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I hear a door being unlocked and feel a rush of relief when I’m pushed inside and the usual routine follows: bound to a chair, my hood removed, my eyes blindfolded.
“Ned thinks we should kill you,” a voice says, the voice of the second man. This time, it doesn’t come from behind me, it comes from directly in front of me.
“If you think Jethro Hawthorpe will pay up if my body is delivered to him, you’re making a mistake.” My voice is strong, but my hands are shaking.
“Why is that?”
“Because I’m nothing to him. Better to cut off something of Ned’s and send it through the mail. But, as nobody seems keen to have him back, you might be wasting your time.”
To my right, I hear muffled sounds. Ned is here too. They must have gagged him.
I hear the sound of something being ripped off. Tape.
“What do you have to say about that, Ned?” the other man asks.
“Kill her,” Ned snarls. His voice is muffled but the hatred still clear. He must be hooded. My nose picks up his smell, but fainter. They’ve placed him farther away from me this time.
“Do you know why he wants you to kill me?” I say. “It’s to save him from doing it himself. I know something about him, something he did, something that would send him to prison for a very long time. If you let me go, I’ll tell you—” A strip of tape comes over my mouth, silencing me. I twist my head away, but it’s no use.
“I think she has something, Ned,” the other man says. “I mean, why would your father pay up if we send her body to him?”
“Because he’d be worried that I’d be next.”
“But she has a point when she says that your family doesn’t seem to want you back. It’s been three weeks. Your father is playing a dangerous game. He knows the score, he knows the longer he takes, the more he’ll have to pay. Yet, he’s in no hurry to pay, in no hurry to get you back.” There’s a pause. “Do you know what your mother did yesterday, Ned? She played tennis. Not only did she play tennis, but she also won at tennis. I have photos to prove it. Does that strike you as the behavior of someone whose son is missing? Either your father hasn’t told her you’ve been kidnapped, or she doesn’t seem particularly bothered. Which is it, do you think?”
I almost feel sorry for Ned.
Ned doesn’t answer, so the man continues talking.
“I have to ask, Ned—did you do something to piss off your family? Is that why they’re not keen to get you back?”
“They don’t believe you’re serious, that’s all,” Ned says. “That’s why you should kill her. They need to know you’re ruthless.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I know I am.”
“So, you won’t mind if we kill her?”
A harsh laugh from Ned. “Be my guest.”
“Alright.”
To my horror, I hear a gun being cocked. Panic courses through me; I don’t want to die like this, I can’t die like this, tied to a chair. I strain against the cord that binds me, try to shout out from behind the tape, but I am held still. And then, an almighty bang, and a terrible ringing in my ears, followed by silence so deathly I think I’ve been shot. I wait to feel pain—but there’s none, just a hand that comes over my mouth, silencing me further, pulling my head back against him, making sure I can’t move. Did they shoot Ned?
“Shit.” Ned’s voice reaches me. “Did you really do it?”
“You told us to.”
“Is she dead?”
“I’d say so. A bullet to the head is usually fatal.” A pause. “Get her out of here before she bleeds all over the place. Make sure she’s dumped on Jethro Hawthorpe’s doorstep. If you can’t get near enough, throw her body over the fence. He’ll see it soon enough.”
The cord holding me to the chair is cut, shock has set in, my body is limp, I’m dragged from the room as a body would be dragged from a room, arms hooked under my shoulders, my feet dragging on the ground until I’m in the corridor outside and the door slams behind us. I feel myself being lifted from the floor and as I am carried swiftly up the stairs, he scrunches me into him, making me small so that my feet don’t smash off the walls.
In the room, he lowers me to the mattress, quickly rips the tapefrom my mouth. Shock has set in, and I begin hyperventilating. I curl into a ball, trying to shut out the pain in my chest, but he pushes me upright, leans me against the wall. Tears stream from my eyes as I gasp short panicky breaths, trying desperately to get air into my lungs. But it’s impossible. My mind spirals; I’m going to die.
And then, something penetrates my fear—his breathing deep and slow so close to my ear I can feel the warmth of his breath. I latch onto it, try to match him breath for breath, a long inhale, a long exhale. It takes awhile, but I get there. My breathing slows, the pain in my chest lessens. Tremors run through me; vomit pushes up into my throat. I swallow it down and continue to breathe, slowly, calmly.
