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Night time didn’t get any better and by morning the demon-monster nicotine-demanding crazies were roaring in Martin’s brain. He dry-retched and rolled over, his fingers tingling. He opened his eyes. The light coming from under the door was stronger and lit the pantry. Martin stood. And paced. Then stomped to the old wooden door and pounded.
“Let me out!”
Silence.
“Hey! Lemme out!” He strode around the confines of the Victorian pantry.
The door flew open, and sunlight poured in.
“Shut it!” Declan’s solid frame crowded the doorway; his brow furrowed, and his mouth turned down in a permanent snarl.
“Have you got a cigarette I could have? Please?” Martin cringed at the begging in his tone.
Declan’s face almost split apart with a smile. If that’s what it was.
“No.”
Martin closed his eyes and swallowed down what little saliva his mouth produced.
“I need to pee. You’re gonna let me pee, aren’t you?”
Declan reached forward and grabbed him by the jacket. He dragged him down a different corridor to a bathroom and pushed him in. The toilet was an older style with a cistern high on the wall; a chain hung from it. Martin stepped to the stained wooden seat and turned his head.
“You gonna stand there while I pee?”
“Aye.”
“But I also need to...”
Declan tilted his head. “Crap?”
Martin nodded.
“Och weel, being a rich-boy, your shite will nae stink, will it? So, I’ll have nae inconveniences while I stand here for that, will I then?” Declan’s face cracked his version of a smile once more.
After Martin did what he needed to do, Declan marched him back to the pantry. Martin slid his gaze to the scene behind the estate house. His burning face forgotten as he began to gather data. Green fields skirted undulating hills. Farmlands, patchworked with different crops, filled the views framed by broken window-work.
Aye, Fife.
Down the passageway the aroma of frying bacon made his stomach turn.
Declan shoved him into the pantry and followed with a plate of food he’d picked up from the kitchen table, then left shutting the pantry door behind him. Martin tried to eat but the roaring in his brain was now in his stomach and even holding the plate of bacon and eggs made his stomach convulse. He placed the plate of barely touched food by the door and leaned back, breathing deeply, sweat trickling down his face.
The murmur of voices came from the kitchen.
Martin stood and thumped on the door. “Declan!”
“Aye.” Declan opened the door. “I’d wish it to be known that I’m nae pleased to be on a first name basis with ye, like. What do ye want?”
“I’d like to know if my father has phoned.”
“No.”
“So, mobiles are still out?” He’d get what he needed from this guy, whatever it took.
Declan slid his phone out of his trouser pocket, tried a number. “No. Mines works.”
“So, will Derrick try my father again?”
“Mr Lloyd to you.” Declan turned and left the room, leaving the pantry door ajar.
The younger man sat at the long wooden table eating breakfast. The wrought iron stove roared with its fire within and heat seeped through into the pantry.
“Ye should have eaten, for today you’ll begin your work, ken,” the young guy said.
“What work?” Martin’s brow tensed in a frown.
“Like Mr Lloyd said. ‘Shorin’ up the defences.’ You’re going to build a wall.” The young guy shoved another fork-full of fried egg into his mouth. “That’ll get those Gucci trousers o’ yours dirty now, will it no’?” He laughed around the yellow egg.
Declan strode over to the pantry.
“Well, if ye are no’ eatin’.” Declan dragged Martin by the collar and marched him outside to a pile of stonework.
He made Martin carry the blocks of cut stone, one at a time, to the area beside the broken wall of the house. It was heavy work but at least it took Martin’s mind off his cravings. Martin’s arms shook and focusing was difficult at times. Lunch was a sandwich which he ate and kept down. Declan and young guy stood and watched. A handgun stuck out of Declan’s belt. He pushed his jacket aside to reveal it whenever Martin glanced in his direction.
Walking back and forth to the pile of stone bricks, Martin scanned the surrounding countryside as far as he could see. At the back of the stately home stood a farmhouse way off in the distance over exposed fields. No drystone walls or hedgerows, except far off near what could be a road, and the nearest trees were far away at the base of some hills. They would easily see him if he ran that way.
“Keep your eye on your work, rich boy,” Declan growled.
Martin stood in front of Declan, the cut stone block he held dragging on his arms. Sweat stuck his shirt to his back. He tightened his mouth and narrowed his eyes at his captors.
Declan raised his brow and placed his hand on the stock of his handgun.
“You’re imprisoning me!” Martin stood over Declan as he spoke into the harsh face.
The minder tightened his grip on his handgun and leaned forward, their noses now inches apart.
“You’re being held for ransom.” Declan’s harsh whisper accompanied his stale breath.
Martin held his mouth closed and marched to the house where his pile of bricks grew, conscious of Declan’s eyes boring into his back.
The wall that needed repair was a couple of layers deep. He did some quick calculations for the amount of brickwork involved, gauging from the size of the cut stone that remained in the wall. Most of it was rubble and it required new, decent stone. It wasn’t the kind of thing you bought at a hardware store. In his calculations, he allowed for what seemed to be a window, and the gradual narrowing of the stone bricks as the wall rose to join the existing stonework and on up to the roof. Its repair was no simple task and the amount of cut stone already obtained, according to his calculations, wouldn’t be near enough. The wind picked up behind him and blew straight into the room.
“You’ll need a stonemason to fix that wall.” Martin threw the observation at Declan while he passed empty handed on his way back to the pile of cut stone. Declan snarled and continued his mumbled conversation with young guy.
At the pile, Martin walked straight on. Turning left was the driveway. He kicked himself into action and ran hard down the narrow gravel road. His thighs burned, and every muscle screamed.
Curses came from behind him.
The driveway led to a bitumen road. Martin pounded down it. Lungs burning, heart thundering. This was his chance. Declan and young guy’s shouts rose from near the house.
Martin turned right down a sideroad with houses in the distance. Maybe a small village. A lorry approached. Martin waved wildly. His heart thudded in relief as the lorry skidded to a halt.
“What ‘ave we got ‘ere, matey?” Cockney jumped down from the driver’s side.
Hands as solid as iron grabbed him from behind and spun him around. Declan came into view for a moment, face contorted. Then a fist of knuckles connected with Martin’s eye and the world blurred.
“Wee eejit!”
Martin fell to the ground; hard bitumen smacked the other side of his face. Boots pelted his back. Pain rose along with bile, burning his throat and mingling with his groans.
Declan hauled him up and marched him back to the grounds of the house. Martin’s face pulsated, and his vision diminished as his left eyelid started swelling.
“That was a stupid move.” Declan shook him.
Young guy laughed.
“Keep movin’ those stones, laddie.” Declan’s breath filled Martin’s nostrils.
More stomach heaving. Fingers grabbed his hair and pulled his head back; his skin tight at the sides sending shots of pain into his swollen eye.
“Ye still have work tae do,” Declan growled into his ear as he pushed him forward to the pile of cut masonry.
Vans and lorries arrived on and off throughout the day, close to where Martin picked up the stones. Goods and supplies filled each vehicle and Lloyd’s men carried boxes, cartons, and tubs into the house.
By evening, Martin’s limbs were heavy, his headache continuous and his left eye swollen shut. He drank the whole flask of water young guy handed him on entering the kitchen. The far wall of the kitchen now had stacks of boxes sitting against it. Young guy pushed him into the pantry and shut the door. Its shelves were full of goods, and sacks full of flour, rice and other similar foodstuffs crowded the floor. The smell of fish and cooking oil wafted under the door. Martin’s stomach turned only slightly. The door opened, and young guy placed a plate of fish and chips on the floor.
“Eat the food of the common folk.” Young guy sat back at the kitchen table next to Declan and watched Martin through the open door.
“I’m not royalty, you know?” Martin leaned forward. “You’ve picked the wrong hostage if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Shut it, rich boy.” Declan’s dour face came into view in the door frame. “We don’t want to put up with your greetin’ for any longer than we have to.”
“I’m not just a rich kid, you know.”
“Your daddy will be poor by the time Mr Lloyd and this crash ‘ave finished with him.”
“I’m studying to be a physicist. What contribution to humankind are you making?”
“Uni student, are ye now? Well, ye will nae be that for long either. Have ye seen what’s goin’ on oot there?”
“No, because you’ve locked me in a cupboard!”
Martin sat back and ate. His lack-of-nicotine headache seemed slightly less after food, but it remained. So did the face-pain around his eye. And the sting from the grazes on the other side of his face. Then a familiar scent wafted over from the table. Martin jerked his head in that direction.
Declan sat at the long wooden table, hand to mouth, holding a cigarette and pulling hard. The end glowed a red inferno. Declan blew out the smoke, aiming in Martin’s direction. Martin’s hands itched, his shoulders tensed, and his monsters screamed once more. He stood and, snapping his fingers by his side, scooted the empty plate out the door. It skidded to a halt at one of the heavy legs of the kitchen table. He slammed the door to the pantry.
Martin flung his back hard against the door, mouth dry but body drenched in sweat. Fingers tingling. He coughed and took some deep breaths to ease the churn in his stomach. When were they going to contact his father? Or maybe they had, and he was finding ways of getting the cash. How much had Derrick Lloyd demanded?
Someone pounded on the door as he lent against it, vibrating his entire body. Then it began to open, shoving him forward.
“Move!” Declan shouted. “The boss wants ye.”