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Two weeks passed, and Martin’s routine was set. Fence building. Fence building, and more fence building. Still nothing from his father, that they’d told him of anyway. Dour-faced Declan remained his cheery self but at least Shona’s cooking was something to look forward to at the end of a long day of post digging.
“So, you cooked in the Italian restaurant?” The bowl muffled Davy’s voice as he licked the juices remaining from his meal and leaned against the pantry wall after their day of hard labour.
“Aye. Well, no. I did nae cook for the customers, like. But Joey, the chef, taught me at the end of the shift sometimes when we had a chance and the staff needed feedin’.” Shona smiled and her face lit up.
Martin gulped. He’d judged her too harshly at first. She was a rough Wester Hailes lass, but clever and resourceful. And brave. So much more than her postcode suggested. She’d stared down young guy when he’d ogled her. That was becoming more frequent. Her accent still grated on him, but she spoke with a passion when it came to the state of the world and what should be done about it. Her view was a simplistic one of a complex problem, but at least she’d considered it, and had tried to do something about it. That’s what had got her here.
Shona leaned to her left and brought out an object from behind the box that held tins of tuna.
“I’ve managed to get us a little something. They’ll no notice it’s missin’ as I’m the one who does the cookin’,” she whispered and held up the large steel cooking spoon.
Martin blinked.
“We can sharpen it,” Shona mouthed and did a mime of rubbing it to a point on a stone wall.
An engine pulled up near the back door. Men’s voices and murmurings choked by gags, came through the door with the footsteps of new captives.
Martin looked at Shona and Davy and put a finger to his lips as the group passed the closed pantry door. The heavy footsteps of Lloyd’s men trod next to lighter steps of high heels clicking on wooden floors. They marched down the corridor and clattered into a room further on. Footsteps came back to the pantry door. It opened.
“Right chef, out.” Young guy held the door and snapped his fingers at Shona. “Need a meal for the new arrivals.”
Shona got up and took the dirty plates out to the kitchen and started preparing a meal.
“Who are they?” Martin asked when their jailer began closing the door.
“None ‘o your business.” The door was half-shut. “But let’s just say, they will nae be diggin’ holes, ken?” He sniggered and he closed the door fully.
“What does he mean?” Davy frowned.
Martin shrugged. Through the door, the noise of a busy kitchen resumed as Shona worked her magic there, while the sounds of the new arrivals being settled-in by Declan came along the corridor.
“Go away.” The sound of Shona’s voice came loudly through the door, and fear tinged her usual bravado.
Martin stood on tiptoes. High up on the pantry door was a crack he’d found and if he stretched, he could see out. Shona had her back to the stove, a pan of water on to boil. Young guy stood facing her, his back to Martin. He towered over Shona whose eyes widened and her mouth tensed. Her hands came up trying to hold him away. He lurched forward, pushing Shona away from the stove and up against the boxes by the wall, his head buried in her neck. Shona opened her mouth to scream.
“Leave her alone!” Martin shouted at the door. His voice beat back at him.
Young guy ignored Martin and covered Shona’s mouth with one hand, and grabbed her breast with the other. Shona’s scream stifled beneath his hand.
“What’s happening?” Davy’s strangled voice came from behind Martin.
Heat coursed through Martin’s veins as burning centred in his throat. He spun, scanning the room for an implement to open the door. Shouldering it would be useless because it opened inward. The metal spoon’s handle stuck out slightly from its hiding place behind the box of tuna.
“Martin?” Davy’s voice was panicked question.
In the kitchen, Shona continued to scream behind her assailant’s hand.
Martin grabbed the metal spoon and angled it into the door to prize it open. He pushed and levered but it didn’t budge. Davy grunted. Behind Martin, he smashed an old wooden crate. Martin placed the spoon handle right next to the ancient Victorian lock, in between the lock and the door jamb. He pushed, levering the door toward him. Davy slipped a chock of wood in the gap. The gap stayed open. Martin nodded and dug his metal-spoon lever into the wood behind the strike plate. He’d noted the state of the aged door jamb previously. Maybe it would break in its weakened state. He pressed hard again. The door flung open and splinters of wood flew; the lock and strike plate still connected.
Shona’s muffled screams held anger. Grunts of effort came from her and the young man as she tugged at his hair and clothing, trying to push him away.
Martin strode forward and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. He pulled him off Shona then flung him against the kitchen table, face down. Martin lifted his arm high. He aimed his elbow with all his weight behind him. It thudded down onto young guy’s back. Right between his shoulder blades. A winded grunt came from the young man sprawled across the table.
“What in the bloody hell’s going on?” Declan’s voice echoed in the kitchen as he entered, scanning the room. His gaze fell on Shona crying behind Martin and flicked to Davy standing in the broken doorway of the pantry. His glare flashed on his assistant sprawled on the kitchen table, then slid to Martin.
“You!” His heavy steps came toward Martin. “Git here!” Declan grabbed him by the collar. Skin pinched where his grasp included flesh. Martin’s feet dragged down the corridor as Declan took him to Lloyd’s door.
“But Shona! Don’t leave her with that creep,” Martin gasped.
Lloyd’s door opened.
“Can you not keep a handle on your charges, Declan?” Napoleon’s double stood in the doorway.
“Please don’t let him touch her.” Martin spoke right into the little man’s face.
Lloyd cocked an eyebrow at Declan. “Deal with it.”
Declan thrust Martin into the library and shut the door. His footsteps receded, and yelling ensued in the kitchen.
“Sit!” Lloyd stood by a bookshelf and glared at Martin.
Martin walked to the nearest chair and sat. Thudding footsteps made their way to a room further along from the kitchen. A door slammed. More yelling, then Declan returned.
“Sorted?”
“Aye, Mr Lloyd. But I have to deal with the troublemakers.”
“Who are?”
“This one.” Declan sneered at Martin. “And one of our own.”
“Who?” Lloyd snapped.
“Sean.”
Lloyd closed his eyes and took a breath. “You’ll have to reprimand him.”
“Aye, boss.”
“If he can’t keep his hands off the fish-wife, then I can’t trust him with the merchandise.”
Declan looked at the floor. “I’ll speak to him, boss.”
“He behaves, or he goes. I don’t care whose nephew he is.”
“Aye, boss.”
“Attend to this,” Lloyd gestured to Martin, “as you see fit but don’t kill him. Daddy’s possibly coming through.”
Martin lifted his head, his heartbeat kicking up a notch. “You’ve contacted—?”
“Shut it, you!” Declan grabbed his shirt collar and dragged him off the chair and out of the room, then down to the kitchen. Sean sat by the table looking sorry for himself, and cockney stood over the stove, stirring the pot of stew Shona had started.
Declan thrust Martin’s face down onto the kitchen table, the whole length of his upper torso contacting the wood. Hollow, breathless pain erupted below his chest bone. Declan strode around the table to Sean.
“Last chance, chancer. Then you’re ‘oot!” Declan slapped Sean on the side of the head.
Martin made to stand.
“Stay where ye are. Face down.” Declan continued his walk around the table. “Some good old-fashioned punishment would nae go astray here in this good old-fashioned kitchen.” The clicking of a belt unbuckling and the sliding of leather through loops were the only sounds.
“You two! One on each arm. Hold him down.”
The two men obeyed, and they soon pulled Martin’s apart arms. His chest muscles burned with the stretch, and his face pressed into the wooden table. The rough metal-edging dug into his wrists where the men pressed his hands down hard on either side of the table. The scent of something musty and rancid filled his nostrils and the hardwood pinched his cheek where the last tenderness of a bruise surrounded his eye.
Snaps of burning pain streaked across Martin’s back. Then his buttocks. Then the backs of his thighs. Grunts escaped him with each stroke of Declan’s leather belt.
Sean’s maniacal laugh erupted to his left.
The strokes began again. The pain sharper this time as previous welts broke open.
It was all too much. In his mind Martin went to a safe place. It usually involved imagining himself on a deserted sun-drenched beach—with a cigarette. This time in his mind’s eye, he saw his father.