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Every petrol station Martin drove past had a queue. At least the queue to the one he now approached wasn’t halfway down the street like the others had been. A couple of cars pulled away, so he joined the line, rolling his German motor forward each time a car left the queue. Before he reached the bowser, the service station attendant came out and attached a sign scratched on a piece of torn cardboard to the entry post.
Out of Fuel.
What! Another one? If only he’d fuelled up after coming back from the estate after his father’s birthday. He’d burned down the motorway and almost burned up the last of his petrol. The fuel gauge was on empty and he’d be pushing his car to his flat if he didn’t get some fuel soon. Panic buying had left everyone short. Martin crawled his car back to his flat and parked it.
He ran upstairs and slammed the door behind him before opening his small fridge. A can of beer lay next to some mouldy pâté and out-of-date Parma ham. Two cans of baked beans and an unopened packet of dry pasta were all that sat in his cupboard. The day couldn’t get worse, surely?
Staring at his bare shelves, he pulled out his mobile. “Hi Dad. How’s Mum?”
“She’s fine, Martin. Just a little shocked.”
“Have they found Caitlin?”
“No, son, but they’re searching for her.”
“There isn’t any petrol in the city. Panic buying.” He fought to control the uneasiness and a panic of his own swirling in his mind. “I’ll catch the train. Where are you now?”
“No, don’t come down, Martin. We’re okay. You stay there, and we’ll let you know what’s going on.”
“But I—”
“We’re near Galashiels at your Aunty Meredith’s. We can’t go back to the estate until the police check it out and say it’s safe to secure it.”
“I want to be with you guys.”
“Try to keep things normal.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it, Dad?”
“Och, I didn’t want to worry you, but we’ve lost a lot with this crash. We should be okay if we sell some of our art. But that depends on what they took from the estate.”
“Wh...what are you saying, Dad?”
“Curb your spending. We’re in for a hard ride.”
Martin double-blinked, clicking his fingers at his side. “But you’ve got things in reserve, right? Our trust funds are okay, yeah?” A flash of cold crawled up his neck.
“I haven’t had a chance to speak to the bank or our accountant yet, what with...” His father exhaled loudly into his phone. “They say it’s bad, but people are making it worse withdrawing all their money from the banks and panic buying.”
“Tell me about it.”
“They say even the Dooms Day Preppers are heading for the hills.” His father paused and took another breath. “Go to work. You’ll be safe in Edinburgh. I’ll keep you posted. I promise.”
The uneasy feeling moved down to Martin’s chest as his father disconnected.
Dad was right. He should carry on as normal because nobody else was. He lit a cigarette and took a long pull as he left his flat, slamming the door behind him.
Martin walked straight to the nearest supermarket. It was the same there and at the smaller supermarket on the next block—empty shelves from people piling their trolleys with all they could hold. He went to the nearest self-serve deli-food and gourmet-sandwich store and got the last of the pre-packaged sandwiches. About ten in all. He had to think of the next couple of days and there wasn’t much else. At the checkout, he tossed some packets of crisps into his basket.
“What’s going on?” he asked the girl at the register.
“People are clearing the shelves.” She shook her head, eyes wide. “We won’t get a delivery in time to restock for tomorrow. At least here they’re paying for it. There’s been looting, you know.”
Martin went back to his flat the long way and stopped at the corner store. He added a carton of cigarettes to his sandwich purchase. Marching home, he hugged his shopping bags close.
This will settle down in a couple of days, right? He lit another cigarette and sucked in.
It had to.
An engine revved as a vehicle coasted close behind him. A sliding van door slammed open, and Martin swung around as footsteps pounded on the pavement. Two guys in black clothing and wearing balaclavas headed right for him, like in some cheesy spy show.
“What the—?” A fist slammed into his guts. “Oof.” Pain hit right up into his lungs. Sandwiches and cigarettes scattered on the footpath. His breath staggered. It went dark as rough cloth covered his face. A ring of pain gripped both his upper arms as they grabbed him and hauled him forward. Martin retaliated, punching out. Pain raged in his knuckles and shot up his arms as his left hand connected with a bony chin, and his right with metal. The sliding van door rumbled open further. One of the men pushed Martin forward onto the hard flooring while another got in beside him, the metal floor echoing with each step.
“Go.” The guy had a Glaswegian accent—maybe.
The van skidded off.
“What’re you doing?” Martin struggled for air. “Let me go!”
“Shut it!” Aye, a Glaswegian. A boot landed in his back. Hands grabbed him and pulled his arms behind him. The firmness of plastic strips surrounded his wrists and held them together tight. Cutting in.
“Get me out of here!”
Another boot to the back. Martin flinched and caught his breath as intense pain ripped his side.
What, were they kidnapping him? A cold chill ran along his spine.
Now? Shit! Wonderful bloody timing. When his father has no money. Then the chill settled in his guts. Would they kill him?
Martin listened intently, trying to gauge where he was now, and where they were taking him. They travelled out of the suburbs. Never stopping.
“Watch it!” Glaswegian accent yelled at the driver. The van lurched.
“Can’t ‘elp it. Traffic lights are out.” The driver was a cockney. “Looks like they’re out everywhere.”
“Just get this wee spoilt brat back to the boss in one piece. And us. Aye?”
“Aye, aye, Captain!”
The man with the Glaswegian accent leaned forward. There was the sound of a hand connecting with a head.
“Oy! I’m drivin’. Ya not meant to abuse the driver. Okay?”
“Shut up and drive,” Glaswegian growled.
“Lucky the cops are busy, eh?”
“Not been any around.” A younger Scottish voice came from someone sitting beside the Glaswegian.
They soon were out of the suburbs, the sounds of traffic and sirens diminished. Light filtering through his mask strobed as if they were driving under high lights.
The Motorway.
He knew they were on the motorway but in which direction he couldn’t tell. Then the sound of the road beneath changed. The woosh-woosh beside them became regular and close. Passing poles, probably. A seagull squawked. It had to be the bridge over the Firth of Forth. So, they were heading north. That could be anywhere. Stirling, Perth, Dundee, The Highlands even.
Anywhere! Shit. Shit. Shit!
His father would never find him. He needed to escape. If only he’d kept up the Tae Kwon Do.