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Martin estimated they had driven for an hour. Well, the nicotine monsters in his brain were calling for a cigarette, and that usually took about an hour. The van turned off a hard road and travelled down a gravel road; stones crunched beneath the tyres. It came to a halt. No street lights. Night birds called outside. The door slid open. Rough hands encircled his upper arms and stood him up. The scent of grass and that distinctive odour of the country—cow shit—wafted in his nostrils.
“Out ye get.”
He bumped his head on the door frame. “Ow!”
“Watch yer hied.” Glaswegian pushed Martin from behind.
The path wasn’t smooth, and Martin stumbled often. A wooden door creaked. A large one. They marched him through to where there was light. The rough material dragged over his eyes and his head was now bare. He shook his hair away from his face and blinked at the light, which caused pain in his eyeballs, matching the emerging headache.
The room was wall-to-wall bookshelves, but not all shelves contained books. Ornaments, clocks, and dust covered the bookless spaces. A flat screen television sat in front of the bookshelf to the right. The evening news was on the screen with the volume muted. The tickertape at the bottom read Riots in London, Manchester, and Glasgow. A smallish man with mousy brown hair and intelligent grey-eyes sat behind the partner’s desk in front of Martin. He wore a plain shirt with long sleeves rolled up to the elbows revealing forearms covered in tattoos, and his rapid foot-tapping echoed in the quiet room.
“Welcome. I’m Derrick Lloyd.” He stood abruptly and walked around to the front of the desk where his eyes raked Martin from head to foot.
“Tall, aren’t you?” Lloyd pursed his lips, his accent a heavy hint of streetwise Glasgow overlayed with some refinement.
“What do you want with me?” Martin pulled at his restrained hands behind his back. The plastic ties remained tight. His palms were damp, joining the moisture in his armpits.
“My plan was to abduct you and hold you for ransom.” Steel-grey eyes connected with him. “Then all hell broke loose. But I’m not a man to be put off easily.”
“You’re holding me for ransom?” Martin couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. “But my father’s lost his money. He just told me before your—” Martin turned, a solid middle-aged man whose face was permanent dour, stood behind him. Must be Glaswegian. “associates beat me up and dragged me—”
“That’s no concern of mine.”
Martin spun back to Lloyd.
“Your father will be able to get what he needs.” Lloyd picked up a landline with a handset from the 1980s and made a call. Lloyd listened while it rang. And rang. “Nobody home at your house?”
“My father’s not there.” Martin flicked his gaze around at Glaswegian and a younger guy. “We were ransacked. Like I said, he’s lost his money.”
Lloyd raised an eyebrow and huffed. “We’ll try again later.”
Martin bit his tongue trying to stop himself from offering his father’s mobile number. The family’s firm sense of privacy forbade it. But his father would want to be contacted as soon as possible under these circumstances, wouldn’t he?
“Phone his mobile.” The words spewed out.
“Get his phone.” Lloyd flicked his fingers while Glaswegian dug in Martin’s pockets. He threw his phone to Lloyd. “Hmm. Daddy.” Lloyd pressed his number. A frown tinged his brow.
“Your phone’s dead. Battery’s not flat. What’s the deal?” Lloyd’s gaze bored into Martin while he picked up the handset of the landline and dialled once more.
“I don’t know. I spoke to him earlier. Try again.” Martin’s heart beat up into his throat.
“Declan, try yours.” Lloyd lifted his chin to the man behind Martin.
Glaswegian rummaged in his pocket and made a call.
“Mine is nae working either. Mobiles are oot the noo, boss,” Declan said.
“We shall just have to wait until we can contact Daddy. Meanwhile, Declan will show you to your accommodations.” Lloyd sniffed. “I chose this place especially.”
“You’ve ransacked it and booted out the owners?” Martin snarled. His head was beginning to thump. All he needed was a smoke and to get out of here, but neither of those options were going to happen soon.
“No, contrary to popular activity, I didn’t ransack this place. I rescued it from abandonment. Not everyone can afford the upkeep of these ageing stately homes. We’re not all new-money.” Lloyd looked around the room and his mouth curled into a smile. Martin followed his gaze. Ornate plaster cornices sat up high around the edges and above light fittings. “Many have had to relinquish homes that have been in their families for generations. I quite like this one.” Lloyd shot his stare back to Martin. “You can earn your keep while you’re here. Help shore up the defences. I don’t want to be a victim like your father, do I?”
Martin clenched his mouth shut.
“Enough chatter. Take him.” Lloyd flicked his hand in a dismissive manner.
Declan’s massive hands clamped on Martin’s arms and dragged him out of the room. The young lad followed. Declan pushed him down the corridor. Martin stumbled past empty rooms, bare floorboards, broken windows and one room that had its outer wall broken and stonework exposed to the elements. He tripped through a door to a large kitchen. A wooden-topped table was the centrepiece with a solid fuel stove in a large fireplace to the side. Another fireplace with a wrought iron structure, which looked like a spit sitting in front of it, was along another wall. He was in a Victorian kitchen, like the one he’d seen at Callendar House, or somewhere like that. His head throbbed.
Why was he giving himself the grand tour?
He cooled with sweat, and his skin crawled in competition with the erratic beats of his heart.
Declan opened a door to the side and shoved him in. Martin landed hard on his right knee, and with his hands still tied behind his back, he fell forward, turning side-on so his shoulder hit the floor.
“Can you at least untie me?” Martin’s voice sounded like a shriek in the small room.
It was cool, and wooden shelves ran along the walls either side of him. Wicker baskets and wooden boxes sat stacked on the floor. He was in the pantry.
Declan came at him with a knife, a sneer cracking the dour face. He spun Martin over and slit the plastic ties.
“Thar ye go, poor wee rich-boy. Hope ya daddy does nae take too long, aye?”
“Don’t go gettin’ your designer label trousers dirty.” The lad at the doorway sniggered.
“Do either of you have a smoke?” Martin asked.
“Not good for your health, ye ken?” The young one said.
The door shut to darkness. Great. No windows. A glow of light came through the crack under the door. Footsteps walked away, the passing shadow of feet a flicker along the bottom edge of the door. He scooted himself backward, so his back was against a wall. Cold seeped through his jacket, now damp on the inside. His father would phone him again tonight and he’d get this all sorted out, right? Lloyd would answer and give his demands. Would his father be able to do it?
Martin scratched at his arms. He really needed a smoke.
He took some deep slow breaths to calm his ragged breathing. His eyes were adjusting. He guessed he was either in Stirling somewhere or in Fife. Yes, Fife had lots of older abandoned buildings in the middle of nowhere. He and Davy had gone standing stone hunting once in the Kingdom of Fife. Ha! He bet Derrick Lloyd thought himself a king—of this castle anyway.
Martin’s mind went back to a cigarette. The nicotine monsters were shouting in his head now. Wow, it had barely been two hours. He coughed over a dry mouth. It was going to be a long night. In the darkness, he’d not know when it was daybreak. He laid down on the floor, curled in a ball and grabbed his jacket tight, and settled in for a night of fighting his demons.