.

‘
Tell me you haven’t hurt him!’ I blurt. And in that sentence I know I’ve played my whole hand. The man turns to me in triumph. He knows the hold he has over me.

‘
Nothing has happened to your nephew,’ he says calmly.

Relief rushes through my body.

‘And nothing
will
happen,’ continues the man. ‘Because you’re going to make my client a nice video explaining why you’re pulling out of Sing-Win.’

My client
? The female voice I heard?

I’m trying to piece it together. So he’s been hired for this. That makes sense. From my limited experience with
Dez’s shady friends, this man has the air of a professional.

‘
Who’s your client?’ I demand. ‘There’s a woman who hired you isn’t there? I heard her. Are Scandelous involved?’

Something twitches in the man’s face.

Aha. So he doesn’t want me to identify his employer. Is it Keisha?

I’m muddling to identify the voice. But now I think of it, the accent sounded a lot like one of the Scandelous girls.

‘None of your business,’ he says. ‘Like I told you, this will all be over on Sunday.’

He spins the video around to face me.

‘If you try anything,’ he continues, ‘anything at all. If you try to get a secret message to someone through the video. If the show is cancelled. Your nephew will be a very unhappy little boy. Do you understand?’

My throat squeezes.

‘Yes,’ I manage.

Adam.
The idea of him is tugging at my mind. He’ll never believe I just pulled out of the show without telling him.

‘
It won’t work,’ I say. ‘No matter what I say on that video. Adam Morgan will never believe I ran out on the show without telling him.’

‘
I told you already,’ growls the man. ‘This is on you. Sing-Win needs to go ahead without you. If you don’t put in a good enough performance, then your nephew will suffer the consequences.’

I close my eyes, knowing the solution. My hands
raise to my neck, jarring slightly against the handcuffs. Slowly I inch my Saint Cecilia necklace around until I can feel the catch, and then I slip it off my neck.

‘
You need to send Adam this,’ I say in a flat dull voice. ‘If you send him this necklace, I can make sure the show goes ahead.’

The man looks at me questioningly and steps forward to take the necklace.

‘I guess you already know the address to send it to,’ I say.

I feel grey and empty. As if I’ve been wrung out of life. I know Adam. I know what he’ll think when he gets the necklace. If I record a video saying the pressure and commitment of
Sing-Win is too much, Adam will read it as a hidden message.

He’ll think I’m freaking out about his suggestion of marriage.

I close my eyes, hardly bearing the idea of doing this to him. But I have no choice. I can’t risk any harm coming to my nephew.