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The first question that he had been able to answer was: “Leeds United’s predecessor team, Leeds City FC, was formed in 1904, but was forcibly disbanded by The Football League in 1919 for what?” He’d heard about the reason, and somehow managed to scream out the answer on the very edge of the time limit. It concerned allegations of illegal payments to players during the First World War.
When the loud creaking noise came, it had startled the life out of him. The frame in which he was held suddenly moved, allowing his right arm to drop by his side. The pins and needles as the blood returned made him feel sick.
The second question, and the subsequent release of his left arm, came at four-thirty. “One of Leeds United’s first nicknames, the Peacocks, came from the original name of Elland Road, ‘The Old Peacock Ground’, which was named by the original owners of the ground. Who were they, and what was it named after?”
That one had been pretty easy: Bentley’s Brewery. The nickname came from their pub ‘The Old Peacock’, which still faces the site.
That answer had allowed him to sit down for the first time in forty-eight hours. Even then, it had been an extremely slow process, because he was still in the dark. The only time the cellar light burst into life was when his captor came to talk to him. Aware of what was in the bucket below him, Lance had been very careful when lowering his body to the seat.
He had spent his time since with his eyes either on the screen or the vials in the frame on the wall, his last obstacles to freedom.
God help the bastard keeping him when that happened.
Eventually the questions about Leeds United had dried up, allowing him further time to figure out his predicament.
He’d wondered if the man who had him was making his escape easy. If so, why? Surely if he had gone to such lengths to abduct him, make him disappear, torture him, and very likely do the same to his colleagues, why the hell would he make escape an easy thing? The only answer Hobson could come up with was that the man had something far more serious in mind. Perhaps Hobson was only playing round one of his game. Should that be the case, he was in trouble. The opening round of any game was usually pretty easy.
And what reason did the man have for everything he’d done to him? Yesterday, the man had told him that he’d been studying him for four years. How had he done that without Hobson knowing? He’d obviously infiltrated his life in some way, but Hobson did not recognize him when he’d had his first glimpse. He still didn’t have a clue about the man’s identity. What had he done to the man four years ago that had created such animosity?
The more he’d thought about it, the more convinced he became that the answer had its roots in drugs. Because that’s all Hobson had been involved in since he had left school. His life of crime had started when he was twelve, stealing cars and burning them out. But he seriously doubted it had anything to do with that. Anyway, whatever the reason, it was something that had happened four years ago, and he had certainly given up stealing cars by then.
With so much time on his hands, he’d also considered the state of his health. At the moment, he was no worse than yesterday, but he was no better, either. He thought back to what he’d been told about the virus, and tried to rack his brains. What the fuck had he been infected with? He was fully aware of the things you could pick up from dirty needles: AIDS, hepatitis, possibly HPV. None of those made someone feel so bad so quickly, though. Whatever he’d been given was far more lethal.
One thought frightened him even more: was his captor lying about the vials on the wall? Did they really contain an antidote? Or something even worse?
Hobson did not want to think about that. He tried to put any thoughts of freedom, or an antidote, to the back of his mind. He was in the game now for one reason. He was determined to free himself and take his revenge. He was going to kill the man who had him, irrespective of whatever he was supposed to have done four years ago. According to his captor, Hobson had started it. Well, Hobson had news for him. He was damned well going to finish it, too.
The light coming on nearly blinded him. He felt a sudden wave of nausea and wrapped his arms around his torso, pressing his hands against his stomach.
He almost jumped out of his skin when those same hands passed over a very rough piece of skin. Fighting the shock of discovering he glanced down his body. There was no mistaking the fresh, clean stitching on his abdomen, about six inches long.
He struggled and tried to concentrate, quickly feeling the rest of his torso. He did not come across any more wounds, but what he did find was a small oval-shaped lump on his chest. He ran his hands over the object, and his skin was extremely sensitive to the touch. It felt blistered, and hurt him as he pressed on it. It had a very hard, metallic feel to it, and was, in fact, underneath the skin.
&nb
sp; Once again, not being a doctor, he had no idea what it was. He doubted very much it would come out, though.
Hobson was revolted by the fact that the monster who had him seemed to be turning him into a freak.
The basement door suddenly opened, and the very man he was thinking about walked in, wearing a tracksuit and trainers. He had a towel draped around his shoulders, sweating profusely and breathing a little heavy. Hobson thought it was a pity that he was unable to take advantage right now.
“Good morning, Mr Hobson. I see we’ve made some progress.”
The man’s condescending manner was really beginning to wind Hobson up.
“You’d better hope I don’t make any more, sunshine,” Hobson replied.
“If you say so.”
Christ, he was a smug bastard. Lance had to give him that. He wished he could stand up and take a pop at the man.
“I’m pleased to see that you’ve figured out which questions you can answer. Makes things more interesting, don’t you think?”
“For who?” replied Hobson.
“Both of us, of course. Tell me, have you worked out yet what I’ve infected you with?”
Hobson gripped the sides of the toilet seat. It was all he could do to control his emotions, but he realised he might well gain more satisfaction if he could. But despite trying to fool himself into thinking he didn’t care what the man had given him, deep down, he did. He ignored the question and went on the attack.
