Scared

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and characters are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Scared Copyright©2010 Sarah Masters ISBN 978-1-60054-581-8 His and His Kisses Edition Cover art and design by Emmy Ellis All rights reserved. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Published by loveyoudivine Alterotica 2010 Find us on the World Wide Web at www.loveyoudivine.com

SCARED ~ A Grave Findings Novel By Sarah Masters

Sex trafficking is a nasty business… Will Russell and Toby find out just how nasty it is?

SCARED ~ Prologue

The boy hunched deeper into his bright red coat. It had seen better days. The stuffing had flattened, the outer material bore a few rips and scratches, and the removable hood had lost two of its buttons. Still, at least he had a coat, one he’d pinched from the sale rack outside Debenhams when no one was looking. Of course, he’d run like the wind once the coat was in his hand, legging it through the crowd of shoppers who didn’t seem to have any urgency about them. Millers, that’s what he called them. People who milled about without a care in the goddamn world. The boy should be so lucky.

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As he leaned against the underside of the bridge wall, darkness bringing the usual fears that gnawed his gut, he admitted picking a red coat hadn’t been one of his better choices. Mind you, it wasn’t really red now, more of a dull burgundy due to the filth he’d picked up over the past year. He stared out across the way, taking in the stench of the dirty river meandering beneath the bridge. The brown water reminded him of melted milk chocolate, the ripples ghosts blowing the surface instead of the wind. He stood on a path that ran alongside it, wide enough that he could stretch out if he had a mind. Not that he could do that very often. Better to be curled into a ball. Invisible. A fire blazed halfway down the path beneath the bridge, and he smelled the tang of it, watched a blackened piece of paper fly up into the air, swirling in the breeze. The old man had set it inside a rusty oil barrel, using newspaper and the dried-up sticks he always collected by day. The boy had latched onto him not long after he’d run away. Pete reminded him of his granddad. The

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boy had always felt comfortable around old people. They didn’t hurt him. Didn’t expect anything of him except good manners and respect. The boy could do that, did that for them—for anyone who gave a shit. Unfortunately, not many people did. Still staring out of the archway, he took in the bright lights of London, spots of white, yellow, and red. He could see the London Eye from here, something he dreamed of going on but couldn’t afford the fare. He just about made enough money to eat, and on the days he didn’t, the bins outside the many MacDonald’s in the city provided scraps to fill his aching, empty belly. There were people in that vast place who lived in warm houses and smiled a lot. Mothers who tucked their children into bed, sitting there to read them a story. A kiss to the forehead, a ruffle of their hair, and the mother left the child feeling happy and content to fall asleep knowing love surrounded them. The boy knew this utopia existed. He’d watched TV. Saw what went on beyond the realms of his own existence. His reality, though,

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had been very different. Mum, with her brown, broken teeth and stinging slaps, had a love affair with drugs. She took them, sold them, and spent the majority of her time off her head. He wasn’t sure how she’d got into that kind of life—it had been all he’d known—but surely once upon a time she’d been happy. Clean. Yeah, she always had looked dirty. Greasy blonde hair stuffed back into a ponytail, the skin of her face a sickly grey pallor that bled into the darker circles beneath her eyes. During the last few months of the boy being at home, he’d noticed wrinkles, deep and ravine-like. When she hit him, her eyes bunched in spite, and those wrinkles reminded him of Granddad’s ancient concertina. Dad…he was another story. He loved the drink, loved the money the drugs brought in, and his fists turned to iron when he had a mind. The boy’s parents had never worked, although they said they did. Drug running was a lucrative business that kept them on their toes, they reckoned, keeping them up long into the night. As far back as the boy could remember, people had knocked on their front door way past sundown,

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entering the flat along with the scent of outdoors and other, indefinable smells. He used to sit in the corner of the itchy, hessian couch, springs bursting through the fabric to poke him in the arse. And he watched what went on, knowing the people would leave once they’d got what they came for. Small transparent bags containing white power or what looked like dried grass. Dad had been pissed out of his head most of the time, and Mum was usually high. Granddad had once said, “How you’ve never been robbed is anyone’s guess.” Dad reckoned it was because he had a name for himself. No, people wouldn’t mess with him. The boy knew otherwise. Once a week a man arrived, his pristine suit marking him out as someone altogether different from the usual visitors. Mum handed him money, and the man slapped her bony arse and told her that cash was what kept the sharks from their door. She used to titter at him, a sound that grated on the boy’s nerves, and Dad would laugh. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, though, and the boy instinctually knew his father didn’t like the man slapping Mum.

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Granddad tried to protect the boy, risking the slaps and fists himself, and toward the end when…yeah, toward the end, the old man kind of gave up. Once Granddad had gone, the boy knew he’d have to follow his brother out into the city, leaving behind the filth and spite. Entering a different kind of filth and spite. He’d hoped to find his brother, gone a long time now, on the streets he walked day in, day out. He hadn’t found him. The boy shook off the memories. “Reckon it’s about time the black van made its rounds,” Pete said from behind him. Something in the fire crackled, and a flurry of blackened paper specks sifted out into the open air. The boy watched them go, wishing he could fly away like that. “Yeah,” the boy said. “That van don’t worry me.” He was good at lying. “Well, it should. You know what happens when it’s on the prowl.” Pete coughed, hard and racking, phlegm catching in his throat. The boy turned to face him, studied how he appeared a brown bundle of rags with a grey-

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haired head sitting on top. Pete’s hair hung in lank strips, the ends well past his shoulders. A straggly beard and moustache hid a mouth that was capable of giving the boy a cheesy grin from time to time. All right, the teeth were chipped and dirty like Mum’s, but the boy loved that particular smile. “They won’t get me,” the boy said, confident he had his wits about him enough to evade capture. “That’s what the others said, and where are they now, eh?” Pete drew one arm out of the many folds of fabric around him and stood from his crouch. He took an ancient-looking metal pole in hand and poked inside the oil drum. Orange sparks flew up, the cold air dousing them to nothing. “We don’t know where they are because they were taken somewhere, weren’t they. One minute they’re round and about, and the next, the van comes and them kids are gone.” “Maybe they moved on elsewhere.” The boy didn’t believe that. “Maybe they did, but you and I know the truth. Like I told you, that van comes every six

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months. I see it out there on the streets. Like a big monster, it is, kissing the damn curb, all slow-like. Whoever’s inside, it ain’t right. They’re up to something.” The boy pushed off the bridge and walked toward the fire. He held his hands out over the heat, grateful that his fingers began to thaw. He ought to get some gloves, and his shoes needed replacing. His had holes in the bottoms. Wasn’t so bad if it didn’t rain, but getting small stones inside them was a right bitch. “If I stay with you, I’ll be safe, so the van isn’t a problem for me.” The boy rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, well, you know how it goes. Some nights we sleep in different places. There’ll be a time that van’ll come for you.” Pete leaned the pole against the wall and resumed his former position, knees clicking as he lowered to the ground. The boy’s stomach contracted, and he swallowed bile. “I’m not scared.” “Oh, you’re scared, all right. You just don’t show it.”

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“Nah, I’m not scared.” He hunkered down on the other side of the oil drum, so Pete couldn’t see him. Dad always said he could tell when the boy lied because his face went red. Granted, the fire had warmed his face just then, but he didn’t fancy Pete knowing the real reason his face burned. “I reckon you ought to tell me your name, boy. Just in case the van comes for you.” “I don’t need to tell you, ‘cos the van ain’t coming for me. Told you that already.” He pulled his arms out of his sleeves and hugged himself inside his coat. For warmth, that’s all. Warmth. “Besides, if I told you my name, who would give a shit I was gone anyway?” “The police, boy, that’s who. I been talking to them about this for years. Told them about the van. But they ain’t listening. Reckon I’m mad, crazy, whatever the fuck they call me. But if I had a name I could give them… Yeah, they’d listen then.” Would the van come for the boy? He hugged himself tighter and stared across the river to a disused car park. Long, ratty, yellowed grass

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shielded his view of the asphalt, and streetlights, no longer lit, stood around the edge like charred fingers pointing at the sky. He shivered. From the cold. Two shafts of light split the darkness, filtering through the strands of grass, showing them up for the unkempt mess they were. The boy couldn’t see the vehicle the lights belonged to, what with the opposite side of the bridge being in the way. He stood and walked back to the opening, squinted and saw the dark silhouette of a van that was blacker than the darkness beyond. It idled, a menacing hulk of unanswered questions. A light rain had begun to fall, the tiny droplets showcased by the headlights, coming down in diagonal lines until a shunting breeze jostled them to dancing. The van door opened, the interior light coming on, a shout of brightness in the dark. The tinted windshield only gave the boy a glimpse of two shadowy forms inside. One—the driver—got out and strode toward the grass, an aura of light around him from the headlights. He stopped, hands in coat pockets, and stared at the boy.

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Heart thumping hard, the boy stared back. He wasn’t scared. No, he could take care of himself all right. His breaths left him in stuttered gasps, grey clouds puffing out of his mouth and dissipating the higher they climbed. Okay, so his legs had weakened a little bit, but that was because he hadn’t eaten anything since this morning. He was hungry, that was all. The man turned away, going back to the van and getting inside. He closed the door, the interior light winking out, and reversed back the way he’d come. The car park looked better now, in complete darkness. A shuffle sounded behind him, and the boy turned to see Pete gazing over the river. “It was the van, wasn’t it?” he asked. “I’d know them headlights anywhere.” “Yeah, it was the van. Some bloke got out. Probably just a geezer looking for a lost dog or whatever.” “You believe what makes you happy, boy, but I’m telling you, they’ve spotted you somewhere. They’re checking you out. Your haunts. Reckon

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you ought to start sleeping elsewhere in future. Places you ain’t never been before.” Pete shuffled back to his spot beside the oil drum. The boy stared at the car park for a long time. He’d be safe here for tonight, wouldn’t he? If Pete didn’t mind him snuggling up, he’d be all right. Turning, he walked over to Pete and slid down the wall beside him. When the old man fell asleep, he’d lean into him then. The sounds of the river trickling past and the occasional plop of water dripping from the bridge ceiling became something for the boy to focus on for a while. It wasn’t long before the memory of that van infiltrated his mind, though, and he rolled Pete’s words around in his mind, weighing up his options. “Pete?” “Yeah?” “My name’s Fraser. Fraser Croft.”

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SCARED ~ Chapter One

Russell stood beside a half-dug grave, the red cup of his Thermos in hand, the flask wedged between his feet. Coffee steam warmed his cold nose and cheeks, not to mention his chest, as the hot liquid went down. Working outside in this kind of weather was a bitch, what with the nip in the air and frost harsh enough to freeze your fingers. It wasn’t so bad while he was doing the actual digging. The cab of the great yellow machine parked at the head of the grave at least provided a little warmth, despite the heater being a bit fucked and only working when it had half a mind.

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He took another sip and stared at the sky. The clouds looked too heavy to stay up there, like they’d fall any second if they filled with any more rain. Didn’t look like it’d be long before the damn things burst, drenching the ground and possibly mucking up all his hard work—an hour so far gouging a rectangle out of the earth, ready to hold a body and casket in two day’s time. While Russell finished his coffee he thought back to another time, when he’d worked in a different graveyard in a different town. One night had changed his whole life, with him having just finished digging a grave and some strange bloke appearing, telling him to dig it deeper. If he hadn’t, Russell would have been seriously hurt— the man made no bones about that. “You’ll be needing that shovel a while longer,” the male voice had said, its timbre low and menacing. Russell remembered a twig cracked, and the shuffle of footsteps filtered into the hole where he’d been about to climb the ladder to get out. “Who’s there?” he’d said, one foot on the lowest ladder rung, hands gripping the sides.

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“Never you mind.” The footsteps came closer, and the shape of the man moved, picking up the shovel. He speared it into the grave. It landed beside Russell, the handle leaning toward him. Russell made out a guy in a black raincoat, the belt cinched tight at the waist. A baseball cap sat tight to his head, the brim pulled low, and he wore dress trousers and pointy-toed leather shoes. The man instructed Russell to dig and in no uncertain terms told him if he didn’t, there’d be trouble. Like Russell could refuse with what looked like a pistol pointed at him. After he’d finished, he returned to the little hut where he stored his tools, and prepared to leave the graveyard, vowing never to tell anyone what had happened. But he hadn’t been able to resist one more look back as he’d locked the cemetery gates. He peered through the iron bars and watched the man and one other deposit a body in the grave. Russell was torn between fucking off home and calling the police, but the man’s threats had scared him into silence.

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“Jesus,” he said now, the memories sending a chill down his spine. He glanced about, laughing quietly. What had he expected, the guy to turn up again? Here? He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since that night, and he’d moved to this new town with Toby, the guy who had been placed in the grave. It’s not every day a bloke finds a man buried under a shitload of dirt, then falls in love with him, but there you go. No one can say my life hasn’t been interesting. He and Toby had been here over a year now, settling into a place where they knew no one and no one knew them—or at least Russell didn’t think anyone had recognised them. Maybe the newspapers here in Wraxford, a little out-of-theway place near Newcastle, hadn’t covered what had happened that night down south. Who knew? Reckon I’d still be there now if I hadn’t turned and looked through those gates, seeing what those men had done. I’d have shit myself that those men would come back, but I don’t think I’d have left town if—

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Yeah, he’d gone back into the graveyard once the men had gone, finding Toby buried in mud, still alive. And thank fuck he had, because Russell would never have found the guy dreams were made of and started a new life with him. Well, Toby wasn’t exactly dream-guy material, everyone had their idiosyncrasies, but he was close enough to perfect for Russell. He smiled, flicking his cup free of coffee droplets and screwing it back on the flask. His break was over—“Only fifteen minutes, and make sure you don’t go a minute over!” Reginald, his co-worker always said—and he needed to dig down a few more inches before this grave was done. Reginald was just as bad as George, the old fella Russell had worked with before, except Reginald was younger. “You’d think he was fifty the way he acts. Tosser.” Scowling, Russell climbed up into his digger and stuffed the flask into his rucksack. Not long now until lunch, and today he had a tuna baguette, packed to bursting with the stuff. His mouth watered at the thought, and Russell shut the image of food from his mind. No

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sense in thinking about what he couldn’t eat yet. Reginald would undoubtedly know Russell had eaten before his actual lunch break. The bloke had a habit of knowing shit like that. Had a habit of knowing many things he shouldn’t, come to think of it. Starting the digger, Russell went about finishing the grave on autopilot, his mind wandering back to the past. He’d told himself he wouldn’t do this, harping on about what had gone before, but finding Toby’s flatmate, Sasha, stabbed to death with a carving knife the night he’d rescued Toby from the grave wasn’t exactly something you could forget in a hurry. Especially when whoever had killed her had never been caught. Especially when you still had nightmares about it. The blood. The shape of her body on the floor. The blood. They way the knife handle stuck out of her. The blood… It could have just been some random killing, couldn’t it? A coincidence that Toby had been beaten up the same evening after he’d tried to stop some men bullying a young kid. That when

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they’d caught Toby, they’d drugged him with something or other and dumped him in that grave. Could it have been coincidence? Russell huffed out a breath. He didn’t know, and not knowing was what always got him thinking back. They’d moved to Wraxford, him and Toby, wanting to start afresh, where no one knew them as the blokes in the newspaper, the one with the article about them finding Sasha. Some prick reporter had snapped their picture without them knowing as they’d left the police station after giving statements. The following day, their faces had been splashed in full colour on the front page. Toby had almost shit himself at that. Reckoned whoever had killed Sasha, and whoever had drugged him, would never let sleeping dogs lie. They could hardly stay in town then, could they, so they’d done a moonlight flit, letting the coppers know where they’d gone in case the men were caught and Russell and Toby were needed for any resulting trial. No policeman had contacted them, and each day Russell checked the local paper of their old

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town online, coming up blank on any news the men had been caught. It wasn’t good to always have to look over your shoulder, but what else could they do? Also, Russell had wondered if it’d been a good idea that he’d gone straight back to work as a gravedigger. If those men were on the lookout for them, if they were really bad blokes, it’d stand to reason they’d have contacts in various towns, ones sent to check out the cemeteries for signs he worked there. “Fuck all I can do about that now. If they come, they come,” he muttered, reversing the digger away from the now-finished grave and driving it onto a pathway that separated two expanses of grave-dotted grass. Reginald would be along shortly to make sure Russell had finished in the allotted time he’d given him. Like George, Reginald was a lazy bastard, leaving all the hard work to Russell. All the guy did was mow the damn grass, lay out the fake grass around the graves, and place huge boards over the top so no one fell into the hole while it was left unattended. Russell dug the graves, weeded around all the plots, ensured the

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gravestones were set in the correct place when they arrived, and everything else their bloody job entailed. Paperwork, orders, and whatnot. Once a mug, always a fucking mug. He smiled at the thought of what Toby would have said to that: Only you can stop people taking the piss. You let them, that’s what the problem is. Tell them to fuck off, and they won’t keep doing it. I’d like to see Reginald’s face if I told him to fuck off, but I don’t want to lose my job. And I would. No way would his dad allow me to speak that way. Probably why Reginald gets away with what he does, having his dad as our boss. Sighing, Russell drove the digger up the path and over the mounded edge of grass to his left. He had another grave to dig before he could even think about lunch. He headed toward plot five hundred and nine, cursing the cold weather, because shit, there’d be an influx of dead folks in the coming weeks. Always were during the winter. Car crashes due to icy roads; old folks who couldn’t afford to put the heating on; house fires where people placed their clothing to dry in front of a real blaze.

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Damn depressing. Parking the digger, Russell jumped out of the cab and pulled a ball of string and a tape measure from his pocket. He measured out the grave—an adult one, longer than the average—and marked the size by tying the string to small wooden stakes at each corner. Back in the cab, he started the engine and began again, digging yet another last resting place for some poor bastard who already lay in the morgue fridge, the probing inspection from the medical examiner long finished, life long finished. Tell me why I chose this profession again? He’d been unemployed for six months when the agency came up with his first grave-digging job. He hadn’t exactly chosen it—he had no choice but to take the damn thing, being behind on his rent and finding what was left of his savings wouldn’t quite stretch to keeping him fed for another week. Still, he’d found it wasn’t so bad—and neither were the wages. Rain splatted the windscreen in fat, intermittent plops, and he turned on the wipers at slow speed. The sky darkened, one minute

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light the next a ghastly dark grey that promised the rain would soon be a deluge. He could keep working for now—the rain would help soften the earth—but he’d rather be at home in the warm. Cold weather was one thing, but adding rain to it just made him feel miserable and downright pissed off. Russell switched the wipers to high speed as the deluge he’d predicted came crashing down. Christ, the water oozed over the windscreen in one solid sheet, the wipers fighting to make their triangular peepholes and losing the battle. Unable to see to work, Russell switched the engine off and decided to wait it out. The weatherman had predicted rain, and although he hadn’t quite got it right—“A light smattering of rain mid-morning, folks, then sunny skies all the way!”—Reginald could hardly expect Russell to keep working when he couldn’t see what he was bloody doing. Eating that tuna baguette tempted him. But if he couldn’t see out the window, he couldn’t watch for Reginald if he happened to come by ready to catch Russell. He leaned down to the

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footwell and fumbled around inside his rucksack, fingers skating over the clear wrap covering his lunch. It rustled. Lured him to rip it off. Instead, he grabbed his flask and poured out some coffee, telling himself if Reginald had a problem with that, then he could go fuck himself. The cab had already grown cold without the shitty heater on, and Russell needed to keep warm. As he sipped, Russell wondered what Toby was doing in his warm office. Filing probably, or answering the phones. Toby did a bit of everything at Jacob & Sons, the local fruit and veg supplier. His lover didn’t like his job either, but like they told one another almost once a week, at least they had jobs. Sometimes, Toby even drove the trucks delivering produce when they were shorthanded, walking the short distance from the high-rise office building to the warehouse a couple of streets away. Jack-of-alltrades, him, and that was handy. If he lost his job he could apply for another in any number of professions, providing work was available in Wraxford. Mind you, if they had to, they could apply for work in the nearby town of Malton if—

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A shadow flitted past the windscreen. Russell necked his coffee and quickly screwed the cup back on his flask. Despite telling himself Reginald could go fuck himself, Russell didn’t fancy an argument over him drinking coffee when he’d already had his break. He leaned down and jammed the flask in his backpack, sitting upright to find the shadow flicking back the other way, toward the cab door on his right. Bracing himself for Reginald to fling the door wide expecting to catch him at some misdemeanour, Russell held his breath. A figure drew close to the side window, fuzzy through the slanting sheets of rain. He was sure Reginald had worn a red coat today and he wondered why the bloke hadn’t got it on now. Maybe he’d put one of the cemetery-issue wax jackets on over the top when the rain had started. Maybe Reginald had been listening to the radio in their “staff room”, an ancient, grey-bricked building on the other side of the graveyard, and heard that the weather wasn’t going to let up and turn into sunny skies all the damn way. If it kept up like this, there was nothing much either of them could do until the rain stopped.

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Reginald came closer, and the cab swayed as he hoisted himself up onto the outside step, pressing his nose to the pane. The end of it looked like a circle, rain lashing around it, and Russell held back a laugh. If he let it out, Reginald would hold that against him too. Anything to get him into trouble. The door handle rattled, and Reginald drew his face back before opening the door. Except it wasn’t Reginald standing there on the step. A man, wax jacket and trousers covering his large frame, and a waterproof fishing hat on his head, stared at Russell. Rain splashed off the hat’s brim, bouncing onto Russell. Heart thumping harder, it took him a moment to get to grips with the fact a stranger occupied the step. Was this man visiting a grave, hoping for respite in the cab until the downpour ceased? “Uh, who are you?” Russell asked, shifting over a little due to the rain coming in and wetting his jeans. A cold wind whipped inside, swirling around the cab and stealing all the warmth Russell had cultivated.

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The man continued to stare, his black eyes narrowed, black eyebrows like furry slugs. A bushy beard grew around a mouth with fleshy lips and beneath a nose that looked like it had been punched a fair few times. In short, the man appeared a thug. Someone who had been in many a fight and was handy with his fists. Shit. “Look, mate. There isn’t room for you in here. If you need to get out of the rain, you can go over there to the—” “Get out.” The man’s accent was pure London. He widened his eyes, and the furry slugs arched. What the fuck? London? “I can’t leave the digger, mate,” Russell said. “Get out. Now.” The man reached out a leather-gloved hand and gripped Russell’s wrist. “I can’t. Honestly, I’ll lose my job if I let you get in here.” Russell considered starting the engine and shoving the man off the step, but the digger moved so bloody slowly this bloke would catch up with him if that was his intention. “You won’t be needing your job where you’re going. Now get out.”

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Yanked hard, Russell jerked forward. The man’s words only just registering, Russell pulled back and reached for his rucksack. His phone was in there. Sliding his finger through the top loop, he lifted the bag just before the man tugged harder. “All right, all right! I’m getting out.” The man let him go, and Russell climbed out, cursing himself for the missed opportunity of kicking him in the chest, given his higher vantage point while sitting in the cab. Too late now. Rain smacked into him, needle-like and vicious, and his cheeks stung already from the assault. He gripped his backpack tightly—as tight as the man’s hold on his upper arm—and stumbled along by his side toward the far corner of the cemetery. A gate there led into a small housing estate via a long, winding, tree-lined path. They would vanish among the buildings in no time, and seeing as the sky was so dark and the rain would have kept people inside, Russell had no doubt his entry into the estate would go virtually unseen.

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SCARED ~ Chapter Two

Toby was bored shitless. He hated his job, hated this bloody town, and hated the men who had forced them up here. Never thought he’d miss the south, but there you have it. Everyone sounded so alien; no trace of the London brogue around this neck of the woods. Unless you counted his and Russell’s. Stabbing at the teabag floating in one of the many cuppas he was making, Toby sighed. Fuck, if he’d known he’d be chief teaboy when he took this job… But at least it’s a job. God, he annoyed himself by saying that all the damn time. He said it to Russell, too, more

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to assure him that everything was fine, even when it wasn’t. He hated worrying him. Still, they were alive. Safe. That counted for a hell of a lot, didn’t it? If they’d have stayed at home, God only knew what would have happened. Wouldn’t have been long before those men found them. He never regretted helping that kid get away from those men, though. They’d looked intent on doing him some serious harm, roughing him up like that. It was on the news all the time, wasn’t it, kids going missing, kids finding themselves in a bit of bother, and that kid had looked scared shitless as Toby approached. Stared at him with the kind of fear in his eyes no kid should have. They’d told the kid to fuck off out of it, get going, and Toby had gone home, content he’d helped the boy out. Until the men collared him at his flat door, shoving him inside. They’d given him a pasting, telling him he’d never get the chance to poke his nose into someone’s business again, and mentioned his girlfriend— that was a laugh, that was—pointing to Sasha’s

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handbag hanging on the door handle. He hadn’t put them straight that she wasn’t his bird. He reckoned they’d have beat the shit out of him there and then if they knew he was gay. They left Sasha a note written on the bathroom mirror—in blood. The blood from where they’d punched him in the face and made his nose bleed. Then they took him to this massive house in the middle of nowhere, down in a dank basement at the end of a long corridor. He’d been given a glass of lemonade, or so he thought, was urged to drink it, and then they jabbed a needle in his arm. His brain had fucked off a little while after that, shortcircuiting and refusing to play ball. The men questioned him—what have you seen, what did you hear, what the fuck did you think you were playing at, you fucking ponce?—and Toby had been hard pressed to answer. His tongue hadn’t worked, and the words he wanted to say backed up inside his empty head like a trapped crowd pressing against a door. I didn’t see anything except you lot getting in some kid’s face.

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I didn’t hear anything except you telling him he should go with you if he knew what was good for him. You said something about Sasha, but fucked if I can remember now. I’d been playing at being a fucking hero. Doing the right thing. Fists had rained down on him, and the skin split above his eyebrow. Mustn’t forget the burning pain on his palm and the feeling of something sharp scraping beneath his fingernails. Or someone biting him—hard. Toby had blacked out, waking to find he couldn’t breathe. He’d opened his mouth to suck in air, and mud filled it. Damp. Disgusting. And what the hell was so heavy on top of him? He knew now it was the same mud he’d tasted, but back then his head had been so fuzzy he couldn’t tie it all together. He’d shook his head, some of the mud slipping away, lifted a hand—that had been a fucking struggle and all— and reached out. Something heavier than the mud had thumped down on his shins, and he waved his arm as a spear of pain shot up his legs. “Fuck! Oh, shit!” someone said, frantic and out of breath.

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The extra weight lifted, and Toby sat up, gasping in a deep breath, looking up at a man standing at the bottom of what looked like a grave. Russell. The poor bastard had appeared scared to death, and the sight of another frightened human being made Toby smile. “Shit. I bet I look shocking, don’t I?” Toby said. And wasn’t that such a normal thing to say considering the circumstances. “What the…? How? Wh…?” Russell shook his head and held out an arm for Toby to grasp his hand. “How did I get here? Fuck knows, though I have a good idea.” Toby frowned and took Russell’s hand, hauling himself upright. Staggering to the side, he put his hand to his temple and winced. “Jesus, that hurts.” He blinked. “Anyone out there?” he whispered, his free hand gripping the grave edge. “You know, like two hefty blokes?” Russell swallowed. “They were, when they…when you… Hang on.” He reached up and patted the ground. Fingers meeting with the ladder, he brought it between them and leaned it

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against the side. “Let me just check.” He climbed up three steps and peered out. “No. Can’t see anyone.” “Good. Then let’s get the fuck out of here. I feel like shit.” Russell glanced down at him. “You look like shit too. Those men. Give you a good going over, did they?” He nodded. “Yeah. You could say that.” Out of the hole, Russell studied the cemetery. “Need a hand?” he asked, holding one out. Halfway up the ladder, Toby nodded. Russell helped him up then lifted the ladder and turned it on its side, holding it beneath his arm. Bending down, he picked up the torch and switched it off. “D’you, uh…d’you have somewhere to go?” Russell had kicked at the pile of mud beside the grave. “I mean, you gonna be all right?” “Um, difficult one, that. I could go home, but they know where I live, so uh… Might be best I get off…somewhere. Don’t want you getting into any shit because of me.” He’d glanced around. “Well, thanks for, you know, helping me out, but uh… Yeah. Thanks.”

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Toby smiled now at the recollection and dumped the squeezed teabags in the bin. He added milk and sugar to the cups, making sure to stick to the list of who took what and which cup belonged to whom. It wouldn’t do to get the cups mixed up. He’d done it before and got a right bollocking from that bitch Martha Lewis, who stood guard over the photocopier as though her life depended on it. Placing the cups on a tray, Toby carried it out of the small kitchen off the main office and walked around to each desk, depositing cups as he went. No one thanked him. Most never acknowledged he was even there, and not for the first time he considered either pouring the hot liquid over everyone’s heads or walking out. Neither was an option. Back in the kitchen, he filled the kettle again to make his own drink. He did this from experience. If he made his at the same time as everyone else’s, by the time he got back to his it was going cold. Besides, he preferred hot chocolate, and no one liked a skin forming on the top. No one he knew anyway.

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His mind wandered again. Back then, he hadn’t told Russell everything right away. After they’d climbed out of that grave, Russell had taken him to a little shed thing on site and given him tea. Toby had offered the barest of details, omitting the fact those men had taken him to that big house. That came out later when they’d been interviewed by the police. And poor Sasha. Wrong place at the wrong time. Those bastards had come back after dumping him in that grave and killed her. What the fuck for he had no idea. Maybe to make it look like he’d killed her then legged it? Except it hadn’t quite worked out, if that had been their plan. Toby remained alive and well, albeit with serious mental scars and nightmares filled with being inside a grave full of mud, unable to get out. There was an upside to this whole sorry mess, though. Russell. Toby hadn’t really been in a serious relationship—not one like his with Russell anyway. This past year or so proved a test for both of them, living together and sharing their

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new space when Russell was used to being alone and Toby had shacked up with a female flatmate. And they were still feeling their way, getting to know one another a little more every day. Toby was surprised they’d lasted this long, actually. Most people, even those in previously solid relationships, would have crumbled under the pressure of having dodgy blokes looking for them day in, day out. Toby was under no illusions about that, either. They were being hunted all right. No way blokes who were into torture would sit back and let two men go—men who had blabbed to the coppers, their faces splashed all over the sodding newspapers. Mind you, if a year had passed, it could be said they’d been forgotten about. They might be safe now. My skinny arse. Toby sipped his hot chocolate and leaned against the countertop edge. He’d spend his tea break in here, away from those arseholes, who treated him like a skivvy. They’d guessed he was gay, too, right from the start, and he didn’t care what they said to the contrary, it did bother them.

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“Well, fuck them,” he muttered. “It’s not like I’ve gone round copping a feel of their arses and cornering them for a kiss, is it?” You’d think he had, judging by the looks the men gave him. And the women weren’t much better. Russell had no idea Toby put up with this every day. Toby almost envied Russell his creepy career choice. He got to work alone with only the dead for company. And that Reginald—what a complete wanker. Toby met him once when he had a day off and had dropped Russell at the graveyard gates to save him going by bike. They only had the one car between them, and Jacob & Sons was further away from home than Wraxford Cemetery. Reginald had eyed Toby up and down like he was shit on his shoe. Toby thought at the time that if he had shit on his shoe right then, he’d have gladly wiped it on Reginald’s pristine black trousers. Trousers, when you worked in a graveyard? The bloke walked off after opening the gates, looking as though he had a broom handle stuck up his arse, and Toby had questioned Russell as to why the guy wore trousers instead of jeans.

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“’Cos he don’t do any work where he gets dirty, that’s why.” Toby grimaced now, blowing his hot chocolate and taking a creamy sip. He wished the past would just fuck off and leave him alone. “Toby!” Martha shouted from the office. “Boss wants you to post some letters.” I wish he’d fuck off and leave me alone and all. “Be with him in a minute. Just finishing my drink,” he called. “Uh, now, Toby. Five minutes ago, like.” He had nothing against the Newcastle accent, but the tone of Martha’s voice got right on his nerves. Pouring the remainder of his drink down the plughole then swilling out the cup, Toby left the kitchen and walked toward the boss’ office. “Uh, Toby. Boss left the letters at reception.” Reception? Unusual. Mind you, Mr Jacob was getting old, and quirks due to his age had begun to show. Once, he’d sworn blind he’d asked Toby to get a file out when he hadn’t. No amount of telling Mr. Jacob that he hadn’t had worked. To appease the old

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bastard, Toby had admitted he’d forgotten and got on with the task. Toby walked out of an office abuzz with keyboards tapping and phones ringing, via the double glass doors. The reception area, all cream carpet and walls adorned with modern art that looked like a kid had painted them, held a massive semi-circular desk. Miss Prissy Pants Extraordinaire sat behind it. She acted like her shit didn’t stink and was a rung above Martha on the ladder of people Toby wished he didn’t have to work with. Sighing, he took the pile of letters off the desk and headed for the elevator. He jabbed the DOWN button and watched the number arrows light red as the lift ascended. “What have you got there?” Prissy asked. Toby turned to face her. “Letters Mr. Jacob wanted posting.” “Oh, right. I wondered who’d put them there. He must have come in while I was in the ladies’ room.” The elevator dinged. Toby smiled tightly and stepped inside, pressing the button for the

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ground floor. As he descended, he nosed through the mail, wondering what was so important that it couldn’t wait until later when the postman collected the letters just after four o’clock. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary—each letter addressed with the usual sticky white label— Toby shrugged and waited for the lift to stop. The doors slid open, and he stepped out into the building’s main foyer. Black leather sofas and chairs were dotted about. Newspapers and magazines stood in rigid piles on low, glasstopped coffee tables. And Selena, the nicest person in the whole damn building, smiled at him from behind her vast marble-effect desk. “Off on an errand again, Toby?” she asked with a smile. “As ever,” he said and pushed open one of the steel-edged glass front doors. There was quite a nip in the air, and judging by the wet ground, it’d been raining hard. The clouds looked like they held shitloads more. Fucking great. Not only was he going to get cold, it appeared he’d probably get soaked, seeing as the post box stood two streets away. He’d never

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make it there and back in time, judging by the fast-darkening sky. Taking a deep breath so he didn’t shout copious swear words and get odd looks from passersby, he exhaled through tight lips and walked. He shouldn’t keep complaining really. His life wasn’t a bad one, even though they were hiding out from southern nutters. If he was honest, it was just his job getting him down, and he could always start looking for a new one. After thinking about that for a while, he nodded absently, telling himself he’d browse online later and see if anything local was on offer. The only time he was happy was when he was at home with Russell. Everything bad seemed to melt away then, and all that existed was them and what they were doing. He’d struck lucky finding him, Toby knew that, and if he thought about being without him, he choked up. He turned into Fountain Street and spied the red post box, sitting on the corner where this road formed a T-junction with the one at the top. No one else occupied the street, unless you counted the people living in the houses on either side.

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Cars parked in a haphazard line right down the road, and he wondered for a brief moment whether anyone around here had actually passed their driving test. He stared at a black van parked behind the post box, on the curb of the road that formed the top of the T. If that driver wasn’t careful, some joyriding little twat would shunt him up the rear end and do a right bit of damage. Oddly, there wasn’t much traffic going to and fro up there. Surprising, because there usually was. Toby shrugged and drew closer to the post box. He glanced at the sky. The first splats of new rainfall came down, large droplets few and far between. He recognised them as the prelude to one motherfucking downpour and upped his pace. At the post box, he lifted his hand and dropped the letters through the slot, turning away to lift the collar of his jacket up around his ears. He didn’t fancy a wet neck as well as everything else. Facing back the way he’d just come, he contemplated jogging back to work. The raindrops came down faster, and when he braced himself to run, someone grabbed the back of his jacket.

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Toby turned, fist raised, ready to give the bastard what for. Until he saw who it was. The man grinned, teeth flashing through his black beard. “Hello, mate. Fancy seeing you here.”

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SCARED ~ Chapter Three

Harris

“Frost” Kingsley had time to kill before he…killed. I hope the little bastards are suffering. Worrying. Wondering what will happen next. The thought of those two shitting themselves while they waited for the second phase on the last day of their lives almost had him laughing. “Stop holding your legs,” he said, gazing at his lover, whose eyes flickered with different hues of amber. Defiant little prick. Beautifully defiant. Stephen hunched up by the headboard, arms about his knees, which he hugged close to his

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chest. Frost knew he frightened the young man, but really… What was it with the men of today? What did it take to get a lover who did as he was damn well told without question? “You must relax.” Frost, naked, arse on his heels, studied Stephen from the bottom of the bed. “You know how much I dislike a hole that doesn’t…give without a fight.” I lie well. Telling him that only serves to make him tenser. Stephen took in a deep breath and let go of his knees, stretching his legs out, feet either side of Frost’s thighs. His pretty face showed signs of crying throughout the night. Ah, he had been homeless, standing on the street corner, with no one to notice him being gone. At least that’s what Frost told himself. Stephen had protested when Frost’s men grabbed him, bundling the skinny wretch into the back of Frost’s car. Said he’d only popped out to get some milk for his mother. They all said that. Stephen had stared at Frost beside him in the back seat, the car speeding away to Frost’s home.

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“What do you want?” Stephen had asked. “You’ll see.” Frost smiled. “How old are you.” “Eighteen.” “Perfect.” Now, Frost shunted forward between Stephen’s legs, his cock pointed at his lover’s chest. Frost took himself in hand and began that slow movement up and down that had almost sent him insane last night. And it was sending him insane now. Stephen’s fear fuelled his desire. Frost’s fingers itched to reach out and touch Stephen, but he held back, enjoying himself just fine on his own. To be with someone so uneasy was thrilling. Frost could sit there all night and study him. Stroke his own cock, utter words to the young man that further changed his expression from fearful to terrified. That would make him come, just like it had last time. Frost’s cock strained, and a drop of pre-cum drizzled down the head. “I smell your fear, Stephen. My cock is weeping because of it. See what you do to me? See

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what your fear does? Take off those trousers. I want to see you naked.” Stephen eyed Frost’s legs, gaze sweeping up and down them like a kid anticipating the belt from an angry father. Good. Oh, so fucking good. Stephen looked as though he would refuse, then must have recalled what happened before when he did that. An angry red stripe across his back bore testament to it. He scrabbled onto his knees, dragged his trousers off, and tossed them to the floor. “And the top. Take that off too.” Frost’s hand glided on. Up and down, up and down. Stephen lifted his black T-shirt over his head, body puny compared to Frost’s sexy-as-fuck frame—and he knew it was sexy as fuck. Frost’s cock throbbed erratically, needing to be touched by the young man. Stephen flung the T-shirt aside and rested his hands on the mattress, obviously unsure what to do. Best to wait for my instructions. If you don’t…you’ll have welts across your pretty little arse that won’t heal for a week.

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Frost lifted his wide thighs and straddled Stephen, pushing the other’s legs together. “Take me in your mouth. I want to feel your lips around me. And if you bite…I’ll kill you.” Stephen cleared his throat and sighed, pushed himself up into a more rigid sitting position. Lifting his hands, he tentatively lowered them toward Frost’s thighs, the warmth from them meeting Frost’s skin before Stephen even made contact. A shiver slid through Frost, from his head to his goddamn toes. Stephen pressed his hands to Frost’s prominent muscles. God, but his touch felt good, all soft skin and fear-heat. The hairs on Frost’s legs rasped against Stephen’s hands as he smoothed them up and down, the young man’s gaze on Frost’s hand stroking his cock. The sight of that and the feel of him got Frost’s cock to throbbing harder, an almost painful ache that spread to his balls. He wanted him more than he’d wanted anyone. Longed for the feel of Stephen inside his arse. Longed to fuck the little bastard in his arse.

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Stephen lifted his head to look at Frost’s face and caught Frost studying him with a smile. “You are beautiful, Stephen Brookes. I am so glad we found you. Your hands upon me…ah, they feel…mmmm. Taste me. Suck my cock.” Stephen shuddered—ah, bliss!—and pushed his hands up to Frost’s waist. Frost released his cock and thrust his pelvis forward, the tip of him inches from the other’s face. Keeping one hand at his waist, Stephen drew the other across to grip Frost’s cock. Fuck, the warmth from him seared, and an image of him fucking Frost from behind filled his mind and made his balls ache even more. Frost groaned, eager for Stephen to settle those lips around his pulsing tip, the skin there so smooth it shone. Easing forward a little more, Stephen leaned in and, holding Frost at his base, used the flat of his tongue to lick his shaft from root to tip. The young man heaved. Frost moaned, the sound ending on a low, rumbling growl, and sunk his hands into

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Stephen’s hair. He caressed the scalp, his fingertips soft and sensual, and again his lover licked from root to tip, following up with his hand tight around him. “That’s it. Taste. Suck. Lick.” Stephen continued licking, and each time he reached the top he covered Frost with his lips before dragging his tongue back down. This act was such a turn-on, more so than it had been with anyone else, and Frost thought he could come just by doing this. “This feels so good, Stephen. Your tongue is so hot and wet. Take me deeper.” He clutched Stephen’s hair tight for a beat then continued with his head massage. Stephen drew up, plunging Frost deep into his mouth, the silky softness of his tip brushing the roof. Frost groaned, and Stephen sucked upward, creating suction, his hand once again following his lips. Frost’s cock seemed to widen, fill his lover’s mouth further, and pre-cum dripped onto that talented tongue. Frost stopped massaging and pushed Stephen’s head, guiding it up and down at a rapid

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pace. His cock strained. Stephen sucked on, closing his eyes. “You will never be lonely again, Stephen. I will always be with you.” Stephen shuddered again, and Frost bit back a burst of laughter. The young man clearly didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be Frost’s permanent lover. Tough shit. Stephen sucked harder, faster. He wants it over. Hates it. “Ah, you have a talented mouth. Exquisite.” Frost released a long rumble of sound that reverberated throughout his body. “Enough. You are too talented.” Stephen lifted his head, Frost’s cock coming free of his mouth with a soft plop, and waited for his next command. It didn’t come from Frost’s lips. Instead, he flipped Stephen over before the man had a chance to realize what was happening and settled him on his belly. Hands about Stephen’s waist, Frost eased him up and back so he rested on all fours. Frost growled once more, roving his hands up and

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down Stephen’s back, thumbs brushing the tip of his arse cleft, teasing, making the young man squirm and hate him. Frost needed the hate to get off. Heat radiated from his hands, and Frost concentrated on his strokes, sweeping up that knobby-spined back, curving over those bony shoulders, then back down the spine. Stephen’s skin broke out in goose bumps, and his body shook. Not from pleasure. No. Not from that. “Ah, you want me to play down…there,” Frost stated with a smirk, thumbs skating to the valley between Stephen’s arse cheeks and lingering at his pucker. “No. No, I don’t want you there. Please. No.” Stephen sounded like a begging fool. Frost’s cock grew harder. Tingles from his thumbs zipped through him, compact and dense, infusing him with such goose-bumpy tension he had to hold back a cry. If he felt like this now, what the damn would he feel like when he actually— I know what it will feel like. Perfect.

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He circled Stephen’s pucker with his thumb and slipped it inside. Oh God… He imagined the burn of his intrusion searing Stephen’s channel, an awesome heat that tightened Frost’s balls and had his cock vein throbbing violently. He pushed further inside then stroked the nub, just once, and swore he was going to come. He grabbed the end of his cock and squeezed to hold off his orgasm. “You like this, don’t you?” Frost brushed the nub again, once, twice, three times. “No! I hate it. Please, stop. I hate it.” Stephen lowered his head and looked between his legs. A pained whimper left him. Sex in return for board, boy. You knew the rules when we brought you back here. Frost pushed his thumb deeper, at the same time pressing his thighs to the other’s. Stephen’s pelvis lifted, back arching, and he pulled away. Frost roughly yanked Stephen back. “You’ll hate me more and more as the days go by, Stephen. Especially when…” He drew

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his thumb out and positioned his cock at that tight entrance, applying a little pressure. “I do this.” “No! No, you can’t.” Stephen lowered his arse away from Frost. “Why is that?” Frost gripped Stephen’s waist harder and settled him back where he’d been. “Diseases. Shit like that. You don’t want to go around having sex with people you don’t know, man.” “Diseases. Whatever disease you think I have I do not. And you are clean. Remember the needles, Stephen? Remember how we took the blood?” The tension in Frost’s balls intensified. “We…” He pushed his thumb inside again. Harder. “Shall…” Rubbed the nub harshly. “Proceed.” “No. Not your cock. You’re dry. It hurt last time even with the lube. I—” “Dry?” “You need…you’ve got to—” Frost snatched his thumb out and raised his hands. Slapped them down on Stephen’s back—

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hard. “I don’t need to do anything. You do. You need to shut the fuck up and take what I give you. Dry or not.” Never shut the fuck up, Stephen. Always complain. Stephen moved to reach across the bed to the cabinet containing lube, but Frost held him fast. God, this young man was a defiant bastard. So very good. “I will do it,” Frost said, smacking Stephen’s wrist and taking the lube from the drawer. “I prefer a soaked arse. Lucky you.” Stephen looked over his shoulder and watched Frost prime his own cock. Fuck, I’m a fine man. Fine and big and— A shiver went through Frost at the thought of his rod filling that hole. Stephen’s shoulders sagged, and he shifted to where he needed to be, arse raised and balls clenching. Frost squeezed a pea-sized glob onto his fingertip, throwing the tube down then sliding his hand between them. He massaged Stephen’s ring, inserted his finger, pushing in and pulling out with hard strokes.

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“Do you like me priming your arse, Stephen?” he panted. “No. Fuck, no. I hate you priming my arse.” “Good. Do you think you are ready for my cock now?” Stephen whimpered. “I’ll never be ready. I want to go home. Please, just let me go home.” Frost’s cock hardened to painful levels. If only this fool knew if he told me he liked it, I would let him go. Frost laughed. A thrill sped up his spine. With deliberate care, so Stephen thought Frost gave a shit about stretching his arse slowly, Frost pushed his cock inside him, stilling every time he sensed Stephen needed a break for his sheath to adjust. “This lube makes it much easier, doesn’t it, Stephen?” “No. It still fucking hurts. Please, take it out. Just get off me!” Frost had pushed in to the hilt. “Uh…no. You agreed to the terms.”

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“I didn’t! Shit, you drugged me. Did something to make me agree. To make me sign and—” “No.” Frost pulled out, leaving his tip inside. “We.” He shoved back in. “Did not.” Stephen started crying. “I smell you, Stephen. Smell your hate. Do you hate me?” “Yes. I fucking hate you,” he sobbed. “Hate all of you!” That did it. Those words and his cock easing in and out of Stephen, sent Frost’s desire spiralling. He reached down and fisted Stephen’s flaccid dick, caught up in coming. Frost pumped faster, his one-handed grip on Stephen’s waist and the young man’s strangled groans setting Frost up for the ejaculation of his life. He grunted, growled, thrust harder, faster, and matched his movements with his hand on Stephen’s cock. Heart-stopping pleasure zipped from his balls to his cock tip—repeat, repeat, repeat—and Frost clenched his teeth, head rearing back as a forceful burst of cum shot from him. The heat of his semen joined that of the friction, and he

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keened, feeling the cords in his neck tighten and his heartbeat pick up speed. It was all so heady that he couldn’t hold on to any one sensation. Heat from his body, the burn of his cock, the speeding pleasure jetting out, all combining into one massive, pleasurable tornado that took his breath away for a few heartbeats. Frost gasped and shunted inside that hole with two shorter, sharper jabs before he slowed. Heaven, that’s where I’ve just been. Fucking Heaven. Frost lowered his chest to settle against Stephen’s back. He moved his hands from the other’s waist, let go of that limp cock, and slid his palms up Stephen’s chest to cup his shoulders, his embrace somehow sealing the deal. That Stephen was, indeed, his consensual lover. Frost laughed, the sound echoing around the room. He pulled out, settling on the bed and bringing Stephen close in front of him in the spoon position. His giant arms enveloped the young man. He stroked Stephen’s belly and

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kissed the top of his head. “You will remain with me until I tire of you.” “W-when will that be?” Stephen’s words caught in his throat. When you start to like what I do. “You’ll have to wait and see, Stephen.” “Oh, fuck. Oh, God, I hate you so bad.” Good. Frost slid his hand down the cleft of Stephen’s arse. Rubbed the undoubtedly sore hole so his lover hated him more. A haze of emotion settled over him, like he was where he was supposed to be. He didn’t query it—didn’t want to admit this little specimen turned him on more than any other. For now, sated, Frost closed his eyes to the reassuring sound of Stephen’s steady sobs. That’s it, cry my little bastard. Frost thought about the coming evening. He could have had Russell and Toby killed without his man, Croft, bringing them here, back down south. But…no, that would not have been pleasurable. After they’d evaded him for so long…shit, they deserved a bit of discomfort, like

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they had given him. He needed to know what they knew, Russell especially. After all, he’d seen Frost’s face that night in the graveyard. And Toby had seen Frost’s men in the middle of an abduction; also when they’d questioned him here. That had pissed Frost off. Russell saving Toby had pissed him off even more. The murder of Toby’s flatmate had been…unfortunate. That Sasha bitch had walked into the living room just as Frost’s men arrived, earning a knife to the guts for her trouble. Thinking about it, she’d done them a favour. Or would have done if Toby and Russell hadn’t gone to the police. If Russell had done as he was fucking told and gone home, forgetting everything he’d seen. But no, he’d found Toby. Gone back to the grave and poked his damn nose where it wasn’t wanted. And now this was where they all were. It had taken a while to find them, but Frost was a patient man.

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That patience had paid off.

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SCARED ~ Chapter Four

Stephen listened to the sound of Frost’s breaths as they lengthened. Each exhalation cooled his shoulder, and he shuddered. Sick of this place already. Sick of Frost. What the fuck had happened here? Since when did going out to get milk for his mum turn into this? Tears pricked his eyes. Yeah, he may well be eighteen, a man, but he sure as shit felt younger. Out of his depth. His mum would be worrying. He never went anywhere without reassuring her as to whether he’d be late and when he’d be back. She fretted. Always had.

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“I’m not asking where you’re going just to be nosey, but because something might happen to you. At least then I can give the police some idea of your last known whereabouts.” Had she sensed this coming? Had she? Did she have some premonition that a sick bastard and his cronies would take him off the street and bundle him into a car, the milk carton trashed underfoot, white fluid bleeding onto the path? Jesus. She would have called the police. She would have kept on at them until they listened. That despite him being an adult, him not coming home just wasn’t like him. She’d be crying. Wouldn’t have slept. Just like him. Stephen’s eyes itched. How long could he keep sleep at bay, though? How long before exhaustion took hold and didn’t let go? Nausea had him retching. As did Frost’s clammy arm across his belly. Easing away slowly, Stephen managed to make it to the other side of the bed without waking Frost. Quietly, he padded toward the

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en-suite bathroom, his arsehole so damn sore that a fresh round of tears warmed his eyes. He hadn’t cried like this since he was a kid. When he’d trapped his finger between the door and the frame, and his mum had held it under a stream of cold water then kissed it better. In the bathroom, he reached inside an opaque-glass shower stall and set the water to hot. He climbed inside, not caring that he stood on a beautiful black marble tray, that matching tiles were on the back wall. The water burned, but he needed the heat to erase Frost’s touch from his skin. He cleaned his arse as much as he was able, wincing as his soaped finger slid inside. God that hurt. He didn’t think he’d ever get that part of Frost out of him. When will he tire of me? When? This was only the second day. Was it only yesterday teatime he’d been taken? Sliding down the glass stall, Stephen sat in the mercifully cool tray and used a whole bottle of shower gel, continually cleaning his skin and washing the suds away. He watched the lather

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disappear down the plughole and wished his emotions could vanish as easily. Steam filled the stall, the tangy, pleasant scent of the shower gel heady and strong. Yet he could still smell Frost. His phone. Frost had taken it away. Said he’d burn the damn thing so the police wouldn’t be able to track it. Stephen imagined his mum ringing it every five minutes. Imagined her crushed expression as the phone clicked onto voicemail. He hated Frost for what he’d put her through. Then the thought came that she wouldn’t have the milk for her beloved cups of tea. That his little brother, Todd, wouldn’t have had any for his cereal this morning. There was no one else to go out and buy it for them. Dad, well, he’d left them years ago, and they didn’t mix much with the neighbours. Mum wouldn’t want to leave the house in case she missed Stephen when he came back. Todd was too young to go out alone, and besides, even if he was older, Mum wouldn’t let him now. What would they do without him?

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“The milk’s on the path, Mum. They smashed it up. I’m so sorry.” Tears spilled, as hot as the damn shower water. A sob tore from Stephen’s throat and out through his mouth. The sound echoed. What had happened after Frost slipped a black muslin sack over his head in the car? He couldn’t quite remember. So far, his memories had been disjointed, coming back out of sync, the last not bearing any relation to the next. He concentrated to remember them in order. “They gave me something, Mum. Drugs. Something.” A drink. They’d taken him from the car after a long journey. His legs had gone to sleep, pins and needles making it painful to walk. Stephen was steered across what felt like grass. Something springy anyway. It was cold, a feisty breeze blowing through his T-shirt. What was underfoot had changed to a harder surface. Concrete maybe. The air changed. Became warmer. Smelled of furniture polish and bleach. He’d stumbled down what sounded like wooden

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steps. Someone pressed his shoulders, and he’d sat on a hard chair, the back of it reminding him of one from his school days. Rope bound his wrists behind the chair, his ankles to the legs. Fear. He’d never felt it so clearly in his life. The sack had come off. A blinding light, pointed right at him, made seeing impossible. All he could see was that circle of light surrounded by blackness. A blackness so deep and frightening he’d cried for a long time. “I wanted you then, Mum. Called out for you, but you didn’t hear.” He’d been left alone for what seemed like hours. The click of a door opening came, and footsteps down the stairs. Frost had spoken, his voice soft and creepy. A forceful whisper right beside Stephen’s ear. “Welcome to your new home.” His footsteps echoed, and he fumbled in Stephen’s jeans pocket and removed his wallet. Stephen still couldn’t see anything but the light and the blackness.

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“Stephen Brookes. Charming name. Now, I’m going to give you a drink. You must be thirsty, hmm?” He was, God how he was, but he recalled his mum’s warnings of how people drugged drinks. “Even your average bloke in a nightclub drugs drinks, son.” So if they could, it stood to reason this man could. And he had. Forced Stephen to drink what tasted like lemonade. The bubbles had burned his throat. Made him cough. And something had pricked his arm. His mind had gone fuzzy after a while. Questions came at him, rapid-fire fast, and he’d nodded, not knowing what he was nodding for. When the sound of a table being pushed across the room bit into his dulled senses, when a pen had been positioned in his hand, when they’d told him to sign his name or they’d kill his mum… Yeah, he’d given his consent. Nodded so hard his neck hurt. Shouted that yes, yes, he’d do whatever they fucking well told him, so long as they left his mum alone.

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“Good,” Frost had said. “And despite you thinking we’re barbarians, we will leave her alone, if you stick to your promise. No sense in offing her for the sake of it. Leaves a nasty trail. Can’t have that.” The shower water was cooling. Stephen wished it was hot again. Hotter than it had been. He still felt dirty. Used. He hated himself, his skin, his arse, every goddamn thing. He wasn’t sure, if he got out of this alive, that he’d feel comfortable with himself again. Frost’s touches were there even when his hands weren’t. His scent was there even when he wasn’t. Those cool breaths brushed Stephen’s shoulder even now, when Frost slept in the other room. His voice circled around inside Stephen’s head: Do you hate this, boy? Do you? Do you hate me? “Yes, God, yes. I hate you more than I thought it was possible to hate someone. More than my dad, and that’s saying something.” “Oh good.” Frost’s voice came to Stephen, muffled under the splashing water and the shower stall enclosure.

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No. Please, no more. “Get out,” Frost said. Stephen looked up, squinting through the steam, which would be gone soon, since the water cooled more by the second. He stood, muscles screaming and eyelids drooping, and pushed open the shower door. It banged against the wall. “Here. A towel for you.” Frost had dressed in jeans and a black Nike sweater, the red baseball cap of yesterday perched on his black-haired head. And those shoes, those damn pointy-toed shoes that didn’t go with his clothing. Stephen took the towel, knowing it was useless not to. He didn’t fancy being hit like last night. His back was still sore from the punishment. Even when Frost had just…done what he did, he knew he’d pushed his luck by telling the man exactly how he felt. That he hated his touch, his cock up his arse. That it hurt. He’d expected another punishment, but none had come. Frost hadn’t seemed to mind what Stephen had said. What was up with that? Wrapping the towel around himself, Stephen bit back the urge to tell Frost to fuck off out of the

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room and leave him be. He’d given him what he wanted. Wasn’t that enough? “I have something I need to do, Stephen. I have some guests I need to talk to when they arrive later on. It might take some time. You may go to your own room, to the living room, and to the kitchen. Oh, and you may use the downstairs toilet. Other than those rooms, you don’t go anywhere else. Do you understand?” Frost stared at him with eyes that gave Stephen the damn creeps. They were hooded, black like that darkness when he’d first got here, and a livid pink scar marched down his cheek, thick and long. Why was it all mean people had scars? Why did every goddamn bad guy in movies or books have them? Stephen nodded. Frost walked toward the door. He turned, placing one hand on the oak jamb, the other on the edge of the matching door. He stared at Stephen again. “Oh, and if you think you can just walk out of here… Jonathan keeps guard by the front door. Kevin at the back. They’re both armed. All the windows are locked and can’t be smashed.

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And even if you did manage to get out, there are dogs on the grounds. Big ones. With big teeth. Think of your mum, Stephen, hmm?” Stephen nodded again, steeling himself not to cry in front of this sadistic fucker. He’d tried not to earlier in the bedroom, but hadn’t been able to hold it back. His emotions had spilled, Frost’s touch unleashing them. “Good. I won’t bother you again tonight. Don’t want to ruin your arse with too much fucking too soon.” Frost strode out, and Stephen sagged against the side of the shower stall with relief. At least he’d have some measure of comfort for a little while. But then again, not knowing when Frost would fuck him next would keep Stephen’s nerves right on edge. Shit. He dried off, scrubbing hard at his skin until it reddened and grew sore. Frost was still on it. Stephen gritted his teeth and walked into the bedroom, half expecting Frost to still be there, even though he’d said he’d be elsewhere. The bed

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had been made, the quilt smooth, the pillows undented. Stephen’s clothes spilled out of the dirty laundry hamper, and a fresh set, complete with shop labels, sat in a pile on the chair in the corner. He dressed absently, placing the tags in the small bin beside the bed. The socks were soft on his feet, but the boxer shorts chafed his arse. Wincing, he walked downstairs, resisting the temptation to go into the other bedrooms. And there were several—ten closed doors along the landing he stood on and ten opposite. People might still be asleep behind them. In the foyer, with its harlequin-tiled floor, the space as big as their living room at home, he glanced toward the front door. The guy named Jonathan, the one who had approached him on the street, stood with his legs apart, hands folded over his chest. A fucking mountain of a bloke, one Stephen wouldn’t tackle if he was paid to do it. Near-white eyebrows rested in a straight line above eyes so blue Stephen wondered if the guy wore coloured contacts. Jonathan lifted his chin by way of greeting. Stephen lowered his eyes and headed toward the

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kitchen. He was hungry, had been since he left home last night, what with popping to the shop just before Mum dished the dinner up. But could he eat now? He hadn’t managed to last night. In the kitchen, he glanced around, still surprised at the opulence even though he’d seen this room already. Fuck, how much did Frost earn? And what did he do for a living? The house was massive, and everything in it must have cost a pretty penny. Stephen went over to the double-wide fridge and pulled open both doors. It was filled with everything a person could want, a vast difference from theirs at home, which held what they needed for each week and nothing more. He’d peeked in the freezer this morning, and that had been the same. Packed to fucking bursting. Surprisingly, Stephen had the taste for pizza, despite the early hour. Someone must have had take-out last night, because a Domino’s box rested on one of the fridge shelves. He lifted the lid and looked inside. Meat feast. Stomach griping, the sound loud in the cavernous kitchen, Stephen pulled the box out

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and placed it on a centre island topped with black marble. He searched the cupboards underneath until he found a plate then laid three large slices on it. He put the box back in the fridge. While waiting for the pizza to heat in the microwave, he browsed the room, taking in the stark white cupboards and the black tiled floor. Everything was so neat and tidy. So clean. Nothing homely about it, all pristine and perfect like some fucking show house. He puffed out a laugh. Mum had been right. If you were rich, you could have anything. Do anything. Including abducting people and fucking their arse whenever you damn well please. The microwave dinged. Stephen took his plate out and settled gingerly on a cafe stool at the breakfast bar that spanned the far end of the room furthest from the door. He glanced to his left out one of the windows, through the black slatted blinds, seeing nothing but a great expanse of grass and a small forest at the bottom. He shuddered at the thought of people like Jonathan and Kevin standing guard down there in the shadows. Guns at the ready.

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He saw no dogs. A faint sun struggled to shine in the murky grey-blue. Would be ages before it changed places with the moon. A long day ahead. Stephen sighed and returned his attention to his plate. He picked up a slice of pizza and bit into it, waiting for his stomach to clench, rebel. When it didn’t, he chewed slowly then swallowed. Waited a few moments in case the pizza wanted back out. It didn’t. Stephen ate the whole slice before a yell came from behind a door to his right. Why hadn’t he noticed that there before? He stared at it, noted a keyhole beneath the brass handle, but no key. Was that where the “guests” were? Behind there? Getting off the stool, he approached the door and dared to try the handle. He lowered it slowly, but the door didn’t budge. Like it would have been unlocked. Frost wasn’t stupid enough to do that knowing Stephen had the run of the house. Another yell came, and, like the last, wasn’t one of pain but of anger. Like someone was frustrated as hell and needed to shout to release some tension.

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What was going on? The yells had been muffled. As though far away. Curious, yet scared shitless in case Jonathan or Kevin came into the kitchen any minute, Stephen lowered to his haunches, ignoring the burn of his arsehole. He peered through the keyhole. A long corridor, lit by spotlights recessed in the ceiling. Several plain white doors on either side, spaced out like each room was maybe eleven by eleven. One door at the end, different from the rest, mahogany, studded with carved squares. Someone yelled again. Angry. Violent. Another voice came, plaintive, heartwrenching. “Mum! I want me mum!” “Oh, fuck,” Stephen whispered. They have someone else in there? They abducted someone else? He stood and went back to his seat. Sat there and stared at the cooling pizza, unable to eat another bite. What the hell kind of place had he

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been brought to? Bile zipped up into his mouth, burned his tongue. He swallowed, desperate for a glass of water. Almost running to the centre island, he opened doors, trying to remember where he’d seen the glasses. Finding them, he took a crystal tumbler from one shelf and staggered over to the sink, praying he wouldn’t be sick. He filled the glass, gulping down the cool liquid, standing stock-still, waiting for it to come back up. It did, in a torrent, splashing up the sides of the white sink. Frantic, petrified he’d be caught making a mess, he ran the tap and cleaned up, thankful the pizza had stayed down. Another yell came, this time one of pain, chilling Stephen to the bone. What were they doing to whoever had cried out like that? Who was doing it? Frost? One of his men? Shutting out the questions, Stephen retrieved his plate and dumped the pizza in the bin. He found the dishwasher masked as a cupboard and stacked his plate and glass inside. Unable to stand being in the kitchen with yet more sounds

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coming through that door, he rushed out into the foyer. Jonathan’s smile freaked him the fuck out, and he ran up the stairs and into his room, slamming the door and pressing his back against it. He’d been brought into a nightmare, one he didn’t think he’d ever get out of. “Mum. I want me mum.”

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Russell winced at the pain biting into the top of his arm. He struggled to break free of the man’s hold, but the bastard wouldn’t let go. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked, knowing the damn answer but needing to hear it for himself. “Would have thought that was obvious,” the man said, gripping tighter. “You can’t run forever. Not from Frost.” He glanced sideways at Russell, sheeting rain wetting his cheeks. The slugs drew together at the top of his nose, and his lips disappeared inside that thick beard.

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Russell shuddered, a few droplets of rain finding their way down his coat collar. “Frost? Who the hell is that?” He racked his brain to try and recall whether Toby or the police had mentioned him at some point. Did Toby even know the name of the guy who had drugged him? Was it even the same guy or just one of his cronies? Nothing came to mind; the only thing swirling there was questions and the stark fact he was being dragged down an alley out of the cemetery. A large black transit van with tinted windows sat parked on the curb at the end of the alley. It reminded Russell of the one used by the A-Team. If this was any other time, and any other situation, he’d have pissed himself laughing. Oh, Christ. Shit! “Where are you taking me?” he demanded, trying to sound hard and failing. He just came off as a squeaky-voiced wimp. “What does this Frost want with me?” “Russell?” The man stared at him again and dug his fingers harder.

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“Yeah?” Russell clamped his jaw and glared at him, jogging to keep up with his fast walk. “Shut the fuck up, all right?” They reached the end of the alley. The man glanced left and right. Russell did the same. The street was empty of people. Typical. What he wouldn’t give for some housewife to come out of her house now, on her way to getting her shopping. Or for someone to be cleaning their damn windows. Mind you, this wasn’t the kind of estate where anyone cleaned their windows, and if Russell was seen being bundled into a van by a fuck-off burly bloke, the residents were more than likely to keep their mouths shut. Criminals looked after their own. “Come on,” the man said, dragging him to the van. He flung the back doors open and shoved Russell forward. Refusing to get in, Russell tried to make his feet grip onto the road, but the bloody things wouldn’t hold on the wet surface. The man pushed him in the back, and Russell went sprawling forward, the edge of the van floor jabbing just below his knees. His hands met with

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a square of rough blue carpet, the fibres chafing his palms. “Look, I’m not getting in until you tell me what—” Russell was hauled up by the back of his jacket and unceremoniously dumped inside. He cracked the side of his head on one of the two metal bench seats down either side of the interior and curled himself into a ball. Hand over the injury, he scrunched his eyes closed and focused his mind away from the spearing pain. “Jesus Christ!” The man climbed inside and bent at the waist, fists bunched and ready. The scent of rain came off him. He shoved Russell onto his side and planted a heavy boot on his stomach. “Now, do as you’re fucking told, or things will get worse for you, yeah? Frost wants you brought back. Wants some questions answered. I’m just the collection boy, know what I’m saying? Like, don’t shoot the messenger. Get up.” He took his foot away and straightened up. He stared down at Russell, the whites of his eyes creepy in the semi-darkness.

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Russell scrabbled onto his knees, head throbbing, and pushed the bench top with his hands to help him stand. Out of breath from the anger that surged through him, he stared at the man, his heart thumping hard, his jaw muscles aching from him clenching his teeth. “I don’t know anything. All I did was get someone out of that grave. Yeah, I was told to keep my mouth shut, but shit! How could I when I saw them put a body in that hole? I could have lost my job if I’d left him there. I could have gone to prison if I hadn’t reported it.” He cursed himself for babbling, but hell, he’d try all he could to get out of this situation. Going back to London? Meeting this Frost? Fuck, no. “Oh, you’re going to a worse place than prison now, mate, and believe me, the surroundings might be nicer, but the torture is something else. Sit.” The man reached inside his jacket and brought out a bright yellow cable tie. Oh shit. “Drop your bag and hold your wrists out.”

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Russell obeyed, eyeing the way to freedom behind the man, quickly working out whether, if he nutted the guy in the guts, he’d make it out and back to the cemetery in time to get help. As though it had been planned this way, no one occupied the street. No cars, nothing. “Don’t bother.” The man began tying Russell’s wrists. “No one will come out to help you. Quiet here this time of day. People at work and whatnot.” He slid the end of the tie through the small square that would keep him bound. “And no cars. Funny that, eh?” “Who the hell are you lot?” Russell drew in a sharp breath as the cable tightened and dug into his skin. “People with a lot of clout.” He took hold of Russell’s backpack handle. “You won’t be needing this.” He poked about inside. “Baguette. Ain’t you thoughtful. I didn’t have breakfast this morning. Don’t like doing my business on a full stomach. This’ll do nicely, thanks.” The man climbed out, Russell’s backpack bumping the side of his leg. The doors slammed,

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leaving Russell stunned and still trying to work out if this had actually happened. He’d been taken from his digger, shoved in a van, and would be going back to London. Surreal wasn’t the word. Shitting himself wasn’t the word. “Fuck it!” He lifted his bound hands and cradled his forehead. Rain bounced on the roof, exacerbating the throb in his temples. Toby. Had they got him too? “Oi!” he shouted, glancing toward the driver’s seat. A metal grate with a small door in the centre partitioned him off from the front of the van. What was this, a former prison van? An old bloke sat in the passenger seat, his white-haired head facing forward. The black-bearded man paced back and forth in front of the windshield, phone clamped to his ear. The rain drenched him despite his hat and coat. “Don’t bother wasting your time,” the old man said. “He’s a nasty one.” Russell recognised his voice. He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “Mr Jacob?”

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What the fuck is Toby’s boss doing here? “Yes, lad. That’s me.” He turned his head a little to look through the grate, seeming to want to keep his other eye on the man outside. “He’s picking Toby up next. Heard him there, talking on the phone.” He nodded to the windshield. Russell frowned, battling to comprehend the madness of this situation. “How did you…? What did he…?” “Got hold of me this morning. Early. At the produce yard.” “But it’s around about eleven o’clock now. What’s he been doing with you since then?” Russell’s mind went crazy, questions popping up like bubbles in a glass of soda. “They’d seen Toby at the yard before. Didn’t know he usually works in the office. Needed me to show them where it was. He’s got something he wants me to do in a bit. Don’t know what, though. Thought it best I didn’t ask.” He turned fully and pointed to his face. A bruise was coming out on the old man’s cheek, just below his left eye.

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“Jesus.” Russell swallowed. These men meant business. The future didn’t look too bright. Russell cleared his throat. “So where have you been since this morning?” “Driving around. Went to your flat. Watched you get in the car; saw Toby dropping you off at the cemetery. We followed him after but lost him in traffic. The plan was to get him first. Then he got hold of some bloke on the phone and ranted about needing a street cleared. Something about road blocks.” What? This is like being in some fucking movie! “He say whether he was letting you go?” Russell jerked his head toward the bearded bloke, who was speaking into the phone as though angry, cheeks stained pink. “Yes. If I do what they want and keep my mouth shut after.” Mr Jacob gave a wry chuckle. “And if this debacle is anything to go by, I’m doing as I’m told. Besides, the threat to my wife— He’s coming. Shush.” The bearded man snapped his phone closed and climbed into the van. “Right, onward and

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upward!” He started the engine and pulled the van away from the curb. “What d’you want Mr Jacob for?” Russell asked, wanting to sound menacing and someone Beard didn’t want to mess with. Who am I kidding? “Keep your fucking nose out,” Beard said, his tone weary. “Just do as he says,” Mr Jacob said, keeping his gaze forward. Beard’s arm shot out, his fist connecting with Mr. Jacob’s cheek. “And you can keep your nose out and all.” Mr Jacob’s head smacked into the side window, and he let out a whimper. Poor old bastard didn’t deserve that. “Leave it out, yeah?” Russell said, looking at Beard in the rear-view mirror. “Look.” Beard sighed. “Shut. The fuck. Up.” He paused, then, “Or the old man gets another one.” Russell clamped his lips together and breathed heavily through his nose. Adrenaline surged through him, making him sick to his stomach. Who the hell hit old men?

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Evidently, people who worked for a guy named Frost. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask who Frost was again, to find out more information, but he stopped himself just in time. They travelled into town, the van pulling up beside a post box. The rain had ceased on the journey, but it looked like it wouldn’t be long before it started up again. Russell had the inane thought that the weatherman needed shooting for giving out the wrong information. Beard cut the engine and swivelled in his seat so he faced Mr Jacob. “Right, you’re going to ring your office and tell whoever answers that Toby needs to post some mail.” “But the letters won’t be ready yet. We don’t do them until—” “Shut up.” Beard scowled, looked at the ceiling, and huffed out an angry breath. “The letters are already on the reception desk. So, I’ll start again. You’re going to ring the office. Get someone to tell Toby you rang and asked him to post those letters. You don’t say anything else,

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right? No hidden messages, nothing. Do as you’re told, and I’ll let you go. But, as I said earlier, if you don’t keep your mouth shut, I’ll come back for you. Wherever you go. Got it?” Mr Jacob nodded frantically. “Yes, yes. I’ll do whatever you say. Whatever you want.” “Good. Progress at last.” Beard handed him his phone. “There you go.” Mr Jacob swallowed audibly. “So, you want Toby—” “To deliver the fucking mail now, yeah.” Beard shook his head, lips tight together as though he was holding back on what he really wanted to say. “Right. Okay. Right.” Mr Jacob took the phone in a shaking hand, and Russell bowed his head, staring at the carpet. Easing forward, he pinched some of the fibres and, although it was awkward, managed to put them in his jacket pocket. Who knew whether they’d come in handy later for the police? If he was lucky enough to get out of this shit. He closed his eyes while Mr. Jacob spoke, the poor old duffer’s voice quavering and full of fear. Or did it sound like that because Russell knew Mr

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Jacob was shitting his pants? Would whoever answered pick up on the change in his voice? “The letters are in reception, Martha,” he said. “No, I know I haven’t been in yet today, and yes, I know we don’t usually send letters this early, but I’m your boss, and if you question me again… Yes. Right now… Martha… Now!” The sound of the phone clicking shut brought Russell’s head snapping up, and he looked through the grate. The old man shook as though a damn palsy victim. He’ll fucking have a heart attack in a minute. “Good man,” Beard said, taking the phone. “Once Toby’s in the back, you can go. No need to tell you he won’t be returning to work in the morning. Reckon you’ll be busy this afternoon putting a job ad in the paper.” Russell’s guts churned. Beard stared past the old man and down the street to their left. “Won’t be long and you can get back to your spuds and bananas, me old mate.” He laughed, somewhat sadly, and rasped his hand over his beard. “Now, both of you be quiet. I’m getting a fucking headache.”

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Russell stared down Fountain Street, his eyes straining for the first sight of Toby. Although he felt badly for thinking it, at least they’d be together in this. If he had to go through whatever lay ahead alone, he reckoned he’d crumble at the first sign of being hurt. Or would he? If he was alone in this, would thoughts of returning to Toby give him the strength he needed to carry on? Self-preservation alone would do it. He coached himself to remain strong, despite his body getting the shakes and his teeth chattering. Shit, he was scared—scared out of his fucking mind. Toby rounded the corner. Russell’s heart leaped. He lunged forward, kneeling on the other bench, and hammered his fists on the window. Got to warn him. In his peripheral vision, Russell caught sight of Beard’s fist shooting toward Mr Jacob again. Shit, he should have known that would happen, so why did he do what he did? Because Toby means more to me than some old man, that’s why.

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That sounded harsh, but it was the damn truth. Mr Jacob’s sobs added to the weight of guilt pouring down on Russell’s shoulders. Russell reared back and slumped onto the seat he’d occupied before, a huge breath gushing out of him. Dejection took hold, sheer helplessness that he was a grown man and couldn’t do a bloody thing to stop this madness. His eyes stung. That was all he needed, to cry now. Toby drew closer, nearly at the post box. Russell resisted the urge to leap forward again. What good would it do? Beard had eased open the driver’s-side door, one hand on the steering wheel. Toby brought his hand up and dropped the letters inside the slot. He turned and looked up as he walked back down the road. The rain had started again. Beard got out of the van and closed the door. Russell shouted until his voice broke and smacked the windows with both hands made into one fist. He glanced at Mr Jacob, who sat with his head bent, shoulders bobbing. Turning away and

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looking back at Toby, Russell sucked in a breath and shouted again. “Toby! Fucking run! Toby!” Beard grabbed Toby’s jacket, and Toby swung around, fist raised. His eyes widened along with his mouth. Beard yanked him toward the van, and Toby tried to stop him—Russell saw him doing the same as he had, trying to dig his feet into the ground. It won’t work, mate. As Beard and Toby approached the back of the van, Russell scooted along the bench, ready to kick out at Beard the minute the door opened. His breaths stuttered, and pains lanced his chest, his heart rate kicking up speed. “Please don’t do anything stupid,” Mr Jacob whimpered. “He’ll take it out on me.” Sorry old man, but fuck you. Beard pre-empted Russell and kept Toby in front of him. Toby’s face pressed against one of the door windows, and Beard fumbled inside his jacket. Cable tie. As Beard yanked Toby’s arms behind him and worked on his wrists, Toby jolted

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against the glass, his cheek white from the pressure. We’re fucked. So fucked. Beard shoved Toby aside, meaty hand gripping his upper arm. He opened one of the doors. Toby spotted Russell, and his mouth worked with no sound coming out. Face paling, he blinked then frowned. Shoving Toby in the back, Beard sent him sprawling onto the van floor, closing the door quickly behind him just as Russell flung out a foot. The end of his boot smacked into the door, and he bit back a yell, his toes mashing against the steel toecap inside. Leaning down, Russell pushed Toby onto his side. Toby’s eyes were closed, and a nasty gash on his forehead bled, a crimson river dribbling down his temple. “Fuck! Toby. Wake up, mate. Wake up!” Russell went down on his knees, barely aware of Beard getting back into the van and telling Mr. Jacob to get out. Breaths unsteady, his heart beating way too fast, he leaned forward, cheek in front of Toby’s face. Please be alive. Please…

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He was still breathing. Releasing an unsteady breath, Russell hauled Toby into a sitting position by pulling his arm. He dragged him to the space behind the passenger seat so he could watch Beard while tending to Toby. He sat wedged in the corner, hefting Toby against him, and looked out the window. Mr Jacob ran down the street, his bandy legs looking like they’d give out any second. Russell turned back to Toby and pressed his jacket sleeve to his lover’s forehead. “I’ll fucking have you for this,” he snarled at Beard. Laughing, Beard started the engine and nosed away from the curb. “Whatever, mate. Whatever.”

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T oby’s mouth felt like it was filled with cotton wool. His clock radio blared, some song where the singer was young, free, and all right. Lucky him. He kept his eyes closed, recalling the fuck-off weird dream he’d just had where he’d been at work, and sent out to post letters. That seemed off in itself. Mr Jacob was a stickler for routine, the post never sent before four p.m. Some black-bearded bloke had grabbed Toby at the post box—and it was well odd that no one was in the street too—tied his wrists and shoved him in a black van. Russell was inside, his wrists tied, too, and Toby had

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smacked his head on the van floor and blacked out. So bloody strange. He moved his head—was it against Russell’s arm?—and tried to prise his heavy eyelids open. They refused to budge. One seemed stuck closed with sleepy dust. He frowned, the world around him penetrating the fug of sleep. Was that the sound of an engine? And was the bed rocking? Realisation slammed into him at the shriek of brakes and his body lurching sideward into something hard. A metal bench. His eyes snapped open then all right, and he flung back the other way, staring at the bench opposite. Fuck. He hadn’t dreamed. Shit! Turning his head, grimacing at the pain in his brow and at his bound wrists behind him, he glanced at Russell, whose head had flopped back into the corner. He slept, and Toby would bet if Russell knew he’d dropped off, he’d be pissed as hell. Toby looked through a metal grate between the back of the van and the front.

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The guy who had shoved him in here tapped the steering wheel, clearly agitated he’d had to stop at a red light. Toby’s heart rate sped up, and a ball of something lodged in his chest. Fear? Anxiety? Both, probably. How long had they been travelling? He’d posted the letters around eleven this morning, and it was clearly evening now. Outside, dark grey clouds scudded across a navy blue sky studded with faint stars. What looked like shops—what he could see of them anyway; the rooms above, perhaps—lined either side of the road. Lights blazed from some of the windows, and a green-and-pink neon sign in the shape of a scantily clad woman flashed on and off high up on one of the building’s walls. A club? Fresh raindrops clung to the outside edges of the windshield, indicating a recent downpour, but the wipers weren’t swishing to and fro now. Light made the droplets appear like diamonds, shimmering and perfect on a van holding an imperfect driver and passengers. Toby craned his neck in order to see better, see below the shop signs. See people. Not many

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walked the street, but there were enough to show Toby it was well into the evening now, their attire making it clear they were out for a night on the town. Women in short skirts—in this weather!—and halter neck tops. Men in jeans, dress shirts untucked, hands in suit jacket pockets. Smart casual. This wasn’t some lowlife town, then. More upmarket than most places. He studied the scenery for a street sign, anything to give him some clue. Where the fuck are we? He didn’t need to ask the why—this had something to do with what happened last year, didn’t it? Even a dense person would know that. Yeah, he’d been waiting for this to happen, but hadn’t really thought it would. Why was that? The men had been organised back then, gave him a good going over. Meant business. Why had he been so stupid as to think they wouldn’t bother coming after him and Russell? ‘Cos, so they say, shit like this just doesn’t happen, does it?

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Of course it did. Just like Sasha being killed, him beaten and drugged, and him being dumped in a grave had happened. How quickly the mind forgot or dulled reality so a body could cope. The lights turned green. The big bastard pulled off smoothly and blended into traffic in the next lane. Horns honked, loud and persistent, drivers protesting that the big bastard should have been in the correct lane in the first place. That the bloke had to veer across like that screamed the man was in unfamiliar territory, or his mind was occupied with other things. Either way, the driver was at a disadvantage. Maybe if Toby scooted down to the doors and tried to open them, they could get out, van moving or not, and find help. Like he’s going to have left them unlocked. Toby sighed. Him and Russell weren’t going anywhere except the driver’s destination. Maybe once they arrived there would be an opportunity to get the fuck away. He jerked his shoulder, the one pressing against Russell, gently trying to wake him. The

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volume of the radio, now blasting about some woman who kept bleeding love, would disguise anything they had to say. They could make a plan. Or something. Yeah, running with my hands tied behind my back will be a fucking breeze… “Russell!” he said, voice low. Russell snapped his eyes open and glanced from the driver to Toby. He let out a sigh and briefly closed his eyes again. “You all right? Shit, I fell asleep.” “Yeah. I’m fine. Head hurts, but I’m okay.” Toby shot a look at the driver then propped his chin on Russell’s shoulder so he could speak with less chance of the big bastard hearing. “I had the thought of trying the door, but these guys are from a fucking big outfit, I reckon. Don’t make mistakes often, know what I mean?” Russell nodded, eyes narrowed at the driver. “So,” Toby said, “when we get to wherever it is we’re going, d’you reckon we can make a run for it?”

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“Depends where we’re headed and how many blokes are at the other end.” “Fuck.” Toby paused, then, “How did he get hold of you? What happened?” As Russell explained, Toby listened with anger boiling inside him. These fucking tossers were something else, weren’t they? Who the hell did they think they were, flouting the law like that? And as for them snatching Mr Jacob…shit, he was surprised the old duffer hadn’t died of shock. His boss being hit didn’t sit well with Toby. No need for that kind of thing, was there? An old bloke posed no threat whatsoever. The driver was just being an arsehole. Showing who was in charge. Toby would like to see how in control the man was with a boot in his bollocks. No matter how strong a fella was, their crown jewels being whacked always bent them double—unless they wore steel jockstraps. Toby raised his eyes at the part in the tale where the road by the post box had been blocked off. They had to have some contacts to be able to get that sort of thing done. Was this some kind of

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network of criminals then, for fuck’s sake? People all over the country helping one another out? Russell said the main boss’ name was Frost, but Toby had never heard of him. “If he was one of the blokes who did me over, I wouldn’t know it because no names were mentioned. None that I can remember anyway.” Toby scrunched his eyes closed to loosen the tight skin on his cheek. “Dried blood,” Russell said, nodding. “Thank fuck that gash stopped bleeding. Thought for a minute back there it wouldn’t.” “Is it bad?” Toby asked, wanting to touch it. A burst of irritation sparked inside him at being unable to. He stared at Russell’s bound wrists and guessed his sported a gaudy yellow cable tie too. Tasty. If he didn’t crack an internal joke or two, he’d break under the pressure. “It’ll leave a scar. Too late for it to be sewn up.” Russell eyed the driver again, who nodded to the beat of a rap song. “He’s a right mean son of a bitch. No way we’re going to be able to get away from him.”

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“But there’s two of us now.” “Like I just said, it depends on how many are at the other end. Who knows where we’re going? Who’s to say there isn’t an army of nutters waiting for us when we arrive?” A dark thought hit Toby. “Who’s to say we’re being taken any place where there are people. Might be some warehouse. Torture equipment set up.” His imagination ran riot. “A river close by. Ready for us to be dumped into. Concrete tied to our ankles. Drowning—” “All right, all right!” Russell said, tone testy and harsh. “I get it. We’re fucked.” He sighed again, a bloody great big one, and shook his head slowly. “Never thought it would end like this. Never thought I’d be this young when I karked it either. Oh, I fucking knew this lot were coming. Knew they wouldn’t just let us go, but shit, I’d hoped we’d have had a few more years on the run, know what I mean?” Yeah, Toby did. The same thoughts had been running through his mind as he’d painted the grim picture of their potential destination. The image of concrete blocks around their ankles—

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man, that was a hard one to get rid of. It sat in his mind like a damn sentinel, refusing to budge no matter how hard he tried to conjure up another vision. And God, his eyes stung. He really didn’t need to be crying right now, but wouldn’t anyone when faced with a very short future and the undeniable possibility that torture, or at least some form of pain, was on the cards? He sniffed, blinked, cleared his throat. “Love you, man.” Russell didn’t answer right away. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe, like Toby, a big lump of love had stuck in his throat and he couldn’t speak past it. “Love you too,” Russell managed, staring ahead at the side of the van, eyes watery, Adam’s apple bobbing. Toby gritted his teeth. “This fucking stinks!” “Yep.” “I’m not going down without a fight.” “Me neither.” They sat in silence for a time, the place they’d driven through giving way to ominous

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countryside. Trees stood starkly in the beam of the headlights, like moss-covered skeletons, arthritic hands clawing the blackness. The road was narrow. If another driver approached from the other way, the big bastard slowed. He veered to the left each time, and branches from hedges scraped the side of the van, sending Toby’s mind reeling with the creepy image of long, dirty fingernails scratching, the dead trying to get in at them. It felt like death waited, the air in the van a tangible thing, smothering them, letting them know it would be their turn to die soon. Shaking off those thoughts, Toby wondered what Russell was thinking. Was he silently cursing Toby, wishing he’d never met him, that he’d had a damn day off back then, had never even dug the grave that held Toby for that short time? Toby glanced at Russell. “I’m so sorry, man.” “Don’t be.” He gave Toby a sidelong glance, a small smile playing about his lips. “Wouldn’t change a fucking thing.” Toby longed for a kiss, just a brief brush of the lips would be enough, but he didn’t want to

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risk the driver having something else to hate them for. One glance in his rear view mirror was all it would take. But if this gang, or whatever the hell it was, had been watching them, they’d have already gathered him and Russell were gay. Toby settled for leaning in to land a kiss on Russell’s neck. His lover smelled of fear, and Toby licked the proof of it from his lips—salt from sweat. Would that be the last time he’d ever kiss Russell? Was this journey the only time they had left together? That was a fucking grim thought—he hadn’t considered they might be separated once they got to wherever the hell they were going. A large green road sign edged in white stood up ahead, taking Toby’s attention from morbid thoughts. The headlights made the white glow, but he couldn’t read the wording yet. From the image on the sign of a road and a roundabout at the top, he hoped they approached civilisation. Well, he did and he didn’t. While they travelled, they were relatively safe. Together. But if they headed toward London— Russell had said they were being taken back

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down south—who knew whether this mob’s headquarters—if they even had one—was in the middle of the city? He nudged Russell. “Road sign coming up.” Russell straightened and looked out the windshield. Toby had to lean across in order to see now, but the words became suddenly clear. They approached London—only a few miles away—and roads to various other surrounding places sprouted off the roundabout image. “Reckon we’re headed for the city. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?” Toby mused quietly into Russell’s ear, a tinny pop tune overriding his voice. “Probably. Who fucking knows?” Russell slumped back against the side of the van and stared at the ceiling. “What does it matter where we’re bloody going? The result will be the same whether we’re in Camden Town, Ladbroke sodding Grove, or someplace else. We’re dead, mate. End of story.” Fuck. Russell had given up already. Toby saw it in his eyes, the slump of his shoulders. Well, if he had to be strong enough for both of them, he’d do it. No way would he give up at the first hurdle.

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They had no idea what lay up ahead, he knew that, but there might be all manner of opportunities presented to them in the near-distant future. Ones where they could try and get away. Those concrete blocks didn’t appeal. Dying in any fashion didn’t appeal. The van going around the roundabout had Toby watching out the windshield again. His shoulders ached from his arms being wedged behind him, and craning his neck added to the pain. But if, as he suspected, the pain was going to get worse later on, and meted out by bullies’ fists and whatever the hell else they chose to use, he could stand it for now. Streetlamps around the edge of the roundabout gave the sky a strange, muted orange glow and enhanced the blackness beyond. Toby shivered involuntarily and held his breath, waiting to see which road the driver would take. The big bastard ignored the London fork and continued round, slewing onto one of the roads that led elsewhere. Toby’s stomach rolled over as yet more countryside whipped past.

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The concrete blocks were becoming more of a reality than he would have liked. We could still be going to some town or other. Somewhere we can shout for help. He chuckled at the unlikelihood of that. These blokes would have a hideout somewhere. Stood to reason, didn’t it? As though his thoughts had predicted the truth, the van slowed then turned right down a rutted track. Trees, branches bare and knobbly, lined either side, creating a canopy overhead. The headlights picked out the track, tightly packed, dark mud that the rain had barely penetrated. A stripe of grass ran down the middle, the tops brushing the undercarriage as the van trundled on. Ahead, the lights of a building shone out, several yellow squares and a few dots that Toby supposed were garden lamps. His pulse throbbed in his neck, guts clenching, as his heart thudded dully. Risking a glance at Russell, he found his lover staring, eyes moist, lips downturned. This was it, wasn’t it? Possibly their last moments together.

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“Shit,” Toby said, his throat thick with unshed tears. He wouldn’t cry. Wouldn’t fucking cry yet. Tilting his head, he rested his cheek against Russell’s. Cold tears from the other’s face wet his own. “I’m such a weak bastard,” Russell said, the fight gone out of him. “I thought…thought I was stronger than this.” He lifted his hands and dropped them wearily down onto his thighs. “Shit. I’m sorry. Sorry. I need to snap out of this. Need to—” “It’s all right. Tears don’t matter, okay? I can sort this. I got us into this mess, and I’ll get us out. It was my fault from the start.” “No. You did the right thing. Saving that kid.” “Yeah.” Toby sighed and sat up straight, noting the building had grown in size since he’d last looked out the window. “Looks like we’re here.” “Fuck.” Russell turned his head and stared out. “Bastard house in the middle of sodding nowhere. Fan-fucking-tastic.” Toby studied it. Massive place, all cream façade and fake Greek columns standing behind

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a high, black wrought iron fence. Four Victorian streetlights, two either side of a cream-coloured gravel drive, stood directly outside the house. Wide stone steps led from the end of the driveway up to the black double front doors. Mansion. Who said crime doesn’t pay? Toby bit back a chuckle. The last thing he needed to be doing right now was drowning in a fit of hysterical laughter. He needed to keep his wits about him if Russell wasn’t up to coping with whatever lay behind those doors. “Blimey,” Toby muttered, awed by the magnificence despite fear nipping at his arsehole. The van slowed as it neared the gates, and they swung open. Someone had seen them coming, then. The vehicle jostled over the uneven gravel, and the big bastard leaned forward to switch off the radio. Russell shot out his hands and gripped Toby’s thigh, squeezing hard, his body shaking. Shit. Don’t give up on me now, man. I’ll get us out of this. We’ll be all right. He chanced another glance at his lover, who stared back at him, his face etched with fear.

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God, if he had the luxury of crying he would. But he didn’t. Neither of them did. They didn’t speak. Just stared, saying everything they needed to with their eyes. Big Bastard did a U-turn and backed up to the house. He got out of the van. Slammed the door. Toby rested his forehead to Russell’s. Closed his eyes and breathed in his scent. Glued everything about this moment into his memory so he’d never forget. The van doors opened too soon. Words he should have said crammed into Toby’s mind, but he wasn’t given a chance to say them. “Out,” the driver said. “Now.”

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SCARED ~ Chapter Seven

Frost prowled his vast living room, admiring the decor. God, he had a good eye for detail. Almost everything was white—leather sofas, coffee tables, drapes, lamps, the walls, the carpet. Anyone came in here with shoes on, he’d kick their arse to Kingdom Come. He didn’t include himself in that, though. No, he donned a brandnew pair of pointy-toed shoes if he wore any in here at all. He eyed the art on the walls, the only splash of colour. Unframed canvasses, large and dominating, bore swirls and circles, random splodges, or blocks of clashing colours. Some unknown kid had painted them for him after

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Frost caught the little shit doodling on the basement floor with a shard of concrete he’d loosened from the wall. There was a kid he’d saved from a crap life. He’d been homeless, living down an alley in Bethnal Green, a sheet of cardboard as his mattress. Frost had him picked up and brought here so he could be primed for the next stage in his life. Now the kid lived as some rich man’s arse, getting everything his pretty self desired. Whether the kid was happy, Frost didn’t give a shit. He provided what the punters ordered, simple as that. Besides, he was doing society a favour, ridding the streets of potential criminal scumbags. Even those who weren’t homeless, they had the possibility of becoming a bad element, didn’t they? That he sold the youngsters to the highest bidder was by the by. In the end, everyone was happy. Apart from the parents. And maybe the kid if they didn’t like their arse being stretched on a nightly basis. He chuckled at the naivety of some parents. Thought they were safe because they had sons.

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Thought only girls went “missing”. Little did they know, until their kid got taken, boys were more in demand. He continued pacing. Continued admiring the room. Should have been a fucking interior designer. He laughed and picked imaginary specks from his black suit, then wiggled the knot of his dark grey tie. His new white shirt had been drycleaned before he slipped it on after his recent shower, but it still held the stiffness in the collar. It dug into his skin. Pissed him the hell off. Glancing at his watch, he contemplated going upstairs to put a different shirt on but decided against it. It wouldn’t be long before those two nosey wankers arrived and his shirt got bloodied. He looked forward to an hour or so of fun with them. Ben Croft had done well today, executing Frost’s plan, working through the hitch of having to pick Toby up after Russell. The roadblock idea had been a good one, and Croft had sorted everything himself without bothering Frost with the details.

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A fine man, Croft. Ugly as fucking sin, but a fine man all the same. Funny how, at first, Croft had been destined to be a rent boy. Frost had taken a liking to the young man’s feisty temperament six months ago and took him on as an employee instead. The bloke was homeless, had been for a few years, he said, and once he saw what life he could lead under Frost’s wing, he’d given it his all. Loyal bastard, that one. A glimmer of light outside pulled Frost from his thoughts and pacing. He strode to one of the two large bay windows and stared out across the lawn. There it was again, a twinkle of illumination flashing between the tree trunks of the dark country road in the distance. Probably Croft and his cargo. Frost waited to see if the lights moved on, whether Croft would actually come back. This was the man’s first solo outing. He had to earn Frost’s trust since starting to work for him. Not all of his employees had taken to this life, and those who hadn’t were no longer…a problem.

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Twin spots of brightness turned onto the track leading to his house. Definitely Croft, then. The young man had proved his loyalty. Frost admitted he’d been a little worried that Croft wouldn’t come back, wouldn’t do whatever needed to be done to return Russell and Toby. Frost released a held breath. Straightened his already straight jacket. Smoothed his tie. Rolled his shoulders and blew out another nervesteadying breath. He always got an edgy excitement at times like this. Got to go back to his roots, didn’t he, beating the fuck out of someone until they spewed everything they knew. Yeah, he’d started his career as a bullyboy and worked his way up. Stuck to his patch and minded his own business, refraining from stepping on other main men’s toes. It didn’t do to piss off a London crime boss, did it? Frost’s intuitiveness had paid off, and here he was now, a respected crime boss himself, with a fucking big mansion, shitloads of money, and nice piece of arse to show for it. The lights grew bigger, and one of his black vans came into clearer view as the moon peeked from behind a cloud. He moved to a strip of wall

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between the windows and pressed a button on the keypad there. The gates swung inward, and the van eased onto Frost’s property like a sleek monster, eyes bright, the radiator a mouth full of smiling teeth. He watched Croft perform a smooth U-turn, and his belly clenched with the anticipation of what was to come. A thought of Stephen came to mind, and Frost considered reneging on his promise of not sticking his cock up that young man’s arse tonight. After Frost had a little chat and a beating session with Toby and Russell, he’d be hyped up, manic energy flicking through his body. Yeah, he’d renege all right. Pressing a button on the keypad again, he said into the speaker below, “They’re here. Prepare them. Let me know when they’re ready.” “Okay, boss.” Jonathan was a good man too. Croft got out of the van and opened the rear doors. From the angle he stood, Frost couldn’t see inside very well, only a triangular space in front of the doors. Croft gestured to the interior, and

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Frost got his first glimpse of Russell and Toby since last year. “You pair of fucking cunts,” he whispered. “Giving me the runaround.” They stood, heads bowed, Russell with his hands bound to the front, Toby’s to the back. To his right, Frost heard the house front doors swing wide and watched with satisfaction as the young men’s heads snapped up, Toby’s face registering shock upon seeing Jonathan emerge. “Remember him, do you?” Frost smiled. “I wouldn’t forget him either if he gave me a beating.” Jonathan took hold of Toby’s arm, and Croft took Russell’s. His men propelled the cargo up the steps and into the house. Frost turned to face the living room door, the one that led out to the foyer, and tuned in to the sounds out there. The cargo appeared to be doing as they’d undoubtedly been told—keeping bloody quiet. Feet squeaked on the tiled floor, their footsteps receding as they were marched into the kitchen. Frost turned again, his back to the windows, and listened for the door beside the breakfast bar to open then close. Once it had, he turned yet again to his right

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and faced the wall populated with that little shit’s art. Behind them were ten rooms off a long white corridor, and at the end was the basement door. A place where all manner of scenes were acted out in the play that was his life. The play he orchestrated. The one he’d written all those years ago when he’d first started out. Attaining one’s dreams was the best feeling. Frost paced some more, waiting for the call to tell him the men had been prepared for his visit. It came a few minutes later via a crackle from the wall speaker. “In position, boss.” Without responding to Jonathan, Frost left the living room and walked through the foyer to the kitchen. At the breakfast bar, he gripped the door handle and closed his eyes, inhaling a steadying breath. Excitement careened through him, hardening his cock, and he stood there a moment, fondling himself through his trousers. Footsteps coming from behind the door snapped him out of his trance, and Frost threw the door wide. Jonathan and Croft walked toward him, saying nothing as they came through the

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doorway and went into the kitchen. Frost nodded and stepped into the brightly lit, white-walled corridor, closing and locking the door behind him. He remained still, staring down at the basement door, and listened for sounds coming from any of the ten rooms. Five doors either side of him held boys waiting to be chosen tomorrow night by prospective buyers. They’d all had their arses tested by Frost, and he found each of them to be worthy of being sold on. A few had needed fattening up—but not too much. His buyers liked them looking young and slim. The customer was always right. Frost closed his eyes and breathed deeply upon hearing someone shout out for his mother. She’s no good to you now, boy. Opening his eyes, Frost smiled and strolled down the corridor, pleased at the sound his shoes with the three hundred pound price tag made. He’d dreamed of owning such shoes as a boy after seeing another, older gangland boss wearing them, the pointed toes appealing to his nasty side. The tips were good for kicking.

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He rolled his shoulders, and the damn collar of his shirt squeaked, chafing his skin. At the end of the hallway, he stood in front of the mahogany door. He could smell those bastards and their fear from here. His cock stirred again. Key in the lock, Frost turned it and opened the door. A set of concrete steps, with matching walls either side, led down to a square landing. He locked the door and took the steps slowly, turning right on the landing and walking down the remaining stairs and into the dark basement. One of the cargo whimpered. He smiled again. Frost reached to the wall on his left and flicked a switch. A bright circle of light shone directly on Russell and Toby, and he knew they couldn’t see him in the surrounding darkness. The pair of them hung from chains secured to the metal ceiling rafter, their arms stretched upward, naked bodies probably already screaming for respite. He admired Russell’s fucking equipment. Although the man was undoubtedly scared, his

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cock hadn’t shrivelled. Yet. It hung, long and flaccid, over nicely rounded bollocks that Frost wouldn’t say no to fondling. Drawing his gaze up Russell’s body, Frost took note of the defined muscles in his abdomen—all that hard work digging graves, he suspected. And his face, so pretty when it wasn’t scrunched up from the blinding light. Reluctantly, he shifted his gaze to Toby, who, it appeared, had already become accustomed to the sudden illumination. Black tribal tattoos adorned his arms—interesting—and his body was surprisingly bulkier than his lover’s. Shifting fruit and vegetables and filing papers was a workout in itself, it seemed. Toby’s cock, shorter and wider than Russell’s, had Frost’s hardening once more. He liked stout ones. They stretched his arse until he cried out in pleasure-pain. He contemplated sampling Toby’s. Not just yet. Frost had no intention of killing the men. This morning he’d wanted to, but now he thought better of it. Both men were brawny enough to handle themselves in a fight, and Frost was

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always in need of men to pick up the boys. A bit of a beating and the threat of them being killed if they didn’t work for him might do the trick. “All right, cunts?” he asked. The pair of them started, and one of them— Frost couldn’t tell which—gasped. “I realise you might not want to answer me. That’s all right. It won’t be long before you start talking.” Frost bent at the waist and reached to the floor to his left. His fingers came into contact with a coil of weighty chain. It was always there, like a comforting friend. He lifted it and wrapped one end around his hand. Once he had a firm grip, he turned his hand into a fist and stepped toward the hanging men. His footsteps echoed, the chain clinked, and it seemed every muscle in their bodies tensed, right down to their toes. The fear he inspired always gave him a hard-on, and tonight was no exception. His cock throbbed, strained against his trousers, and he rubbed the bulge with his free hand. “My name is Frost. Pleased to finally make your acquaintance again.”

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He imagined Russell thinking “Again?” Russell frowned. “Oh, yes. Russell, you may recall the last time we met I wore a red baseball cap.” Realisation played out on Russell’s face. “I asked you to dig and keep your mouth shut. You only obeyed one of my commands, hence this…situation. Unfortunate, but there you go. So many people tend to ignore me and have lived to regret it.” He paused, finishing with, “Or died.” Russell tugged at the chains. Useless to, really. He wasn’t going anywhere. “And you, Toby. You’ve been here before, haven’t you? Last time we accommodated you by placing you on a chair. You were treated to a glass of lemonade. Isn’t that right?” “Fuck you!” Toby spat, breaths snorting out of his nose. Oh, a feisty fucker. “I was just admiring your cock. If you’re offering…” Frost smirked. “What the fuck do you want?” Toby yelled, his voice going hoarse, the cords in his neck standing out.

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“Don’t, Toby.” Russell looked sideways at his lover. “It isn’t fucking worth it.” “You’re right, Russell,” Frost said, taking another couple of steps forward and trailing the loose part of the chain through the fingers of his free hand. “It isn’t. Fucking. Worth it. Because…in the end, I always get what I want.” Toby stared at Frost, more by judgment than knowing where he stood, Frost knew. “What do you want, eh? Come on, ask us what we know. Ask us whether we told anyone else but the police what you lot did. Ask us if we’ve shit ourselves ever since we left the police station that night, wondering when the fuck you’d turn up. Ask us whether we want to live or die, even though you know you’re going to kill us. Go on! Ask us!” His last words came out on a scream, and it was clear he was running on adrenaline that would soon wear him out. Russell, however, was playing it right, preserving his energy by remaining quiet and calm. Still, however they acted, they’d still get the beating of their lives.

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“I’ll address the things you’ve said, because you’ve touched on everything I wanted to ask. Funny, that.” Frost’s cock pulsed. “I know what you know, and that’s enough to get me put away if I ever land up in court and you testify that I’m the one Russell saw putting your body in that grave that night. I would guess you didn’t tell anyone other than the police. Smart move if that’s the case. I’d say that yes, you’ve been shitting yourself. Your faces look fucking gaunt since I last saw you. Fright tends to do that to a man.” He laughed, trailing the chain through his fingers again. “And I would say you want to live.” He flashed the chain out, the end catching Toby’s cock. Toby drew his knees up and screamed, the muscles in his arms bunching as though they’d burst through his skin. His eyes reduced to slits, and his mouth formed a skewed hole, his teeth bared and flashing in the light. Frost waited for him to lower his legs and quieten. “That hurt, did it?” he asked casually.

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“You fucking bastard!” Russell shouted, his face a contortion of red anger. “What the fuck has he ever done to you to deserve that?” “What has he ever,” Frost flicked the chain at Russell’s bollocks, “done?” Russell’s body reacted the same way as Toby’s, except he didn’t utter any sound but a strangled groan. Ah, someone who’d rather suffer in near silence than let me know he’s in pain. “The pair of you gave me shitloads of fucking sleepless nights this past year, that’s what you’ve done. I don’t like that. A good night’s rest is the order of my fucking day, you little wanker.” Frost flicked the chain at Russell—again, again, again—catching him on the shins of his drawnup legs. Frost wanted to break the little shit, make him scream. Make him beg for him to stop. Russell clenched his fists around the chains holding him in place and gritted his teeth, sweat breaking out on his forehead and dribbling down his temples. “Arsehole. You’re a fucking arsehole!” He opened his eyes, and they bulged, the veins in his neck standing out beneath the

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skin. He lowered his legs, wincing, probably bracing himself for another flick to his balls. Toby looked on, momentarily stunned, then started swinging sideward until one of his feet caught around one of Russell’s lowered legs. In a sweet gesture, Toby drew Russell close, their legs entwined, and said, “I love you, man. Fucking love you.” The cargo stared at one another, and something about that look stirred deep emotion within Frost. He wasn’t usually partial to sentiment, but he wanted someone to look at him like that, at the same time muttering words of hate so Frost could get off. Fuck. Why did he have to do that? Angry that Toby had found his Achilles heel, Frost roared and lunged forward, lashing at them with the chain, striking harder still when they refused to release their hold on one another, refused to stop looking into each other’s eyes, refused to utter any sound other than pained groans. Tears streamed down their faces, and sobs tore from their throats, but they held on. They fucking held on!

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“You little cunts!” he screamed, slashing until his shoulder ached and burned. Spent and out of breath, he stepped backward, dropping the chain to its usual place on the floor. Frost panted, watched blood drip down their skin from the open welts he’d given them, saw bruises start to form on their beautiful bodies. What the shit was he going to do with them? Turning his back on them, he flicked off the light and climbed the stairs in the darkness, taking a moment at the top of the stairs to hike in a deep breath and calm himself. Never had he encountered something like that with such a fierce beating. People just didn’t remain strong like that—not even the most hardened criminals. He opened the door and stepped into the corridor, intent on leaving the cargo hanging there all night. Frost strode down the hallway, unlocking the door to the kitchen and entering the room, now filled with his employees enjoying a Chinese takeaway. Some sat at the breakfast bar, and others leaned against the centre island. The stink of the food churned Frost’s stomach.

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“Everything all right, boss?” Croft asked from the corner by the sink unit, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Yeah.” Frost avoided looking at his men and made for the other doorway to the foyer. “It will be once I’ve had a proper night’s sleep. At last. Leave our new guests exactly where they are. I’ll deal with them in the morning.” “Right, boss. Oh, and boss? Your promise… Can I go out now?” It took a moment for Frost to understand what Croft meant. Then he remembered he’d offered Croft a reward if he came back tonight. “Oh, yes. Back by the morning, though. You’ve earned your night on the town, but tomorrow night’s a big night.” “Cheers!” In the foyer, Frost came to a halt, seeing the image of how he’d left Russell and Toby, legs still entwined. Finger and thumb playing with his lower lip, he dipped a toe in the waters of his deepest desire. Yes, he needed his sexual partners to hate what he did to them, but couldn’t they love him at the same time? Couldn’t they

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detest him pumping into their arse, touching them, kissing them, hate the sound of his goddamn voice, and love him too? It was possible. He’d done it himself. Before he could talk himself out of it, he turned and walked back to the kitchen doorway. Croft looked up from the plate he held, noodles on a fork poised midair, and raised his eyebrows in question. “Take the basement two down when you get back,” Frost said. Without waiting to see any surprise on Croft’s face, Frost swivelled on his heel and veered left into the living room. He went straight to the globe-topped drink’s cabinet and poured a large measure of brandy. “Stephen,” he said quietly. “I need Stephen.”

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SCARED ~ Chapter Eight

Stephen had had a busy hour or two today. Ones where his nerves were stretched taut and his fear had escalated to him being beyond scared. It was so much more than that. What he’d done could end his life if he was found out. There weren’t enough words to describe the apprehension inside him. It had eased somewhat now, as he sat on the window seat in his room, staring at the chest of drawers beside his bed. The chest of drawers that hid something he shouldn’t have. Yes, Frost would kill him if he knew. Earlier, Stephen had stayed in his room for a long time until boredom claimed him. Although

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reticent to leave his sanctuary, Stephen had inched out of his room anyway, wanting to do something to keep his mind occupied. He’d been thinking too much about his mum, his brother, and depression had begun to creep into the edges of his mind. It had made his body heavy, too, as though the burden of his situation was a weighty thing that sat on his shoulders. On the landing, he looked at the bedroom doors either side of his—all closed with no one behind them. Everyone had gone off to do Frost’s bidding. Frost had gone out too—Stephen had watched him from the window, zooming down the drive in a black Porsche, gravel spraying from beneath the tyres. Curious as to who had been left behind to watch him, he crept to the top of the wide staircase, stopping short upon hearing voices in the foyer. Lowering to his haunches, he sidled backward a bit and hoped the shadows kept him hidden. Two men stood leaning against the waist-high oak sideboard on the wall opposite the stairs, which, Stephen guessed, was used only to show

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off the expensive crystal ornaments on top. A swan. A bowl containing potpourri. An empty vase. “Don’t envy Jonathan and Kevin today,” one said, his brown hair greying at the temples. He was stocky, clean-shaven, and looked like anyone’s kindly dad. Not menacing at all. “Me neither, but I’m glad it isn’t us. Fucking freezing out there.” The other man, red hair shaved to a couple of millimetres, rubbed the large bald spot on his crown. “Reckon they’ll get one in time?” Stocky asked, picking at a hangnail. “Dunno, but they’d better. Frost’ll have their guts for fucking garters if they don’t.” They both chuckled. Stephen detected a bit of fear there. Redhead started pacing, his thicksoled boots squeaking on the polished tile. Stocky pushed off the sideboard and moved to the front door, peering out the peephole. “I’m bored fucking shitless,” Redhead said. “Reckon that kid up there’s asleep?” “I would be if Frost kept me up all night like he does with his favourites.” Stocky laughed.

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“I’ll go and check. If he is, we can fuck off into the living room. Play cards.” Redhead walked toward the stairs, and Stephen got up as quietly as he could. His heart pounded violently, and he scurried into his room, leaving the door ajar. Scrabbling onto the bed, he lay in the foetal position and concentrated on making his breaths heavy, as though he was, indeed, asleep. Eyes closed, he listened to Redhead’s boots clonking up the stairs. Stephen’s heartbeat went haywire, and he willed himself to calm down. Breathe slowly. Easy does it. Just…breathe. His door creaked, and it took everything in him to stop his eyelids flickering. His pulse thundered in his ears, and a ripple of shudders went up his spine. It seemed a long time passed before Redhead’s footsteps clomped away. After waiting a while longer, Stephen opened his eyes and looked at the doorway. For all he knew, Redhead still stood behind that door, tricking him into thinking he’d gone away. Although scared, Stephen got off the bed and padded to the door. If Redhead was on the

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other side, he’d just say he was going to the bathroom. Redhead wasn’t there. On the landing, Stephen stopped to listen for a moment then moved forward to the newel post closest to him. Opposite the bedroom doors was another landing. Matching doors stood closed, and Stephen wondered what was behind them. This house was huge, so it made sense there were other rooms here. Walking across, he opened the first four doors, finding more bedrooms. At the fifth door, he paused to listen. Redhead’s and Stocky’s voices filtered up to him, raucous and coarse as they ribbed one another in the living room. Stephen turned the handle and found himself staring down a long corridor. No doors, just the walls of the bedrooms either side. He stepped over the threshold, closed the door, and walked the length of the narrow hallway until he reached the door at the end. What if it’s locked? Blowing out through pursed lips, he turned the handle.

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Another corridor running across like a Tjunction stood on the other side. Another row of ten doors. God, this place is massive. Starting at the farthest door on the left, Stephen peeked inside. A bedroom. More bedrooms followed, and he almost didn’t bother checking the last door on the right. Something prodded him to finish his investigation, though, and he turned the handle, expecting to see a bed, wardrobe, and chest of drawers. General bedroom furniture. He found an office. The room, long and thin, stretched so far back Stephen couldn’t make out what the pictures were on the walls down there. He glanced about, spotting several desks with computers, printers, and scanners. It looked like a control room of some sort, a place he really shouldn’t be, but that something that had urged him to come here prodded him again. Computers. Information. Knowledge. Power. He strode toward the computer nearest to him and booted it up. Thanked his lucky stars he

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knew his way around a computer—in more ways than one. Putting Redhead and Stocky out of his mind and praying God was on his side, he breezed past the password obstacle and accessed the desktop. There were no file icons, just ones for Internet Explorer, Adobe Reader, and some firewall application. Stephen laughed at the latter. He’d have thought Frost would have chosen a better one, what with the important information these computers must hold. And they would, Stephen was sure of that. Tapping the keys and working the mouse, he found what he sought. A file consisting of names and addresses, payment details, everything the police would need to track down every person who had ever bought a kid from Frost. Ensuring the printer was hooked up to the computer, Stephen inserted a stack of paper to print the first hundred pages, front and back. There were thousands of them, and it would take a long time for them all to print using just that computer. He questioned his sanity. How he would get all that paper to his room without being caught?

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How he would keep the papers hidden? Get them out of the house to the police? I’ve got to do it. He switched on every computer and accessed the same file on each one—Frost clearly liked to keep copies of everything. When each printer hummed out all the information, Stephen browsed the room in search of a phone. He’d already noticed there weren’t any landline phones anywhere in the house—everyone seemed to have mobiles—but there were phone jacks. Surely there was a phone in this place somewhere that he could plug into the damn wall. His search proved fruitless, so he busied himself putting the paper stacks from each printout session in order then instructing the printers to spit out the next lot. An hour had passed since he’d started, and the resulting paper pile was vast. And it would be too heavy to carry in one go. Clearing the history of what he’d done on each computer, Stephen, paranoid and getting the jitters, wiped the keyboards and mice with a tissue snatched from one of the boxes on a desk.

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He wouldn’t put it past Frost, if Stephen had missed something while covering his tracks, to fingerprint the bloody equipment. That man is crazy. They all are. With every printer and computer now sitting silent, he stood beside the paper stack and blew out an unsteady breath. How the hell am I going to get away with this? He glanced around the room, spotting a metal frame on wheels. It held cardboard boxes and looked as though it was used to take heavy things from one part of the house to another. If there was such a person as Lady Luck, she was with Stephen right then. He rushed over to the frame and hefted the boxes off. They contained more paper, so the labels said. Opening one box, he removed the paper, piling it on the floor. Placing the box back on the frame’s base, he filled it with the printed information. Now to get it back to my room. With a deep breath, Stephen gripped the black rubber handles and wheeled his precious cargo to the door. Pushing it fast down the

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corridor, he winced as one wheel let out a piercing shriek. Heart thudding too hard, his breath held, he stopped walking and stood still. Waited for sounds that told him someone was coming to investigate. He stood this way for some time before moving toward the door that led to the landing opposite his room. Opening the door a crack, he peered out. Redhead’s and Stocky’s loud laughter snaked up the stairs. Quietly, Stephen opened the door wider, took hold of the handles again, and pushed the frame out onto the landing. The wheel shrieked again. Stephen swore his heart had leaped into his throat. The men’s laughter stopped. “What was that?” Stocky. “Fuck knows. Reckon the kid’s awake?” Redhead. “Go and check.” Holy fuck! Panicked beyond measure, Stephen had no choice but to wheel the frame to his room, teeth

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clenched, nerves on edge in case that damn wheel cried out again. It didn’t, but the little black tyres made a thwap-thwap-thwap sound on the wooden flooring. Oh, God, let me make it. Please, just let me make it to my room. Footsteps smacked on the foyer floor. Donked on the stairs. In his doorway, Stephen wrestled to get the wheels over the wooden strip of the threshold. It seemed they wouldn’t budge, were caught on something. The footsteps came closer. Any second now, he’d be seen through the banister spindles. Shit, shit, shit! The wheels stopped being stubborn and glided over the strip. Stephen had enough time to park the frame behind the door, leave the door ajar, and clamber onto his bed. He didn’t have time to steady his breathing—the footsteps were on the landing. Holding his breath, eyes closed, Stephen waited for one of the men to burst in and discover the evidence. The door creaked a little—he

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guessed it had been opened a bit—and softly knocked against the metal frame. Oh, God. I’m caught. I’m— The footsteps began again, changing beat as the man went back downstairs. Stephen released the air from his lungs, tears stinging his eyes, and quietly got off the bed. At his door, he listened, straining to hear any conversation from Redhead and Stocky. Soft murmurs reached him, then a burst of laughter. Relief spread through him, making his limbs shaky and his pulse bang in his throat. “Come on. Get this done. It’ll be all right. Just get on and do it,” he whispered. The only place available to hide the papers, apart from the wardrobe, was the chest of drawers. The bottom one held nothing, so he filled it with the information he hoped would put these men down for a damn long time. If it wasn’t discovered. He took some clothes—ones he hadn’t worn yet—out of the wardrobe and folded them, placing the items on top of the paper. That would have to do for now.

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With the job of getting the frame back into that office yet to do, Stephen made short work of it, carrying it across the landing and down the corridor so the wheel didn’t get a chance to squeak. Once in the office, he replaced the paper into the now-empty box and left everything as he’d found it. With a wipe of the frame’s handles, he scoured the room, making sure he hadn’t left any clue that he’d ever been there. Outside the office, he wiped the door handle, sped down the corridor, and made it back into his room without incident. He took a moment to compose himself, freaked the hell out that he’d had the balls to do what he’d done. He didn’t contemplate what to do next—or what would happen if those papers were discovered. Deal with one step at a time. Once the adrenaline rush dispersed and he felt reasonably normal, he left his room and went downstairs. At the living room doorway, he nodded to Stocky and Redhead, who sat on a sofa, cards spread out on a coffee table before them. “Just getting something to eat. Do you want anything?” he asked.

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The men looked at one another. “Yeah, why not,” Stocky said. “Sandwich would go down nicely.” “Yeah, and a cuppa,” Redhead added. Relieved to have something mundane to do to take his mind off the recent events, Stephen nodded again and went into the kitchen. He prepared the food and drinks, absolutely starving himself, which he supposed was the after effect of his adrenaline rush. His stomach growled as he carried the men’s food and drink into them on a tray and set it on the coffee table. “Sounds like you need some food yourself,” Redhead said, reaching for a ham salad sandwich. “Go on out there and eat.” He took a bite, stuffing the food to the side of his mouth, cheek bulging. Stephen gave a tight smile and returned to the kitchen, devoured two sandwiches, and gulped down tea. It tasted like the cuppas his mum made, and he bit back a sudden sob. Clamping his teeth onto a knuckle, he paced the room in an attempt to give his mind something else to think about.

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The door beside the breakfast bar snagged his attention, and he tried the handle again. Locked. Why did I think it would be otherwise? Hearing the men converse, Stephen quietly opened drawers. There had to be a landline phone here somewhere. Had to be. Or a spare mobile. His search brought nothing but cutlery, serving spoons, and the usual kitchen drawer paraphernalia. Shit! Mind working overtime, Stephen tried to plan his best course of action while putting his plate and cup in the dishwasher. No phones. No way of getting help unless one of them leaves a phone unguarded. I can’t get out. I can’t trust anyone here to take a message outside this house. I— A thought came to him then, that he’d been so intent on what he was doing in that office he’d failed to take perhaps the only chance of communicating with the outside world. The computer desktops had displayed the Internet Explorer icon.

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Fuck! fucking—

You

stupid

bloody

moron.

Jesus

Letting out a growl of frustration at how narrow-minded he’d been, Stephen moved to rush out of the kitchen then stopped himself. If he did anything but walk casually up those stairs, the two men would automatically be suspicious. Excitement bubbled inside him, and it took all his strength to force himself not to run. As he passed the living room door, Redhead called out, “Here, take these plates and cups out, will you?” Stephen turned woodenly and clamped his teeth. He collected the dirty crockery and went into the kitchen, trying not to ram the items in the dishwasher. Back in the foyer, he walked nonchalantly to the foot of the stairs, his excitement at the thought of freedom and going back home spiralling through his veins. He lifted his foot to take the first step—and heard the shower of gravel as a vehicle parked outside the house. No. Fuck, no. Please…

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He turned to face the front door as it swung open to reveal Jonathan and Kevin, a blackhaired, teenage boy held between them. “Here we go,” Jonathan said. “Home sweet home.” “For a bit, anyway.” Kevin chuckled. “What the fuck are you staring at?” Jonathan said, his gaze fixed on Stephen. Gut rolling, Stephen turned back to face the stairs and began the long climb, his limbs suddenly heavy, his mind awhirl with how he could get back to that office now there were more people in the house. I’m not going to be able to. He climbed the stairs, hearing the front door snick shut, the sound of the men dragging the boy toward the kitchen. He recalled how that felt when they’d done the same to him, how his heart had thundered, and his eyes had burned with the fierce sting of tears. How he’d called for his mum and been laughed at. “She ain’t coming, kid.” Back in his room, Stephen slumped down on the window seat and remained there. More of

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Frost’s men returned, one of them—Croft, he thought—with two men who looked scared shitless when they’d got out the back of the van. Now, a slice of moon hung like a broken shard of pearl in a sky of black velvet. The house had erupted with jovial chatter and the clinking of knives and forks a short while ago. The scent of Chinese food wafted up the stairs, but Stephen wasn’t hungry. The sound of Frost’s voice in the foyer churned his stomach. The sight of that man, a few moments later, standing in Stephen’s bedroom doorway, almost had him being sick.

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SCARED ~ Chapter Nine

Croft

was a wily bastard as a kid and a wily bastard now. He couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of this shit. When Frost’s men had picked him up that night six months ago, he’d been the first to admit he’d messed up. His decision to leave home at fifteen had been an easy one. No kid liked living in a house where abuse was the norm and going hungry didn’t make you bat an eyelid. Four months after his fifteenth birthday, his father had beaten him one time too many, and Croft had stuffed a blanket and a change of clothes into a rucksack, raided his mum’s drug money tin, and fucked off.

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One of the only sad aspects had been leaving his granddad behind—the man who had tried to stop the beatings and bad treatment for as far back as Croft could remember. He did wonder, though, why his granddad hadn’t informed the police or the authorities about a grandson who endured more neglect than any kid had a right to put up with. But his granddad lived with them, cruelty dished out to him, too, and Croft supposed the old fella’s selfesteem had been stripped away along with his dignity and sense of what was right. Life was a bitch and then some. Leaving his little brother had been tough, too, but Croft had made an anonymous phone call to the police about his mum and dad and hoped they acted on it. He didn’t give his name, just said there was a seven-year-old boy living in Montgomery Lane who needed rescuing from his parents. It was the best he could do. Croft’s life formed a pattern after a few weeks of trial and error living rough. He spent his days asleep in hidden alleyways, beneath

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bypasses, and his nights awake roaming Central London. It was safer that way. Forced to share his arse with whoever paid for it just so he could eat, he’d learned to judge who posed a threat and who didn’t. The hours of walking the night time streets had seen Croft grow into a burly sod over the years, and despite wanting a better life, with a wife, two kids, and, let’s go for it, a bloody dog, he remained homeless. Was a bit of a bugger to get out of. He reflected that his judgment hadn’t been sound after all—or as sound as he thought it was anyway. Jonathan and Kevin had approached him on a night where the rain lashed down and the wind blew more than the cobwebs away. Croft was cold, a little depressed, and possibly at his most vulnerable. The two men had seemed friendly enough, asking if he was for rent, that they’d pay triple if he’d engage in a threesome. That meant enough money to spend the night in a cheap hotel. Have a bath or shower. Get a comfortable bed with dry sheets and blankets.

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Croft agreed and followed them down the street, his hands bunched at his sides in case he needed to defend himself. He should have listened to his instincts then, that tiny worm of unease that started growing in his gut the minute they led him down an alley filled with refuse and a rat the size of a Jack Russell. But the money and the thought of that hotel erased the doubt. At the end of the alley, a black van idled, grey exhaust fumes billowing into the air like the rapid breaths from Croft’s mouth. He glanced back, judging how quickly he could run before the men ahead caught on to him legging it. If he darted now… A proper bed. A bath… Croft continued to follow. Once at the van, Jonathan opened one of the back doors and held his hand up in a gesture for Croft to climb inside. Again the worm of unease wiggled, and again Croft ignored it. He entered the van. Looking back on it, compared to other abductions, Croft’s must have been one of the

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easiest. Jonathan and Kevin must have been pissing themselves at how docile Croft appeared, how readily he went with them. One lapse, that’s all it took, and they had him. They’d travelled out of inner London. The dense bright lights tapered off, the spread-out twinkles of the outlying homes taking their place, and that worm turned into a fuck-off anaconda. “Hey!” Croft said from his seat on the bench, staring at Jonathan and Kevin through the metal grate. “Where are we going?” “Home, mate.” Kevin chuckled. “What, to your place?” Croft bit his lip. “No, it doesn’t belong to us,” Jonathan said, “but it’ll be home to you for the next six months. Now shut the fuck up.” Jonathan drove faster. Croft remained silent, not through fear but to gather his wits. He had no fucking clue why he had to stay wherever for the next six months— why six months was even the stated number— but he had a good idea of the duties he’d have to perform.

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After travelling a while, Croft sifting through his options along the way, the van arrived at a mansion in the countryside. They’d escorted him inside, gave him the basement treatment, and at the point where Frost usually tested the “cargo”, Croft got a break. His arse hadn’t been used, and Frost offered him a job. Of course, Croft took it. Knew he’d have to pretend to enjoy what they asked him to do. Feeding the kids—he even saw the ones over eighteen as such, seeing as he was older— making sure none of them did themselves any harm. Their skin had to remain unblemished— no bruises, no cold sores, nothing. At first the rooms were empty, and Croft had been informed he was the first pick-up since the last batch of ten had been auctioned off. He’d had a few seconds to wonder what that meant, then Frost informed him that over the period of a week they collected ten lads and brought them here. Over the next six months, they were primed for sale, incarcerated in those rooms, no contact with anyone except when Croft fed them, made sure

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they were clean, gave them fresh sheets, dropped off their laundry. He wondered why they’d taken him, what with him being twenty-three, but he did look a lot younger. Maybe, after Croft had downed the lemonade, he’d revealed his true age, and Frost deemed him too old. The punters liked them young. Croft couldn’t remember what he’d said after that drink, so yeah, it made sense he’d blabbed his age. He talked to the boys. Eased their fears without telling them what life held in store. Croft couldn’t risk any one of those lads blabbing. It had been hard not to become attached. Some, those as young as twelve and thirteen, were so fucking distraught to begin with that Croft had a difficult time not revealing his plans. He just couldn’t risk it. To get them to safety meant playing Frost’s game, following the rules. Frost had a smooth operation going on, Croft had to admit it, one that gave Frost the lifestyle he’d grown accustomed to. Maybe some of those

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lads would get a better life if they were purchased—those who’d led a life like he had prior to coming here—but surely being placed in care was a safer bet. Then again, through the friends Croft had made while living on the streets, he’d heard tales that even good foster parents and care homes seemed rare. What the fuck was the world coming to? Sickened, Croft vowed to work his arse off for Frost, gain his trust quickly—in time to release the ten kids currently in residence. Tomorrow night they’d be auctioned if his plan went wrong. Earlier, when he’d left this place and headed for Wraxford, he’d contemplated fucking off, driving past that small town and on into Scotland. Starting again up there. But he reminded himself how Frost had tracked Russell and Toby down, how even though it had taken well over a year, the man had reached his goal. Croft had no doubt whatsoever that he’d be found too. And the thought of abandoning those kids… He couldn’t do it.

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Before he’d picked up the old man Jacob, he’d telephoned the police and asked to speak to a detective. He’d known him from the times he’d been picked up for “soliciting”, a policeman who concerned himself with Croft’s welfare for no reason Croft could fathom. Maybe the guy was just a good bloke. Maybe he saw something in Croft’s eyes—an abused kid living the best way he knew how, still abused as an adult but on his own terms. Detective Mick Darrow had made it his business to appear on Croft’s turf a couple of nights a week, asking if he’d eaten, whether he’d made enough money to survive another day. Darrow had come on the line, his tone jovial but with a tinge of unease. Croft didn’t want to fully believe this fella really did give a shit, but the concern in the policeman’s voice had warmed him, gave him hope that what he was about to do this day would change more than the ten innocent lives in those rooms. Quickly explaining his plans, Croft had secured Darrow’s attention and support and also his mobile phone number. Scribbling the digits

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down on a pad, Croft had explained why the police couldn’t storm the mansion now—Croft wanted the purchasers caught too. Croft agreed to telephone Darrow when he had further news or needed a little help along the way. That call had come in the form of Croft asking for the roadblock to be set up. The original plan had gone awry—him picking Toby up first hadn’t panned out, and Croft had to quickly remedy the situation. After shoving Russell in the van, he’d called Darrow and explained that if he was to snatch Toby without some do-gooder member of the public telephoning the police, Darrow would have to help. The detective had agreed, sending a police colleague to visit Jacob & Sons offices and place the pile of mail on the reception desk. As for the roadblocks, the colleague had taken that job on, too, nodding to Croft as he drove past the van on his way to propping the fake signs either end of the road. Darrow had promised no one would follow Croft—Croft had to trust him on that, had to

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trust someone in his damn sorry excuse for a life—but the detective did insist on knowing the vicinity he’d need to be in the following night. Croft had yet to pass on the exact information, but Darrow did know whereabouts to meet Croft tonight. He left the mansion now, the bellyful of noodles he’d eaten churning in his stomach. Croft took one of the many black vans Frost owned and drove off the property, having had Jonathan open the gates from inside. He released a heavy breath, his heart ticking fast and his hands a little shaky. What he was about to do would either sign his death warrant or get him arrested. He just had to pray Darrow stuck to his promise of only moving in on Croft’s command. On the journey to a town a few miles away, Croft thought about his day. It had been a long one, and he was fucking tired, but after tomorrow night he hoped he could sleep the sleep of the dead—though not literally. He was so tense his neck muscles ached like a bastard, and his head felt a little muzzy. Still, he’d sworn he’d see this

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through to its conclusion, and he wasn’t about to back out now. He’d hated punching Mr Jacob. It had been like hitting his granddad, but a necessary evil, a means to an end. Darrow had promised his colleague would drive to the other end of Fountain Street and wait for the old man once he’d been released, putting the poor sod’s mind at rest that he wouldn’t have to live in fear for the rest of his life, that the police were aware of what had happened. And Croft hadn’t had a headache like he’d said when he told Jacob and Russell to shut the fuck up. It was the only thing he could think of, so he had time to blank his mind from what he’d done. Blank his mind of the fact he wanted to cry. Yeah, cry. With Mr Jacob gone and the journey to London well underway, Croft had heard every word between Russell and Toby. Several times he’d had to bite his tongue to hold back from telling them that everything would be all right, that they didn’t have to worry. But for all he knew, the van was bugged. Also, he knew the

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basement treatment was coming their way, and most men gave up information once the chain started striking their flesh. Croft couldn’t risk it. Shaking his head, clearing it of the past and focusing on what he had to do now, Croft turned into a countryside pub car park, The Red Lion, and left the van in plain sight. He could have been followed by a couple of Frost’s men. He knew the deviousness of the bloke, expected that he hadn’t quite earned the sadistic bastard’s trust, and knew meeting with Darrow in such a public place wasn’t an option. Which was why he wasn’t meeting Darrow here. Croft entered the pub and sat by a window facing the car park, non-alcoholic pint in one hand, the other resting along the sill. He had a good view of outside here and spotted one of Frost’s cars straight away—a red Fiat Punto, two shadowed figures inside. They can sit there as long as they fucking like. They remained in the car park for two hours then slowly peeled away, the Fiat’s taillights

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fading into the darkness of the road leading back to Frost’s place. Croft sat on for another hour, casually glancing out the window every so often and scoping out the cars. They were all empty. His instinct telling him it was safe to move, he dialled Darrow’s number and waited for him to answer. The detective picked up on the second ring and agreed to meet Croft at The Spotted Duck in the village of Framcott. On the way there, Croft kept glancing in the rear view mirror to check for any tails and went through everything he needed to tell Darrow. Framcott’s sign glowed in his headlights all too soon, and Croft’s gut clenched. Blowing out through pursed lips to steady his pattering heart and rapid pulse, he drove into the pub’s car park and cut the engine. He sat for a moment, waiting for any traffic to drive past or someone else to enter the car park. They didn’t. Telling himself he was doing the right thing, he got out of the van and pushed the pub door wide, approaching the bar on legs that were a bit unsteady.

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Again ordering a non-alcoholic beer, he finally chanced a look around the pub. Darrow sat in the far corner at a small round table beside a roaring fireplace. The detective nodded a greeting, and after checking his surroundings again, Croft walked over to him and took a seat. “Fucking fair can of worms you’ve opened for me, Croft.” Darrow leaned forward and rested his elbow on the table, cupping his cheek in his hand. Croft wondered whether this was to shield his face from anyone who might be sitting outside. Nice touch. Darrow lowered his gaze to an A4 pad on the table. “I’ll need the layout of the house. And the address.” Croft took a sip of beer then placed the glass on the table. Taking a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, he began sketching the ground floor, paying specific attention to the door in the kitchen and the corridor beyond. “This is where the lads are right now,” he said, jabbing the pen nib on the pad. “But when you arrive—if everything goes all right—the lads will be

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in here.” Croft added more of the mansion’s layout on the other side of the foyer, drawing the large dining room then the showing room beside that. “A bloke called Jonathan usually mans the front door, and one called Kevin mans the back. In the viewing room, when you first go in, you’ll see a row of chairs, the bidders sitting in them. Frost will be there, too, plus some of his employees. “On the opposite wall to the door, there’s a massive two-way mirror. The lads will be taken in there one by one so the punters can see what’s on offer.” Croft winced and swallowed. Adding more of the layout, he said, “There’s a door here, to the right of the mirror. One of Frost’s men will be standing in front of it. Armed. Behind that door is a corridor. First door on your left leads into the room behind the mirror. Second door on the left is the room where the boys are kept while they wait to be shown off.” Darrow sipped what looked like whiskey and grimaced. “And beyond that? Any rooms I should know about?” “No, that’s it.” Croft folded the page over and started drawing the first floor. “Now, there’s this

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kid called Stephen. He got picked up late—the other night—because one of the ten managed to hang himself using his bedsheet.” The memory of finding that boy, fourteen years old and desperate, hanging from the ceiling light fitment, pierced Croft’s mind. He blinked— damn tears, he didn’t need them now—and cleared his throat. “But, uh, Frost kept Stephen for himself.” “So there are only nine kids going on show tomorrow night, right?” “No. Jonathan and Kevin picked another one up today while I was out getting Russell and Toby. They discussed it over dinner earlier. I haven’t met him yet, but I will in the morning when I take in his breakfast.” Croft’s throat swelled with emotion, and he took a swig of beer to ease the pain. “Do you know any of these kids’ names?” Darrow swirled the ice in his drink around with his index finger. “Yeah. Memorised them after I got to know them—but one won’t tell me fuck all. You want the eight I know?”

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“Please. Write them down. Their parents can be informed that we might have found their sons, depending whether they’re the right kids. Whether the parents even realise their sons are missing. Some don’t file reports, you know.” Croft nodded. “Yeah, I know. Like my situation.” Darrow shook his head. “Fucking amazes me how some parents don’t give a shit.” He stared out the window, the side of his face still shielded. Croft wrote down the names then looked up. “I don’t know the name of the new one. I can tell you tomorrow some time. Text you if I manage to find some time alone.” “All right.” Darrow looked down at the pad. “I can run these names through the computer when I get back to the station. This is a hell of a thing you’re doing here, Croft. We’ve had our ears to the ground for a long time over Frost, but we had no idea he was into this shit. We thought—” “He was into drugs. Yeah. He finds that funny.” Croft shook his head. “Listen, Croft gave

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me the job of making sure an outside security team is in place. That will be you lot, right? I’ll open the gates for you because Frost gave me that job for tomorrow night as well. If anything goes wrong, you’ll have about an hour after the last bid before you need to really get a move on if you want to catch them. From listening to conversations over the past few months, I gathered the bidders have a bit of a drink before they take their purchases home, know what I mean?” The detective nodded. “Fucking bastards.” “Ain’t that the damn truth. Oh, and I’m not sure what Frost’s doing about Russell and Toby. He usually leaves men strung up all night after the basement treatment, but he wants me to take them down when I get back.” If I get back. If I haven’t been watched. “And that kid who hung himself? They buried him in the forest out the back. I’ll show you when this is all over.” Croft stood and, giving Darrow a nod, left the pub. He hadn’t asked what would happen to him when the police raided Frost’s place.

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Going to prison for his part in Frost’s warped organisation was a million times better than the shit he’d been through in his life so far.

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SCARED ~ Chapter Ten

Russell’s

shoulders burned. Even his armpits

burned. Everything fucking burned. Hanging like this…he’d seen it in torture scenes on TV but never quite got to grips with how much it must hurt. Now, he knew exactly how much it hurt. It was indescribable. Something he thought he wouldn’t be able to tolerate. Funny how the mind and body works so you can cope. At first, the pain was too much to handle. With every ache and gripe, every spear of agony,

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he thought about how it felt and wallowed in it. But, as with a toothache, when he forgot about it, when something else took his attention and his mind wasn’t focused on that god-awful throb, the pain went away. He tried that, taking his mind to another level, centring on images from the past or memories he cherished. Anything so he didn’t feel the pain. It didn’t work all the time. Talking to Toby wasn’t an option either. Finding the words, or even the energy to speak them, brought on fresh bouts of anguish that ripped through him, jangling every nerve ending and magnifying the stress until he thought he’d pass out. A mantra flowed through his head: Think of something else, think of something else… As though the pain was a being that had the ability to hear, it raised a notch, a monster that liked to torment and send a man insane. With each new level, he told himself he couldn’t take any more. Not another second of this bastard shit. And every time he managed to tolerate it.

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He’d heard somewhere, maybe on TV, or something he’d read in a magazine he’d picked up some place, like the doctor’s waiting room or whatever, that the human body and mind were able to transcend pain. At the time he’d read the article, he didn’t think he’d stored it in his brain, just moved on to the next editorial, one about a man who loved his dog despite the damn thing biting his toe off. But that piece had remained in the old grey matter and returned at the peak of his distress. He could only describe it as going into a trance, his soul rising out of his body to hover above him, his shell left there hanging. The part of him that processed pain, his self, was free of distress. It had seemed odd to begin with, watching himself and Toby, their bodies lit as if those damn lights weren’t off. Like he was a ghost. Or am I actually dead? The second he’d thought that, his self zipped back into his body. The rush of pain had stripped him of the ability to breathe, and he felt like someone was choking him.

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He wanted to hear Toby’s voice, one that brought instant calm. He needed to hear him in order to fully understand he wasn’t alone. Oh, he knew Toby was there, all right, but in this darkness it was easy to forget. It stretched on for what seemed like miles, yet closed in on him at the same time. Pressing into his body. Making him aware that whatever he did, however much he wished not to be there, he was. Toby didn’t speak. Russell inhaled a breath at last. “I’m…” His voice, just a whisper, broke through the seam of his dry lips. “I’m okay, mate.” And he’d risen out of his body again, wondering if he’d passed out and this was what it felt like when you neared death. Did the self separate from the body, waiting in some kind of indeterminate state for the body to give up? Did the self linger, just in case the body wanted it back? Whatever was going on, he didn’t give a shit. There was no pain. He saw his head bob, his chin drop to his chest, and his self was dragged back into that

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body, although he felt no tenderness this time. Sleep, blessed sleep had shooed it away for now. He knew he dreamed, even though it seemed like he was awake inside a body and mind that had just shut off for a while. He found himself at the graveside where he’d worked last year, staring down at a hole, Toby underneath all that mud. The recollection of how he’d felt back then skidded through him, and he turned full circle to appraise his surroundings, frightened that Frost would return and catch him there. If George, his old work mate, had stayed like he should have and saw Toby down there, would he have remained quiet and not told the police? Russell didn’t think so. The old man always kept to the rules, and no amount of begging would have stopped the bloke from picking up the phone and reporting Frost. But George hadn’t been there. No, he’d fucked off early, as usual, leaving Russell to lock up the cemetery. And what if Russell hadn’t gone back to that grave? He wondered what the state

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of his mind would have been like by now, if he’d kept silent, leaving what he’d only known of at the time as a body under the heavy darkness of earth. I’d be a mess. He narrowed his eyes, seeking out any kind of movement in the foggy shadows of the place he’d once worked every day. Nothing appeared abnormal. Because he dreamed, he stood waiting for something weird to happen, for Toby to burst out of the earth as a vampire or monster, but the unnatural silence held everything suspended apart from him. A fox frequented the graveyard at night. They’d never seen it, but the russet killer left evidence behind—dead animals, its own faeces—and in the daytime it made creepy sounds in the nearby bushes that flanked the edge of the land. Russell waited for such a sound now, but it was like noise itself had been confiscated for this dream, and Russell was to star in a silent movie. Toby appeared beside him, unmarked and clean, and for a minute Russell tried to process

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how that had happened. When this had occurred for real, his lover had blood on his hands and face and smears of mud on his clothes. Toby smiled, showing gravestone teeth, the front two etched with R.I.P and their names underneath. Russell opened his mouth to tell Toby what he’d seen, that they were going to die, but Toby became transparent, fading, blending in with the mist. Quickly, Russell jumped into the open grave, going down on his hands and knees, fingers shaped like claws as he dug at the earth. He dug for a long time, deeper than the original grave. His fingers met with packed earth, fingernails getting broken, and he sat back, uncomprehending that Toby wasn’t there. But he was here. I saw Frost put him in. Yet he just stood beside me. What the hell does this mean? How he got out of the grave he didn’t know. One minute he was in it, the next he stood beside it again, his hands clean, standing out bright white by the light of the moon.

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I’m dreaming. Must remember I’m dreaming. Confused, he wandered toward the old shed he and George used to store their tools and make tea on their breaks. Inside didn’t look the same. The chair George favoured had gone, replaced with a stone coffin, the lid askew. A clean blackboard on an easel stood in place of the fridge, and behind it, still covered by that old coat he’d placed there last year, was the small window. Where he’d tucked the coat between the shed wall and a rotting piece of wood that acted as a window frame, spiders had made themselves at home in layers of dust, their webs thick like swathes of cotton candy. A shuffle sounded beside him, and he automatically glanced at the open door. The mist had thickened, forming an opaque wall that prevented Russell from seeing into the graveyard. He slammed the door on it, the mist’s sudden density spooking him, as though it held some meaning he had yet to grasp. He locked the door and moved toward the blackboard, taking a deep breath and lifting the lower corner of the coat so he could peer outside. A spider scuttled

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along the fabric and down his arm, and Russell jumped back, flicking his wrist to make the critter fall off. It gripped with long legs, refusing to budge, and as Russell stared at it, the arachnid grew. He brushed it off, stamping on the bastard once it hit the floor, and decided it might have been an omen for him not to look out the window. Swallowing, he moved forward again, omen or not. The blackboard had writing on it. TOBY’S GONE. Gone? What the fuck does that mean? Gone where? Russell blinked. New words had formed. YOU’RE ALONE. Alone? Where, in this dream, or in the basement? Have they taken Toby down? Did he die and they’ve come to get him? What? NO. HE’S JUST…GONE. Russell struggled to wake up, frantic that Toby had died hanging beside him, while he’d been here in this fucking place, dicking about with spiders and goddamn blackboards.

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The veil of sleep lifted, transporting him back to reality. He jerked, the manacles ripping into his flesh, but it didn’t matter. Even the dribble of hot blood flowing down his arms failed to make any significant impact. “Toby!” he croaked. **** Toby drifted, out of his body, to somewhere he didn’t recognise. He’d never visited much of the countryside in his life, and this field, full of buttercups, the grass clipped short like a football pitch, was an alien place. It stretched for miles, surrounded by white clouds that stopped abruptly at the horizon, no blue sky in sight. But it was daytime, he got the sense of that, the light too natural to be any form of manmade illumination. He turned in a circle, wondering which direction to take, something telling him he must walk in order to get to a destination that called strongly with a voice as soft as he imagined an angel’s would be. It didn’t feel odd that he was here. Somehow, this was where he was meant to

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be, and nothing else existed in his mind except getting to wherever he had to go. It didn’t much matter which way he went—it all looked the same—so he limped forward, the flowers brushing the tops of his bare feet. Realising they were bare and that he’d limped, he stared down at himself. The shock of seeing welts and bruises over his naked body brought with it a prodding memory that urged him to embrace it. He stood still, head cocked, waiting for images to form in his mind, ones he could latch on to and reel in until they formed a bigger picture. Naked. Welts. Bruises. He lifted his arms in front of him, studying the circles of open skin around his wrists. It was like someone had slit the flesh with a jagged knife, the blade an inch thick. Blood had crusted, although in places it still glistened, fresh seepage oozing over pink flesh—meat. Creamy fat globules, like mini bunches of grapes, nestled within the flesh, and the brief thought of what he’d look like without any skin brought a shudder to his spine.

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Why am I like this? Why am I here? Frowning, he hobbled on, his destination pulling him one way, his mind the other. He felt as if a large chunk of information was missing, information he needed to know in order to decide whether he allowed his destination to lure him there. Where was his destination? And how did he know he needed to get there? Toby stopped again at the sound of tinkling. What the fuck was that? Spinning in a circle—shit, his ankle hurt!—he hoped to see something other than the field and clouds, some chink in the green- yellow-andwhite expanse that could tell him where that tinkle had come from. Nothing greeted him but the same view. What the hell? “This way, Toby…” Who said that? The female voice held familiarity, as though he should recognise who had spoken. He turned again, his eyes hurting from the brightness of the clouds now. They glowed, as if a great lamp had

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been switched on behind them, and he squinted to protect his eyes from the glare. “Come on! This way!” The voice had come from behind him, and he spun quickly, coming face to face with a woman. She smiled, her brunette head tilted, her blue eyes twinkling from the light. She appeared a little older than him and had the strong features from his family lineage. “Who are you?” he asked, taking in her gauzy, flowing gown. “Where am I?” “This way,” she said, taking his hand and guiding him forward. Toby dug his heels into the grass. “No. Not until you tell me where I am and why I’m here. Why I’m fucking naked and battered up.” She had walked on when he stopped, and now their arms, linked by clasped hands, stretched between them. He had the sense that if he let go, he’d find the answers to his questions, but he didn’t want to let go. Her touch felt so right, like he belonged here, that if she took him to his destination, everything would be okay.

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And why wouldn’t it be okay if I knew why I’m in this state? What the fuck happened to me? Was I in an accident? Am I in a coma? Close…I’m close with that thought. Think! Fucking think! The tinkle sounded again, louder this time, like a chain was being jerked frantically. A man called his name, the voice cracked and needy, as though whoever had spoken was panicked and afraid. Toby looked around, hoping to see the man emerge from…from what? Nowhere? Like the woman had? This is so weird. Here I am, with no clue why. I don’t even know who I am or what I did before…this. I know my name is Toby, but— The grass rustled. Rustled… “Russell?” Toby yanked his hand out of the woman’s grasp and ran the other way, instinct telling him where to go. The clouds darkened on the horizon, grey rising at first, then black forming underneath, a thick, angry stripe. Toby ran on, knowing that blackness was where he needed to be. A fierce

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wind blew from out of nowhere, jostling him as if it wanted to start a fight. He shoved against it, hair pushing back from his face, the skin on his cheeks rippling with the force. Hail pelted down, great slanting rods of it, dashing into his face and obscuring his vision. Each rod was pointytipped, scratching at his face like unseen fingernails. Pointy-tipped shoes… What the…? What do they mean? Why did I think of them? The hail continued to smack him, a chastisement he felt he didn’t deserve. He glanced back at the white clouds and the woman still standing with her arm outstretched. The scenery there was untouched by the storm, the light still bright, the woman unaffected by the spiteful wind. A momentary feeling of goodness slipped through him. But it wasn’t strong enough for him to return to her. The darkness called louder, his whole being taut and buzzing with the knowledge that if he just reached that pitch horizon, then everything would be okay. He turned away from her, facing the storm once more.

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“Come back, Toby,” she called, and he imagined her smiling, beckoning with her hand. That hand…did it have the ability to rein him in? The wind tried to push him backward, an accomplice to the hand he was sure worked to tug him to the place the woman stood. No! I don’t want to go with her. I need to be somewhere else. I need to go forward. My life is forward, damn it! “Hey!” she shouted. “Come back here! I came all this way to collect you. I’m not supposed to go back without you. Please, Toby. Come with me!” “No,” he screamed, the wind snatching the word and carrying it back to her. “I can’t. I’ve got to…I must…” He switched his mind off from her, battling onward with just the blackness in mind. He felt better in himself for doing that, the confusion of whether to stay or go disappearing once he’d set his focus on reaching the black stripe. After running for what seemed miles in a short space of time, Toby reached the horizon.

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It engulfed him, swallowed him, a hungry monster’s mouth that brought the first inklings of pain to his extremities. He ran on, regardless of his ankle throbbing and his wrists filling with indescribable agony. Sightless, Toby trusted his inner voice, those tinkles spurring him forward. The voice came again—Toby!—and then came more pain. Body-racking shards of agony spearing his body, his ankle throbbing harder, his wrists feeling as though they were about to snap. A whooshing sensation shunted him forward, and then he hung midair, suspended in nothing but pain and confusion. Shit. Have I fallen off a cliff? What? His heart rate soared, and he battled to breathe through the panic. Jolting to a stop, though still suspended, he fought to take in air. “Talk to me, Toby. For fuck’s sake, answer me!” Toby finally sucked in a huge breath, his throat dry, his head pounding, and recognition came.

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“Russell?” “Oh, thank fuck for that. Oh, Jesus. I thought you… I thought…fuck, I thought I was alone. Thought you’d gone.” “Never,” Toby said, understanding flooding him. “I’ll never leave you again.”

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SCARED ~ Chapter Eleven

Frost lay in bed, flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. Tonight should have been the night he got the first good sleep in a long time, but still a decent rest evaded him. The capture of Russell and Toby proved once again that those two were a thorn in his side. He should have just had them offed, got Jonathan or Kevin to kill the motherfuckers and been done with it. He didn’t even need to know what they knew. It didn’t matter. The whipping with the chain had just been something to assuage Frost’s anger at the way those men had messed with his head for so long.

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He’d only ever admit it to his closest employees that Russell and Toby had got under his skin the night they went to the police. Thankfully, neither of them had given an adequate description of him, his men, or this house, and nothing had come of their statements, but fuck, it could have all so easily turned to shit. He’d built his life up, having been a street kid himself for a while in his mid-teens. He wanted to prove that kids from a broken home could get somewhere in life if they put their damn minds to it. Helping those boys downstairs have better lives than they had previously, pleased him to no end, even though he made out he didn’t give a fuck about them. He did a good thing. Frost thought back to his childhood, one where his mother, once he hit five years old, insisted he show her a good time. It wasn’t much of a good time for him. The attention she wanted him to give her body had repulsed him, and not only because of the actual acts either. He’d known, shit, ever since he could remember, that girls didn’t do it for him. Call it instinct, or an

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inner knowledge he knew as the absolute truth— he liked boys. The thought of ogling his mother’s breasts like his school friends told him they did to their mothers, really didn’t appeal. So, the first time she requested he touch her not only shocked him but also sent his mind somewhere he’d never been before. A place where he could pretend things weren’t happening, where everything was all right again. Oh, she’d given him certain attention before her initial demand—a kiss on his lips, a rub of his leg, an extra good wash of his cock in the bath—but nothing he was sure his friends didn’t have done to them. No, what his mother did, all mothers did, didn’t they? Maybe a year or two of him pleasing her passed before he discovered—via a teacher at school giving “a talk” on inappropriate behaviour after one child was caught touching another’s “private parts” in the toilets—not all children had mothers with needs like his did. He hated her then, yet loved her just the same. What he hated was the touches, what he had to do, her voice telling him in that wheedling

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tone it was “time”. But everything else remained the same—good meals, he was well dressed and cared for, and she always told him a story before bed. Frost sighed and blinked hard. His eyes itched. He tried to stop the images, but they forced their way into his mind. As he grew older, he asked himself how he could love and hate someone in equal measure. By his early teens, his leanings toward the same sex had grown in strength, so giving his mother the attention she craved had become abnormal, disgusting, not him and who he was. It was too late to do anything about it—unless he ran. During this turbulent time, when his mind ran amok with confusion and he acted out at school, fucked about on the streets causing trouble, he got in with what his mother deemed a bad crowd. But that bad crowd showed him how to become a runner, and he’d peddled drugs at night time, long after his mother retired. This new way of life gave him a thirst for better things, showed him he could make it on his own without

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her. And he had once Parker picked him off the street and took him to his home. To the home Frost now owned. Frost had become Parker’s pet, had been trusted with the ins and outs of Parker’s trafficking business as Frost grew from boy to man. And despite Parker preferring younger men, once Frost arrived on the scene, Parker hadn’t taken another lover. Frost had loved Parker to some degree, but not enough to stop him from offing the old fucker once Parker had written his will in Frost’s favour. Ah, I’ve been a bastard in my time. The need to become top dog had pushed him to do things most people would find horrific. And he was here now, wasn’t he? Rich, with people at his mercy, doing his bidding, and a lucrative business that ran like clockwork. Yet he stared at the ceiling now, the big man himself, disturbed by feelings Russell and Toby had unearthed down there in the basement. Frost wasn’t getting any younger. He needed the kind of love he had given Parker. Companionship.

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Was Stephen Frost’s salvation, or just another notch in his bedpost? Russell and pissing Toby. Little bastards in love. Fucking up my day yet again. He should have them killed. Now. Frost moved to get out of bed and reach for his mobile phone, but he couldn’t bring himself to give the order. He flopped back onto the pillow, a huff of air shunting out of him. Maybe he ought to get Stephen back in here. Tell him a story until he fell asleep. Or explain what he needed from him. Hate and love, love and hate. Perhaps the kid would get it then, realise he had everything at his disposal if he’d only just love Frost for being Frost. Hate him for being him. It was simple to Frost, yet he understood why other people might not be able to comprehend his reasoning, his needs. He was a fuck-up really, no doubt about that, yet— “Fuck it. What am I going to do about those two down there?” His voice, a whisper, sounded so loud in the quiet. Most of the household had retired—he’d

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counted them as they’d gone to their rooms one by one—and Frost had no reason now not to fall into a sound sleep, except for his roiling emotions. Croft had returned, like Frost knew he would, his rumbling voice announcing to Jonathan in the foyer that he needed to cut the basement men loose before he went to bed. He had yet to come up the stairs and go to his room, but it wouldn’t be long before he did. Earlier, Frost had instructed two underlings to follow Croft to whatever pub he went to. Though he hadn’t expected Croft to betray him, not really. Still, it didn’t do to become lax with his staff. A first outing after being kept under strict supervision for six months sent some men off their rocker, and even today had been a big test. Mind you, the van had been tracked every step of the way, so if Croft had taken it into his head to do a runner, he’d have been rounded up pretty damn quickly. If the situation with Russell and Toby had taught Frost anything, it was to watch his back more closely. He wouldn’t be falling foul of the likes of them again.

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Frost sighed, content that his instincts with regards to Croft had been spot on. He hadn’t lost his touch after all, something he’d debated after last year’s debacle. And how those two had kept hidden for so long was beyond him. His contacts around the country had uncovered nothing for a long time. Mind you, Frost had guessed incorrectly that the duo would hide in a big city—less chance of being spotted then—so after every city had been picked apart in search of them, Frost had ordered everyone’s attention to towns and villages. It had been a learning curve all right, but one that stood him in good stead for the future. No bastard would get one over on him again. Croft knew his place, was grateful for what Frost did for him, and he stood to become Frost’s right-hand man if he played his cards right. Another six months would see just that happening if Croft continued in the vein he had. Frost had a few more tests to put Croft through first, but there was no doubt in his mind that the young bloke wouldn’t pass them.

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Good man, Croft. Frost closed his eyes, thinking about tomorrow night and what needed to be done before the bidding began. The lads didn’t need clothing—purchasers preferred to take them home naked, letting them know their place from the very first. A light meal would be given around four p.m. so their bellies didn’t distend and make them appear unattractive. Slender was the name of the game—no punter of Frost’s had ever requested a kid with a paunch. Security would be stepped up. Frost had outside contractors coming in to guard the immediate grounds—he must confirm with Croft whether he’d done as he was told on that; Frost couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to check. Irked with himself, he threw the quilt back and padded toward the door, grabbing his robe and covering his naked form. He made his way in the dark downstairs, squinting in the light spilling into the foyer from the kitchen. Croft sat at the breakfast bar, a glass of orange juice before him and a newspaper spread out on the marble surface.

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“Still up, Croft?” Frost asked, approaching the man. Croft turned and smiled. “Yeah. All right, boss?” “Enjoy your evening?” Frost placed one hand on the breakfast bar, the other on Croft’s shoulder. “Yeah. Was good to get out. Thanks.” Studying the man’s face for signs of deception, Frost found none and nodded. “Where did you go?” “That pub up the road a bit. The Red Lion.” “Nice and quiet, was it?” Frost squeezed Croft’s shoulder. “Yeah. Enjoyed a couple of drinks. Bit of time to myself.” Croft nodded. “Yeah, it was fucking all right, actually.” Frost patted his back. Hard. Just to let Croft know he was still being watched. “Fucking brilliant. Did you let them two ponces downstairs off the hook?” He laughed uproariously at his joke. Croft laughed too, nodding to the newspaper. “Yeah. Was just having a gander at what’s been going on in the world before I headed up to bed.”

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“Right. I meant to ask, did you sort the security out for tomorrow night like I said?” Frost didn’t doubt the man for a minute, but he needed to hear it just the same. “Yep. Twenty of them.” Croft took a sip of his orange juice. “Brilliant bloke, you are. Right, I’m off to bed. Need my sleep before I deal with those two tomorrow.” Frost jerked his head in the direction of the white corridor. “Know what I mean?” He sighed dramatically and left Croft to his reading, certain of the man’s loyalty. For now. Frost had a little trick up his sleeve. One Croft would find out about in the morning. It would be a test of his loyalty. “A test indeed,” he whispered. **** Croft waited until he imagined Frost’s bedroom door had closed before he released the breath he’d held. What had Frost been questioning him for?

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Did I fuck up somewhere? Did someone follow me to Framcott, see me with Darrow? Another thought struck unpleasant one. Is Darrow in Frost’s pocket?

him—a

damn

“Shit,” he whispered, his heart rate picking up speed. Then he consoled himself with the fact he’d known Darrow well before he’d known Frost. And Darrow appeared a good sort. No, the detective didn’t strike Croft as the kind who’d be on the take. Despite coaching himself calmer, Croft remained uneasy. He wouldn’t put it past Frost to keep him under the false illusion that everything was hunky fucking dory when it bloody well wasn’t. He’d have to watch himself now, watch Frost and his men more carefully for any signs they suspected him of double-crossing them. Fuck. That’s all I need at the moment. I’m so close to getting those lads back home. The thought of the boys had him contemplating going to see the new one. It would be easier to find out his name now, while the house was quiet and no one was around to know

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he’d spent longer in his room than the others in the morning. Reckon the kid needs to see a friendly face. Croft finished his orange juice and went to the centre island. He took out a plastic cup they used specifically for the lads and filled it with orange juice from the fridge. In a burst of daring, he prepared the kid a sandwich—cheese and ham on brown bread with a little salad on the side—and used his keys to open the door beside the breakfast bar. Placing the food and drink on a tray, he went into the corridor and lowered the tray to the floor. Back at the door to the kitchen, he locked it—Frost would go ballistic if Croft left it open and the kid managed to get past him and into the house—then picked up the tray again. The lad would be in room five, which had stood empty since…yeah, since the other one had…yeah. He knocked softly so as not to frighten the room’s occupant. After getting no response, he held the tray in one hand and unlocked the door with the other. Going inside, he took in the sight of a naked, black-haired teenager, bathed in the

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shaft of light streaking in from the corridor. The lad was curled up on the bed, above the quilt, his back to the door. His whole body shook. Croft put the tray down on a chest of drawers beside the door and locked up. Pocketing the keys as he walked over to the bed, he said, “Hey. You all right?” Fucking stupid question. Of course he’s not all right. Look at him shaking. He’s shitting himself. Not for the first time since he’d arrived here, anger sped through Croft until he thought he’d shout out his frustration at having to wait until tomorrow night to save this kid. But at least it was tomorrow night. This one was lucky, only having to endure just over twenty-four hours in this place. “I’ve brought you some food,” Croft said, sitting on the edge of the bed. The boy shook harder. “Cheese and ham sandwich. Bit of salad. Some orange juice too.” He kept his voice calm, knew he’d be lucky to get this kid’s name out of him tonight. It usually took them a while to trust

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him, to realise he wasn’t going to hurt them. “If you don’t want to talk, that’s all right. And if you want to eat facing the wall, that’s all right too.” The only response was a whimper. Croft rasped his palm over his beard. He’d be damn glad to shave it off once this nightmare was over. Growing it had been Frost’s idea. Apparently, Croft looked more menacing with a face full of hair. He tried again, softening his voice further. “I can’t leave the food here, mate. If you don’t eat it, I’ll have to take it away.” From where Croft sat, it looked like the kid could do with a bite of food. The ridge of his spine stood out, and his ribs reminded Croft of a birdcage, pushing against the thin skin like that. Fuck, this is awful. Years, bloody years this shit has been going on here. The soles of the kid’s feet were rough, the heels bearing hard skin. This child hadn’t been brought up pampered. If Croft’s plan didn’t pan out, whoever bought this lad wouldn’t be pleased about those feet.

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Where had the boy come from? Was he a runaway like most of the others, or was he abused at home? If he was a street kid, he’d probably thought he was a tough nut too, out there on the streets in his little world, but in here, he’d been reduced to the minor he was. Afraid. Vulnerable. Sad. “I was like you once,” Croft said gently. “Laying on one of these beds and wondering what was going to happen next. As far as I know, no one’s going to hurt you. Certainly not me anyway. I’m the one who brings the food, changes the sheets, makes sure you’re okay. Stuff like that.” No response except uneven breathing. “Did the boss give you lemonade in the basement?” A barely imperceptible nod, but the boy gave one all right. “Did you tell him your name?” Another nod. “What’s that then? I can’t keep calling you mate, can I? Unless you want me to. And if that’s what you want, it’s fine. I don’t want you doing anything you don’t want to.”

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Croft didn’t catch the answering whisper. “What’s that, mate? You’ll need to speak up a bit.” “Fraser,” the boy said, his voice cracked. “I’m Fraser Croft.” Croft’s body seemed to hollow, like his bones had liquefied and everything inside him had disappeared. He instinctually reached out but remembered to hold back just before his fingers touched the kid’s skin. His brother’s skin. “Fraser?” Turn around. Let me see your face. Show me you’re not him, that this is something Frost told you to say to me. Fighting panic, anger, and burgeoning tears, Croft took short little breaths to erase the many questions streaking through his mind. He needed a clear head. He needed to remain emotionless. Fuck, it was hard to keep from crying, from grabbing that bony shoulder and forcing the boy to look at him, but he had to gain his trust. Couldn’t let this fuck up months of hard work.

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“I’ve got a brother called Fraser,” he said, keeping his tone light. The lad released a gasp. Don’t break down. Keep it together. “Haven’t seen him in years. Don’t reckon he’d even know me now. I miss him.” The boy moved his head, just a tiny bit, to stare at Croft with one eye over his shoulder. A dark brown eye Croft had seen fill with many a tear after their mother beat the shit out of them. It was him. Jesus fucking Christ. Croft leaned back a bit to see him better. “Looks a bit like you, actually. Funny, that, eh?” His heart thudded so hard he wondered if the boy could hear it. “I won’t let anyone here hurt you, all right? Did the boss…did he…do anything else to you in the basement?” Fraser eased around, embracing his shins, and settled on his other side so he faced the door. Croft drank in his features, and shit, it was like looking at himself at that age. The boy’s shins were covered in bruises, old and brown, some yellow-tinged.

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From Mum’s kicks? Dad’s? Someone else’s? “My granddad’s dead,” Fraser said, staring at the door. Aww, fuck. FUCK! “I’m sorry to hear that, mate. Will your mum and dad be worried where you are?” “Dunno. I left last year. When Granddad died.” Fraser’s dead stare eyed the sandwich on the chest of drawers. Why didn’t I keep tabs on them? Why did I just leave and forget them all? Croft blinked hard. Because you had to get yourself sorted, that’s why. Come to terms with what happened to you. “You want to eat now?” Croft asked. He could look after Fraser now, that’s what mattered. Make up for what he didn’t do in the past. Fraser nodded and sat up, groggy and just not with it at all. He kept his knees pulled to his chest. That fucking lemonade… “Listen, mate. Fraser. Let me get you some clothes.” Croft went to the drawers and pulled out some jogging bottoms and a T-shirt. He held them

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out to Fraser, who reached up a thin arm, wrist bones like two jutting marbles. “I’ll face the door so you can dress, yeah? Then you can eat.” He studied the wood grain of the door, eyes stinging like a bitch slap. Should he try and hug his brother? Tell him what he’d planned? Maybe this is a test from Frost. No, he’d remain on track, do everything as he’d planned. He took the tray and handed it to Fraser, stood by the door while the kid ate. Taking his phone from his pocket, he texted Darrow, his thumbs shaking as he pressed the buttons. THE NEW KID, he typed. HE’S MY FUCKING BROTHER.

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SCARED ~ Chapter Twelve

Russell lay on a mattress in the darkness, Toby beside him. Both on their backs, clasping one another’s hands between them, neither said a word. Their other hands were manacled at the wrist, chains keeping them tethered to the wall of the alcove either side of them. What was Toby thinking? Why couldn’t Russell find anything to say? Words failed him right now. He kept going over what had happened in his mind, how his life had changed since last year, and came up with a big ball of what the fuck? They lay in silence for ages. No idea of the time. No idea how long they’d hung there or how

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long it would be before someone came back down here to give them some more shit. He reckoned they were in shock. Deep shock. Earlier, the sound of a door opening had Russell snapping his eyes open. Every muscle in his body screamed as the awareness of where he was smacked back into his mind. The mansion, not their own bed at home. A dank basement, the smell of mould and damp permeating his nostrils. A metal beam in the main part of the room, heavyduty chains dangling, awaiting either them or the next unfortunate bastard to be strung up by them. While he’d dangled, going to a place that shut out all the pain of hanging from those fucking chains like that, he’d thought he was going crazy. That dream had been so weird, so real, and when Toby had finally answered him, Russell had broken down and sobbed. Toby hadn’t spoken since they’d been left alone on the mattress this time, but Russell heard his lover’s heavy breathing turn to shallow pants then change back to heavy. Long and drawn out. Had he found the same place as Russell? Or had his lungs been damaged by the beating?

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After the sound of the door opening, a faint shaft of light had penetrated the darkness ahead, illuminating about three steps and a small square landing. The light faded to nothing, the blackness even more absolute than it had been before, it seemed. The door had been relocked, the key scraping loud and ominous, and footsteps came, strident and echoing. Russell’s heart had thumped hard and fast, the fear inside him coming back right along with the pain of being stretched in a position no body had a right to be in. The skin at his wrists pinched, burned from the manacle, and it felt like the bones had pierced through the skin. And if they had? Nothing he could do about it. He doubted either of them would be getting any medical attention. He’d braced himself for that blinding light to come back on, for Frost to be there behind the circle of brilliance, for the clink of the chain as he lifted it, ready to strike him and Toby again. What the hell kind of person did that to another? Russell couldn’t get over it. How had Frost been getting away with this shit? Was it like on TV,

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where he had shifty policemen on his payroll? Did that kind of thing even happen for real? A softer light had been switched on instead, though, a spotlight in the right-hand corner, the bulb low-watt. The cone of peach-coloured light lit a circle on the rough cement floor, the darkness around it bleeding into the corona. Even that hurt his eyes, and it took a few seconds for his sight to become accustomed. Whoever had come down here didn’t say a thing at first. Russell heard the person breathing, then sigh, as if they were tired or at a loss as to what to do. The breathing continued for a while, louder than Russell’s and Toby’s. What was the person doing? Studying them? Building up a rage in order to whack them some more? The not knowing was horrendous. Russell no longer cared that he was naked, whether someone looked him up and down and found him wanting. And if whoever stood in front of them in the shadows had a problem with the floor beneath Russell and Toby being damp, then they could go fuck themselves. They’d had to piss

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somewhere. Holding it wasn’t an option. Bladder pain added to what they already felt wasn’t something they could bear. Russell opened his mouth to say something but wasn’t sure what he should say. He suspected whatever he said would be ignored. Or he’d get punished for it. Fuck it. I’ll say what’s on my mind and be done with it. He just wanted Toby released. “Please, will you just let Toby go?” he whispered. “He won’t say anything, and I’ll stay here as insurance or whatever you want. Just please, let him go.” No answer came. Toby made a noise, like a sharp intake of breath, and Russell wondered if it was from emotions in response to what he’d said or whether his lover was in pain. “You both have to stay,” a male voice had said. Beard. Russell shivered at the memory now and squeezed Toby’s hand slightly. Even doing that made him want to cry out. The pain in his muscles

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was so bad he wondered if he’d survive until the next time some merciless freak came in here and tortured him some more. Maybe his mind would go to that place again, where he felt nothing. At the moment, it even hurt to breathe. His ribs felt as though they’d been broken, but the chain hadn’t whipped them that much. The main strikes had been on the side of his right leg—the one that had faced Frost as Toby held him in place—and his arse, back, and shoulders. His left side had fared badly too as the end of the chain had snaked around like a living thing, biting into his flesh. He took a small breath and cleared his throat. His head throbbed with the effort. “You all right?” he whispered, actually more of a croak, knowing it was a damn stupid question. Neither of them were all fucking right. Toby’s voice came back broken. “Not too bad, mate. I think you got the worst of it. I’m sorry for that. I should have kept my mouth shut but I—” “It’s okay. Where do you hurt the most?” “My sides, from being stretched up there, and I think, hell, I know there are open welts. I felt the blood dripping. It feels tight now. Like they’ve

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scabbed over. I just don’t have the guts to touch them to find out how bad they are.” He sighed. “I’ll live.” Will you? Will I? “I…fuck, this is mental,” Russell said. “Yeah.” Russell attempted to lift his free hand, the longing to touch Toby’s face gripping him, but it was just too hard a feat. The chain attached to his wrist manacle rattled. His energy depleted for now, all he could manage was watching the memories in his mind. Beard, the big fucker, had walked toward them once he’d flicked another spotlight on. One directly above them. Brighter than the one in the corner. Sharp and intrusive on Russell’s eyes. Russell had shivered at the sight. Beard looked so sinister, the light only reaching the skin of his face. His beard melted into the darkness below, and it seemed like only a forehead, eyes, and a nose hovered midair. At the time, Russell expected Beard to start punching him in the face like he’d done to Mr. Jacob, but the man just stood a couple of metres

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in front of them. His eyes held what looked like compassion, and it confused Russell. This bloke had been nothing but brusque with them when they’d been in his company, yet here he was, apparently sorry? Russell shook his head. He’d imagined the look, the sorrow, hadn’t he? No way did this brute feel anything but hatred for them. “I’ve been told to get you down,” Beard said. “I don’t want any funny shit when I do, either. It’s better for you if you just let me lower you and attach you to another chain in the alcove back there.” His face wavered as he nodded, his gaze staring behind them. Then his sights returned to Russell, and he asked, “You hurt bad? Reckon anything’s broken?” Beard did look sorry, concerned, and Russell wondered whether the man liked his job or whether he’d been forced to do it. That wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest. Frost was an arsehole. Russell waited for Toby to speak, and when he didn’t, he said, “Everything hurts. Tends to when you’ve been whipped with a fucking chain and left

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hanging for God knows how long, know what I mean?” He inwardly cursed himself for his outburst, but shit, he was going to die at some point anyway, so he may as well say what was on his mind. “You’ll soon see when you let us down, won’t you? If we can walk, bonus, if we can’t…” All of a sudden he wanted to hug Toby, to kiss him, have some form of normality in this crazy situation. He wished they were down already, that Beard had left the room, and they could just hold hands and be. “Right,” Beard said. “I’ll let you down first.” He stared at Russell. “No. Let Toby down. Please.” “Russell,” Toby warned. “Just let him get you down, yeah? I’ll be all right for a while longer.” As though his body wanted to prove him wrong, Russell’s tendons and ligaments shrieked out their pain. He clenched his teeth and bunched his eyes closed, hoping Toby hadn’t seen. “All right,” Beard said, stepping back into the darkness. “I just need to use the mechanism back here, okay? Like I said, no shit when I let you down.”

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“I haven’t got the strength for any,” Toby said. And Russell knew his lover spoke the truth. He sounded so damn weary it hurt Russell to hear it. Something clanked, and Toby jolted. He cried out, neck tendons corded, and Russell contemplated swinging so he could stop Toby’s body jerking from the chain going suddenly lax. Before he could, Toby slowly lowered to the floor. His body collapsed, the chains pooling like linked snakes. He lay on his side, arms still above his head, his back curved along the spotlight’s circular edge. “Toby!” Russell said, the urgency in his voice putting a strain on his throat. “I’m okay,” he panted. “Just need…a minute.” Beard came back into view. “I’m going to take the manacles off. It’s going to hurt, but I won’t mean it to. And you’ll need to lower your arms into their normal position really slowly, all right? When they’ve been upright like that for so long… Just be glad you’ve been given some respite. People are normally left hanging overnight.” Christ Almighty.

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Russell couldn’t imagine it. His body throbbed and pounded with pain now he knew he’d soon be down there on the floor. Like when you’re dying for the loo and you’re very nearly home. Your bladder starts throbbing, and you almost piss yourself. How those who’ve hung here longer than we have coped with the pain I don’t know. Beard hunkered down and unlocked the manacles at Toby’s wrists. Carefully, he opened the top halves—semi-circles of metal on oiled hinges. “Now, I’ll leave you to take your wrists out. You know best when you’re hurting, not me. You can rest when you need to. There’s plenty of time.” Why was he being so nice? Was it the calm before the storm? Toby’s face scrunched up as he lifted his hands—so painfully slowly—from the restraints. Russell couldn’t watch, so looked up and stared at the corner spotlight. A loud wail told him Toby had lowered his arms, and he imagined the pain Toby must be feeling in his armpits. “That’s it, fella,” Beard said. “Reckon you can try and walk?”

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“Yeah,” Toby answered. Russell listened to the shuffles below and felt Toby touch his leg with his fingertips as he walked past. A lump grew in his throat, and he held back a sob. Toby was free—for now—and that was all that mattered. What would happen once they were on that mattress was anyone’s guess, but it didn’t take much to work it out. A chain tinkled behind him, and Russell coached himself to deal with the tenderness as he tried to swing around. He cried out, only managing to see infinite darkness over his shoulder. “Russell?” Toby rasped. “What happened?” “I’m all right. Just my wrists. You okay?” “Yeah.” “He’ll be fine,” Beard said. “Now, let me get you down, eh?” Beard’s face appeared midair. Russell stared down at him. “D’you like doing this kind of shit to people?” Beard blinked a couple of times and swallowed. “I’ll just go back here and lower you.”

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He disappeared, the clank sounded, and Russell jerked like Toby had done. It took all he had in him to keep the building scream at bay. As he lowered, he longed for his feet to touch the floor. His feet met the concrete, and his legs gave way. He slumped down, whacking his hipbone, his skin scuffing on the harshness beneath him. Remembering what Beard had instructed Toby, he gritted his teeth as the manacles came loose, and it seemed to take an age for him to lift his wrists and lower his hands. And yeah, his armpits sang a strangled melody of warped pleasure and intense pain. “Up you get,” Beard said. “There we go.” He guided Russell into the darkness. “There’s a mattress coming up ahead. I want you to sit on the end of it while I get the chain. I’m sorry I have to do that, you know, put a manacle back on, and I can’t imagine the pain you’ve been through but—” Beard had feelings after all? “But what?” The mattress under Russell’s arse was bliss. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

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Although Russell wanted to press the man, his energy had vanished on the short walk. The manacle went around his right wrist, giving a fresh burst of hurting, rubbing against the raw skin there. “Now, I’ve got to give you a drink, all right?” Beard walked away, his back a momentary flash as he strode beneath the spotlight and onward into the darkness. Russell could do with a drink all right, even if it was rat poison. Beard rustled and clonked about in the darkness, and Russell caught a glimpse of him holding two glasses as he passed through the centre shaft of light. “Here. Drink this.” Russell felt about in the air until his hand found a glass. “What is it?” “Lemonade,” Beard said. “Toby, can you sit up without help?” “Yeah.” More shuffles. Russell heard Toby gulping his drink. Sipping his own—blessed relief on his parched throat—

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Russell felt the fluid oozing down into his stomach and pooling there. “I need to get something,” Beard said. He seemed to have been gone a long time— time enough for Russell to feel woozy and off on another planet. He tried to speak, ask Toby whether he felt the same, but the words died on his tongue. As though listening through water, Russell made out the sound of Beard coming back and a loud click like a briefcase being opened. A flashlight came on, the beam pointed toward the contents of a briefcase. Russell couldn’t see inside—the lid sticking up prevented it. Beard, on his knees, fumbled around inside, then gripped Russell’s hand. “I have to do this, understand? Doesn’t mean I want to.” A sharp stab pricked Russell’s arm, and he was vaguely aware of watching a needle float through the semi-darkness back toward Beard. Another one appeared in Beard’s hand, and he jabbed it in Toby’s arm. Russell fell backward, knees bent, feet on the concrete, his body too weighty to hold up. He

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closed his eyes, and the mattress undulated beneath him. He supposed Toby had fallen back too. Russell was hauled up so he lay flat, and he closed his eyes, the mattress jostling beneath him again. Stormy seas. Then the questions came, probing Russell’s memory for answers. About last year. Frost putting Toby in the grave: Did you see him do this? It’s important that I know. The man with Frost in the graveyard: Do you know who that was? Describe him for me. Would you recognise him again? To Toby: The men approaching the boy on the corner. Did you see who did that? You did? What did they look like? What the hell was going on? Russell answered him without hesitation, his voice sounding nothing like he remembered. Sluggish, drawn-out, alien. Toby’s voice merged with his own, and Beard kept the enquiries coming. It wasn’t long before Russell couldn’t speak anymore, and he closed his eyes, not giving a shit where he was or what would happen next. Sometimes, you just had to give in and sleep.

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SCARED ~ Chapter Thirteen

Frost woke, the early morning light searing his retinas. He’d forgotten to close the damn curtains again last night. He’d left Stephen in his room, the boy well used and hating Frost a little more. No sign of love in the young man’s eyes, but that was okay. It would come. Frost had a feeling about it. He had a lot to do today, preparing for the night ahead. Everyone knew the drill, had their specific tasks to perform, but he’d make sure his men were reminded all the same. It didn’t do to solely rely on their loyalty and the memories of previous auction nights. One slip and they’d all be fucked.

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Flinging the quilt back, he padded to his en-suite and switched the shower on. Instant heat billowed out of the stall along with a cloud of grey steam. He smiled at what money could bring, what Parker’s death and his own determination had brought. Riches. Never having to worry about where his next meal was coming from. Never having to walk the streets with his gaze glued to the ground in search of stray pennies. That the boys he re-homed were helped in the process was the icing on the cake. He stepped into the shower, letting the water play over his body for a bit. Just to stand like this for a few moments before his busy day began always made him feel good. Gave him time to reflect and be grateful for what he’d achieved. Some would say God had a hand in it, but Frost had stopped believing in Him long ago. Around the time his mother issued her first request. How could a so-called good god allow things like that to happen? Frost ousted thoughts of the fact he had done the same things to boys himself. After all, they’d agreed, hadn’t they, to have him test

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them? He had signatures. Witnesses that they’d nodded and said yes, yes they wanted the life he offered. All sorted then. No guilt needed here. He reached for the shampoo and washed his hair, closing his eyes so the lather didn’t get into them. Last thing he needed was his eyes to look red-rimmed as though he was less than alert. The punters expected him to be on the ball; after all, he knew their identities, their addresses, every damn thing about them. If they thought he wasn’t up to the job, they might not return to him time and again. And they did, though where the boys they’d previously bought ended up he didn’t know. Didn’t care. Couldn’t. When the lads started looking older, the punters tired of them, didn’t get their jollies in quite the same way as they had before. Frost received a phone call, let the customer know when the next auction would be, and that was that. Fucking excellent business. Good old Parker. Frost rinsed the shampoo from his hair and reached for the shower gel. He soaped up, going

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through today’s inventory. Once washed, he stepped out of the shower and dried off, the luxurious feel of his expensive towel heaven on his skin. Not as heaven as Stephen’s mouth. No, not as heaven as that. His cock hardened as he thought of the man, who looked so much younger than his age. He might be eighteen, but he appeared around fifteen. How long would it be before Stephen aged? It doesn’t matter. I’m keeping him anyway. I want… What did he want? A life partner. He laughed, drying his armpits. Yeah, I’m going soft as I age. He needed someone in place to hand the business down to. Once tonight was over, he’d talk to Stephen, let him know what the future held if he toed the line. It was surprising what the dangling carrot of money did to a person. Stephen would see sense, no doubt about that. Back in his bedroom, Frost selected a grey suit, white shirt, and red tie. He hung them on

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the handle of his wardrobe door and turned to make the bed. He had a thing about doing it himself. The woman who came once a week to clean—when the house was empty of everyone but one man guarding the front door—he instructed her to leave his bed alone. No one tucked the sheets as tightly as he did. No one smoothed the quilt and plumped his pillows in quite the same way. Satisfied his bed looked as he wanted it, he took some grey socks from his chest of drawers and a thong of the same colour. He enjoyed the way the strip of fabric chafed his arsehole when he walked. Reminded him of a lover’s finger. Dressing, making sure his suit hung just so, he left his bedroom and paused outside Stephen’s door. Soft snores sounded, and he smiled that the young man had succumbed to sleep. Once they had established a pattern and Stephen accepted his life was here, everything would slot into place. Frost would get the sense of well-being he craved, and Stephen would be cherished like no other man alive.

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He wanted to open the door, peek at the man who stood to inherit his fortune. Frost lifted his arm and clasped the handle, a shiver of desire rippling over his skin. He closed his eyes and imagined Stephen in bed, legs possibly sprawled on top of the covers, one hand flung over his forehead. Frost saw every line and curve of Stephen’s body, the dip just below his ribcage, the thatch at the juncture of his thighs. Cock growing harder, he rubbed himself through the fabric of his trousers. The man on the other side of the door had the ability to make Frost come in his pants without ever touching him. That meant something, didn’t it? Stephen was the one for him. He opened his eyes and curled his fingers tighter around the handle. Turned it. No, he couldn’t allow for distractions. Not today. Tonight, once the auction had finished and the punters and boys were gone, was a different matter. The week off he allowed his men, the lull between the sale and the start of rounding up ten more boys, would be spent showing Stephen how wonderful life could be. They’d make love all

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week, and maybe, by the end of it, Stephen might start looking at Frost with the adoration he so wanted. Frost let the handle go and leaned toward the jamb. He sniffed. Stephen’s scent reached him along with the fuggy smell of sleep, a room where the windows remained locked. Frost had air conditioning and a system that filtered dirty air out and allowed fresh air in. It would be folly to have the windows open in this house. The aromas tantalised him, almost had him reaching for the handle again, and he rubbed his cock harder, wishing Stephen’s hand there instead. His balls throbbed, and the tip of his cock ached with the need to slide inside his lover’s arse. A click to Frost’s left brought him into the here and now, and he snatched his hand away from his erection and walked along the landing. Jonathan came out of his room, suited and booted for the day ahead, and Frost nodded good morning, heading for the opposite landing. Taking the door to the corridor, he made his way to the office, ready to do his morning check.

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Although he trusted his employees, Frost had a thing about rituals. It didn’t hurt to always be on the ball. Once inside the office, he stood still and sniffed. Did he detect Stephen’s scent in here? Or was it because that beautiful aroma still lingered in his nostrils? He cast his gaze around the room, making sure it was as he had left it the previous morning. There had been no need for anyone to come in here since then, what with everyone out and about doing various jobs. Unease crept up his spine, a prickling sensation that brought on an involuntary shiver. Someone had been in here without his permission. Tilting his head, he studied the room some more. Something was off, but he couldn’t place it. He walked toward the nearest desk, nodding as though to confirm the suspicions swirling through his mind. He would find out what was wrong, no question. It would just take a minute, that was all. Frost booted up the computer, pleased with his foresight in having them all linked. If anyone

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used one, he would know. To the outsider, one who didn’t know he was able to access a programme that showed every time someone logged on and what they did, the computer appeared as it should. Frost knew better. An icon on the lower toolbar shouted the fact one of the computers had been used since his check yesterday morning. It appeared an innocuous thing, just like a little red-and-yellow football, much like those that indicated firewalls or some downloaded programme or other. It only came on when someone used the computer after Frost set the alarm if he knew the office wouldn’t be needed. Interesting. He hoped to find that someone had just browsed the Internet during some downtime, or that they’d fancied a game of solitaire before bed. However, his gut told him otherwise. Clicking the football icon, he waited for the window to open and reveal the secrets it harboured.

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Frost stared at the information, incensed beyond measure. Anger boiled inside him at the audacity of whoever had breached the punters’ files. Year’s worth of information, going right back to Parker’s days. A fucking mole in my house. Who the hell is it? Croft immediately came to mind, him being the newest employee. No, these files were accessed in the daytime when Croft wasn’t here. When only Gerry and Dave were here minding Stephen. A blinding pain speared Frost’s head. Stephen? Surely not. He was just an average young man. And what about Gerry and Dave’s report? Stephen had slept most of the day, only rising to make them some food, going back to his room just as the other employees started arriving home. Either Gerry or Dave, then, had printed out thousands of pages, using every damn computer in the room. Fucking wankers. Fucking bastard wankers! Seeing that one of them—or even both, working together—had tried to erase their history

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angered him further. A spiral of fear wended through him, weakening his knees and making him feel like throwing up. What had they done with the information? Was it now in the hands of the police? Shit, he’d have to warn the punters, get rid of the damn kids. So much to do in so little time. Closing the window, Frost opened Internet Explorer and then his email account. Attaching the files, he sent them to James Klein, the man who ran the Spanish end of his business. He sighed. Everything would still be on the hard drive, but the information would be useless to anyone who tried to read it by the time he’d finished. He clicked the encrypt icon and imagined all those names and addresses changing into symbols. If the police got hold of these files now, it would take a fucking genius to work out what they held. Thankfully, whoever had used the computer hadn’t sent any files via email. He erased his history, shut the computer down, and reached into the desk drawer for a set of keys. He’d never had to lock the office

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before, but now it seemed he had to. Until the culprit was caught, that door would keep everyone out. His face burned, the heat of rage creating the need for him to scratch. Frost left the room, locking the door with a jerky flick of his wrist, and stormed down the corridor to the other landing. Once there, he took in a steadying breath and lunged toward Gerry’s bedroom door. The room was empty. He tried Dave’s room and found it the same way, so sped down the stairs, searching out his two employees with murder on his mind. They sat with the others at the breakfast bar, plates of bacon and eggs in front of them. The steam of tea or coffee spiralled from their cups, and Frost resisted the urge to pick them up and dash the hot liquid in their faces. “Which one of you two went into my office yesterday?” he demanded, chest tightening, his heart thrumming an alarmingly unstable beat. Gerry and Dave turned in their seats to look at him, faces a picture of confusion. They glanced

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at one another, some unspoken query bristling between them, then Gerry nodded. Dave spoke up. “Neither of us. We were playing cards in the living room for most of the day—sorry, boss, know that’s not allowed. Like we said, Stephen was asleep.” He frowned slightly, head cocking a bit. “Come to think of it, there was a noise up there at one point. You remember that, Gerry?” He stared at his friend. Gerry palmed his chin. “Fuck me, yeah. Like someone squealed. I went up there to check it out, but no one was there. Stephen was still asleep.” Frost’s mind worked overtime. Either they were lying, or someone else had been in the house. Fucked off that the two men hadn’t been manning the doors as he’d instructed, he said, “So someone got in. If you had been doing your fucking jobs…!” He spun away from them, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. “Christ! You have no fucking idea what I just found. What could happen to all of us if… Shit.” Frost left the kitchen, feeling the shocked stares of his men on his back. His feet skidded on

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the tile, and he stormed upstairs, hand gripping the banister rail to aid his haste. Rounding the newel post, he lumbered toward Stephen’s door, smashing it open so the handle bashed into the wall. A dull tinkle of broken plaster showered the wooden floor. Stephen sprang up in bed, his hair mussed, eyes wide. The rosy hue of sleep drained from his cheeks, leaving him white, purple bags under his eyes standing out starkly. Even his lips paled above a quivering chin. Frost stared at him, not wanting to believe this beautiful man had deceived him, but Stephen’s expression said it all. The man clearly wasn’t used to lying, hiding his emotions, and they played out now, eyes flicking left to right, fingers whittling the quilt. Why did it have to be you? I wanted… I had such good plans for us. He put a stop to the musings of his heart. His mind had to take control now. Gerry and Dave had been relaxed, normal—no way could it have been them. Frost had an inbuilt bullshit detector, one that had stood him in good stead over the

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years, and he smelled the stink of manure clear and strong. And if it wasn’t Stephen, then I need to find out who the fuck broke in and retrieved the information without Gerry and Dave knowing. It wasn’t possible, he knew that deep down, but his heart wanted another scenario. God, how his heart wanted that. Focus. The heart can be broken and mended. And it’s not doing that in a prison cell. “What the fuck were you doing in my office yesterday?” Frost’s temples throbbed with the pressure of his shout. Stephen’s mouth opened and closed several times, no sound emerging, and Frost’s anger grew to a higher level. No matter how much he’d wanted to share his life with this man, he wasn’t about to let the little shit ruin everything he’d worked for. If Frost’s fast-beating heart was anything to go by, he’d have a fucking heart attack in a minute, and he wasn’t having that either. “Well?” he roared. “Cat got your bastard tongue?”

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Stephen betrayed himself with a quick glance at the chest of drawers. Frost pounced toward them, yanking open each drawer to reveal only piles of clothes. The last one proved heavy to open, and he bent at the waist, ripping the clothes out and tossing them over his shoulders. Stacks of paper filled the wooden space. Murder filled Frost’s mind. “Get out of the fucking bed!” he shouted, eyes wide, a headache forming at the back of his skull. Stephen sat in shock. Frost saw red. “Disobey me, you little shit, and you’ll know all about it. Get out!” He grabbed Stephen’s arm and dragged him from the bed. Marched him naked to the stairs, breaths coming out of him in harsh bursts. Stephen started crying, his attempts to pull away thwarted by Frost gripping him harder. Giving Stephen a shake at the top of the stairs, Frost held back the urge to throw the man down them. Instead, he guided him to the foyer, fighting every step of the way to keep Stephen from unbalancing him. In the kitchen, Frost propelled

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Stephen toward Jonathan, who had turned in his seat at the breakfast bar to see what the commotion was. “Something wrong, boss?” Jonathan asked, genuine concern on his face. He lowered his cup to the bar and balled his fists in his lap. “Too fucking right there’s something wrong.” Frost snorted out a breath through his nostrils. “Please,” Stephen sobbed, staring around at all the men, who eyed him like he was shit on their shoes. “Please, I didn’t mean… I just wanted… I thought—” Frost sucked in a deep breath and said through clenched teeth, “Shut the fuck up, you little cunt!” He dug his fingers deeper into his flesh, hoping he caused as much pain as he was feeling right now. Stephen cried out, bringing his free hand up to prise Frost’s fingers from his arm. Frost dug deeper and stared into Stephen’s eyes. The man closed his mouth, snot dribbling from his nose, and barked out a harsh sob. Why did you do it, eh? Now look what you’ve made me do.

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“What needs doing, boss?” Jonathan stood from his seat and brushed toast crumbs from his suit. “You’ll need to get changed,” Frost said, eyeing Jonathan up and down. He turned to Kevin. “And you. This one needs taking to the forest.”

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S tephen was shunted along the white corridor by one of Frost’s men, his feet scuffing on the carpet. His mind whirled. How had Frost found out? Stephen had covered his tracks, he was certain of it. Everything he’d done on those computers had been erased. As he was dragged toward the mahogany door at the end, he tried to think if he’d left anything out of place in the office. Maybe the computers hadn’t been what alerted Frost to him being there yesterday. He thought of the tissue he’d used to wipe his fingerprints away but remembered he’d

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used it to clean the office door handle as he’d left. That tissue was now in the sewers—he’d flushed it down the toilet when he’d used the bathroom. Maybe he’d mumbled in his sleep? He recalled, after Frost had used him last night, falling asleep with that awful man holding him in a bear’s embrace. Tight and unforgiving, a hug of ownership. Despite trying to stay awake until Frost left the bed, Stephen had given up the fight and welcomed oblivion. What if he’d been so tired he had mumbled about what he’d done? No, Frost would have woken him, surely. From the anger the man had displayed just now, there was no way he’d be able to hold that kind of rage in if he knew what Stephen had done before today. Unless Redhead and Stocky did know what he’d been doing and told Frost this morning. He didn’t believe that. They’d have reported back to Frost before bed last night, wouldn’t they? So how had Frost found out?

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It didn’t matter now, did it? He was being taken down to the basement before Jonathan and Kevin marched him into the forest. And what they would do to him there didn’t bear thinking about. If they needed to get changed, it meant they might get dirty… Frost’s man unlocked the basement door, and a chill sped through Stephen at the thought of going back down there. Would he be given more lemonade? Was this man going to force it down Stephen’s throat in order to get the truth from him? There would be no point in that. It was obvious Stephen was the culprit. Why did Frost need it confirmed? His bladder throbbed with the need to use the bathroom. He clenched his teeth to ward off the pain and allowed the man to guide him down the dark steps. At the bottom, a light flicked on, the one above the metal central ceiling beam. Oh, God. Are those chains there? His bladder shrieked. “Come on,” the man said. Shuffles came from a far corner, and Stephen tensed.

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Are there rats down here? Oh, God, please don’t let there be rats. The man pushed him toward the hanging chains, stooping to pick one end up. He secured a manacle around Stephen’s wrist, doing the same with the other, then stepped back. He looked mean as hell, glaring at Stephen with black eyes filled with hate. His brown hair, slicked back in a low ponytail, emphasised his receding hairline. A pointed nose and eyes that were too close together reminded Stephen of a ferret. “You should have just been his bitch,” the man said, shaking his head. “No good comes from crossing Frost. Ah, well, you’re fucked now all right.” He retreated back to the stairs, and Stephen lost sight of him in the darkness. A clank sounded, and the chains tautened, lifting Stephen up and off the floor. With his arms stretched above his head, he winced as the manacles dug into his wrists. “You won’t be hanging there long, I dare say,” the man said, voice disembodied. “Won’t be a

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minute before the other two are changed, and they’ll come back down for you. Still, best to make sure you can’t escape, eh?” He laughed, a low chuckle that set Stephen’s nerves further on edge. “I won’t be seeing you again. Let’s just hope it’s quick and painless, eh?” The light went off, and the man’s footsteps echoed up the stairs. They’re going to kill me. Oh, shit, they’re going to kill me. What about Mum? Aww, God, this is going to break her. Please, God, please don’t let them kill me. Let me go home. The door to the corridor closed, and a key twisted in the lock. Stephen relaxed his muscles, feeling instinctually that if he bunched them he’d bring himself more pain. He shook from head to foot, great racking jolts that jangled the chains, and he lost control of his bladder. The sound of piss slapping the floor was loud in the darkness, and despite him being alone with only rats for company, shame burned his cheeks. Urine bounced back up to splash his feet, the stench of it heady and nauseating.

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He’d said quick and painless. What were they going to do? How were they going to kill him? He entertained various scenarios. Being stabbed, the blade long and sharp, slicing at his skin, piercing his heart. Blood, lots of blood. Being shot, bullets peppering his body, ripping through flesh and muscles, speeding through bones. Being strangled, a noose or hands around his neck, choking the life out of him. Being suffocated or beaten to death. None of them were any way to die, but he’d prefer a shot to the head any day. The quicker they killed him, the better. But he had the minutes hanging here beforehand to get through first, and that would be infinitely worse than the actual killing, he was sure. Anticipation was a killer in itself. He cursed being young and fit. Wished he was old so a heart attack would get him first. Or a brain aneurism. “Who’s there?” came a voice. Stephen cried out in alarm. Oh, fuck. Someone else is down here?

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He sobbed from the fright, letting the hot tears burn his cheeks. Past giving a shit about anything now, he cried for a few more minutes, remembering his life and the happy times he’d had at home. He’d had a good life up until Frost’s men had taken him, and had much to reflect on. The pain of knowing he’d never return to it tore at his heart, and his throat felt like it was closing up—too much emotion balling there. He saw his mum’s face, his brother’s, their happy smiles as they’d shared jokes over dinner. They’d been so close, and with him being gone, he imagined their family unit ripped to pieces, never to be the same again. Mum would become even more protective now, and his brother wouldn’t be able to move a muscle without her knowing it. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. At least he’d be safe. A terrible thought struck him, as snot dribbled over his lips and down his chin: What if they go and get him next? The sound that emerged from his mouth, then, frightened him with its intensity and alien quality.

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What if they go and hurt Mum now, because of what I did? He released a long, drawn-out wail, feeling so desperately helpless that he wished himself dead. He deserved that for what might happen to his family. All he could do now was pray Frost would leave them alone. His sobs receded, leaving him with hitching breaths, a tight chest, and burning eyes. He closed them, mind blank, body giving up the fight. He didn’t care that the manacles bit into his skin, that his arms ached beyond measure at being stretched the way they were. That shit dripped from him, the knowledge that death was only moments away. “Hey,” the voice said. “What’s your name?” “Stephen Brookes,” he said, voice flat and emotionless. “What are you down here for?” “Doesn’t matter. Nothing does.” “Are they going to…kill you?” “Yes.” “Where do you live? Can we get a message to anyone somehow?”

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“You can’t.” “Shit. There must be a way.” “If you get out of here,” Stephen droned, “there’s an office upstairs on the first floor. Internet access. No phones anywhere.” “Okay. So where do you live?” “Dowey Avenue. Fifty-four.” “All right, mate. Anything you want us to say?” Stephen pondered that for a minute. What could he say? “Just tell her…thanks for my life. And I’m sorry.” The door to the basement creaked, and a fresh splash of shit hit the floor. This was it, wasn’t it? His last moments. Jonathan appeared just at the edge of the circle of light, his gaze fixed on the floor. He sighed and raised a hand. A clang sounded, and Stephen lowered to the floor. He trod in his own mess, beyond caring, and held out his hands for Jonathan to remove the manacles. Wrenched along, Jonathan led him into the darkness, saying, “He’s shit. Need the lights on.”

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Whoever he spoke to obeyed, and the blinding illumination of strip-lights blazed above. A crude shower stall stood on the lefthand corner, and Stephen was thrust inside. He wondered why, as the water cascaded down on him, he had to shower, but guessed Frost wouldn’t want crap traipsed through his pristine house. “Use soap,” Jonathan ordered, turning his back on Stephen and looking into the far righthand corner. As he washed, Stephen glanced that way too, spotting an alcove with a mattress on the floor. Two sets of bare feet protruded, but he saw nothing else. He couldn’t make out whether the feet belonged to two men or a man and a woman, but at least one man lay there, the voice in the dark had told him that much. Clean now, Stephen stepped out of the stall, taking a towel from Jonathan and drying himself off. The fabric smelled like it hadn’t been washed for a while and harboured the scents of continually being wet and dried, wet and dried. Who cared how many people had used it before him?

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He allowed himself to be led toward the stairs. As the lights snapped off, the man from the corner called, “We’ll tell her.” Stephen’s eyes stung with tears he refused to shed. There was no point in crying, no point in hoping he wouldn’t be taken to the forest. The only hope he had was that the man back there would manage to keep his word. He trudged up the steps, knowing what condemned really meant, and walked down the white corridor, head bent and shoulders slumped. In the kitchen, he felt the stares of the other men, felt the malice coming off them in waves, and shrugged it off. Jonathan led him out into the foyer, past the stairs, and through a doorway Stephen hadn’t noticed before. They walked down another hallway, a windowed door to the outside world at the end. At one time he’d have been ecstatic to see it, the blue sky bright through the glass, the sun high in the sky. The sight chilled him now, and once at the door, he bowed his head so he wouldn’t have to look at what he’d never see again.

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Outside, Jonathan and Kevin flanked him, their grip tight on his upper arms. Stephen walked over the grass, the pointy blades tickling the soles of his feet, and remembered how it had felt as a child when Mum had chased him around the garden with the hose that long-ago summer day. His brother had been a baby, sitting up in his pram and squealing, chubby hands clapping. The memory hurt his chest. The forest arrived in front of Stephen in no time. Led through the trees, the mulch and fallen leaves squelching between his toes, Stephen entertained the past. A thousand and one treasured memories sped through his mind. He smiled, laughed at one point, uncaring whether the two men thought him crazy. He’d had it good, there was no doubt about that, and didn’t regret one minute of his childhood. The regrets he did have, well, they were in God’s hands now, and only He could keep Stephen’s mum and brother safe. A clearing appeared, an ominous mound of loose mud sticking out like a sore thumb to his

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right. Someone else had been led here recently, then. Someone small. He winced. Soon Stephen would join whoever it was in the cold, dark earth. The men drew him to a stop at the far edge of the circular clearing, releasing his arms and stepping back a few paces. Jonathan reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. Stephen was grateful for that. Even if they messed with his mind, shooting him in places where it would take hours for him to bleed to death, at least he’d know that by the time the sun set he’d be gone from this world. Jonathan raised the gun level with Stephen’s head. And pulled the trigger. **** Frost stared out of the office window, the best place in the house to see into the clearing. The gunshot startled him, even though he’d expected it, and Stephen’s body sagged to the ground. Birds cawed and flew from the trees, a

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murder of crows. Stephen laid there, legs bent at the knees, arms splayed out by his sides, so much whiteness against the green grass. He recalled how that body had felt against him, and a tear trickled down his cheek. Hot. A sign of weakness. Swiping it away, Frost watched Kevin stride over to the small shed at the back of the clearing and bring out two shovels. His two men worked tirelessly, digging the grave that would hold the man Frost had such high hopes for. He thought of Russell and huffed out a wry laugh that he could have done with him in the clearing now, what with him used to digging graves. As he stared, eyes glazing as though gauze covered them, he thought about what he should do with those two in the basement. Their love for one another had struck him somewhere deep inside, and despite what his intentions had been when he’d ordered Croft to go and fetch them from Wraxford, he couldn’t bring himself to order them killed. Besides, Jonathan and Kevin had their work cut out for them

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already today. They wouldn’t relish digging two more holes. Having Russell and Toby working for him seemed the best bet. A couple of hours passed, the sun rising higher, clouds coming and going, their shapes changing as they chugged across the sky. Once Stephen had been lowered into that hole and the first shovels of dirt had been thrown in on top of him, Frost left the window. He still needed to speak to his men, remind them of their duties, and he wanted to ensure Croft understood when to open the gates for the security team and the punters. Weary and out of sorts, Frost left the office, leaving it unlocked now the threat had been removed. He went into Stephen’s room, sat on the bed and fisted the quilt, bringing it up to his nose. He inhaled deeply, remembering how the scent had smelled fresh from Stephen. I didn’t get to read him a bedtime story. With one last sigh, he told himself to move on now—plenty more fish in the sea. Leaving the room, he made his way downstairs to the kitchen.

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Everyone waited for him, and he barked out instructions. They nodded, not one of them rolling their eyes at his need to continually repeat instructions. A loyal lot, his men.

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SCARED ~ Chapter Fifteen

Croft entered Fraser’s room, the last boy he would visit today. He felt guilty at rushing the others with their breakfast this morning, and after their afternoon snack he’d urged them to hurry in the shower. He’d had to explain to them that they’d be leaving tonight and what was expected of them when they were taken to the waiting room before the viewing. Some had cried, others had looked at him with a vacant stare, and his heart broke for every one of them. He’d bitten his tongue, holding back the words that hopefully the police would rescue them later, and once they were checked by the doctor and interviewed, they’d get to see their parents.

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If they had any who gave a shit. Fraser lay facing the wall again, this time beneath the covers. Croft placed the tray holding a sandwich and a glass of milk on the chest of drawers and locked the door. Last night, when he’d texted Darrow, the detective had replied with a message that so long as Croft let the “security” men through the gate tonight, everything was in place on his end. Croft had sighed with relief that the past six months had been worth all the effort and he’d be rewarded in seeing those boys leaving this place with the police instead of perverted freaks. “Fraser? I’ve brought you some food. Sorry that it’s just a sandwich again.” He’d toyed with giving Fraser too much so his belly expanded. The punters wouldn’t want him then. If things went wrong and Fraser ended up staying here for another six months, it would give Croft time to work out how to get his brother out of here before the next auction. What could go wrong, though? He thought about it for a minute. Frost could catch on that the security guards are coppers and shoot the fucking

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lot of them, that’s what could go wrong. But Darrow had the whole police force behind him, and it wouldn’t be long before more officers showed up if Darrow didn’t radio in. I’m panicking, that’s all. One way or another, this stops tonight. Fraser turned, a small smile on his lips. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, his long hair unkempt from where he’d slept. He’d been chatty this morning, and it seemed like he would be again now. “I dreamed about my brother.” “You did? That’s great. And what was the dream about?” Croft took the tray over to the bed and placed it on Fraser’s knees. “That I found him. He left a long time ago, see, and when I left, I looked for him all the time. Didn’t see him, though.” Croft’s throat swelled. “Oh, right.” Fraser picked up one half of his sandwich— sliced chicken breast with mayonnaise. “Reckon I didn’t find him ‘cos I wouldn’t know what he looked like now. I was only about seven when he left. He’ll have grown, won’t he? Would look like a man these days.”

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Swallowing the lump in his throat, Croft turned away as the boy took a bite of his food. Hands dangling between his open knees, Croft toyed with his fingers. Something to focus on other than the tears burning his eyes. “What d’you reckon he’d look like now, then?” “That’s easy,” Fraser mumbled around the food. “He’d look like you.” “Ah. Poor bastard.” Fraser laughed, and Croft chuckled, looking at him. Seeing the smile in the lad’s eyes lightened his heart. Should he tell him who he was? I can’t. He might blab. And if Frost finds out I know this is my brother… He shivered at the thought and turned away from Fraser to stare at the carpet. “So you ran away, then?” he asked, knowing the truth but wanting to make conversation. “Yeah.” “How come?” You know why. “Just…’cos.” “Same with me, mate.” “Why did you leave home?”

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Croft saw the milk glass rise in his peripheral vision. “Long story. Mum was a drug dealer, my dad was an alcoholic, and my granddad…” He’d said too much. Knew it as soon as the words left his mouth. “Hey! That’s the same… That’s shitty, that is. Where did you go?” “Where everyone else goes. The city. Blended in with the other kids and older tramps.” “How did you manage to eat? I took food out of the bins, and on good days, after I’d pick pocketed and shit like that, I got food from MacDonald’s or Burger King. Or the van on Trident Square. He was nice, that bloke who ran it. Gave me extra meat on my kebabs.” Fraser’s words echoed in Croft’s mind: “I took food out of the bins.” Shit, I didn’t need to hear that. “Same as you,” he said, unwilling to let his brother know the horrors he’d been through to make money. He was just thankful Fraser hadn’t had to do the same. Unless he’s lying. “It was all right,” Fraser said, lowering the glass and picking up the second half of his

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sandwich. “There was this old guy, Pete his name was. He looked after me most nights.” Croft looked up in alarm. “He didn’t—” “No! No, nothing like that. He was like my granddad. Just a nice old bloke. Told me that the black van would get me, though.” “Did he?” Croft’s heart beat faster. “Yeah, said it would come for me, and he was right.” “So, the van…Pete saw it often, did he?” “Fuck, yeah. He’s been on the streets a long time. Reckons that van’s been coming for years. I saw it once, saw some bloke get out of it, and he stared at me. Old Pete said they’d get me sooner or later, and here I am, in this fucking room.” He sighed and put his sandwich back on the plate. “But it’s all right. Pete will tell them I’ve gone.” “Them?” “Yeah, the police. He said if he told them my name, they’d look for me.” “Oh, right.” Fraser stared at Croft wide-eyed. “You won’t… I mean, you won’t tell that other bloke what I just said, will you?”

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Croft shook his head and smiled. “No, I won’t tell him.” “Thanks. It’s just…when I get out of here, I’m going to go and find Pete again, tell him where this place is, so he can tell the police.” “Why can’t you tell them?” “’Cos they’ll take me back home. I don’t want to go there.” Me neither, mate, and if everything works out, you’ll be taken into care. Croft couldn’t imagine otherwise. He’d be locked up with the rest of Frost’s employees in a few hours. He gave Fraser a watery smile and, seeing that he’d finished his food, took the tray and set it on top of the drawers. “Right, I have to take you down into the basement now.” Fraser’s eyes widened further, and Croft quickly added, “It’s all right. I just have to get you showered, that’s all. Tonight…” No, I can’t tell him the truth. Just give him the tale you gave the others. “Tonight you’ll be taken out of here. To a room with nine other boys. Some…people will be coming to take a look at you, but you won’t see them.”

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Fraser frowned, his face paling. “What do they want to look at me for?” Croft cleared his throat. “Uh, they want to offer you a new home.” “Oh, right.” Fraser’s shoulders relaxed. “Is this like some kind of adoption place or something?” “Yeah, something like that.” “These people. Are they nice?” “I don’t know them.” Knowing he was entering dangerous territory, Croft stood. “When you’re in the room, someone will come in and take you to another one, okay? In there, you need to face the mirror on the wall, and when you’re asked to turn around, or smile, or whatever they ask of you, do it.” “So they’ll be inspecting me. Seeing if I’m what they want?” “Yeah, that’s right. Come on. Shower time.” Croft held out his hand, but Fraser didn’t take it. Knowing he had to maintain an air of authority and hating it, Croft grasped Fraser’s wrist and led him to the door. After unlocking it, he took him down to the basement, letting him shower for longer than he should have.

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Russell and Toby remained silent in the corner, but with the strip-lights on, Croft knew they had seen him bring every single boy down here today. If the two men weren’t dead by the time the police arrived, they’d give statements. Croft was deep in shit if they spilled everything as they saw it. Still, he hadn’t touched any of the lads inappropriately, and that stood for something, surely? And Darrow knew he’d been working as an insider to free these kids. It’ll be all right either way. If I get put inside, so be it. I’ll tell Darrow later, explain Fraser needs to go into care, not back home. And if I don’t get put away? I’ll find somewhere to live with Fraser. I haven’t spent a damn penny of my earnings from here. I felt sick getting it, didn’t want anything to do with dirty money, but if it means setting me and my brother up in a flat, then I’ll use it. After Fraser dried himself, he stood covering his privates with cupped hands. Croft wished he could give him something to wear. He led him upstairs and back to his room. If Croft didn’t return to the main house soon, Frost would wonder what the fuck was going on. He couldn’t

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afford the boss getting suspicious. Reticent to leave Fraser, he closed off his heart and used his head. “I might see you later,” he said, turning in the doorway to look at the boy. “Yeah? All right, then. You reckon someone might adopt me?” “I don’t know, mate.” He smiled and lifted the tray. Leaving the room, he locked the door and muttered, “I fucking hope not.” **** Much later, Croft stared out the living room window. Darkness had come down, cloaking the front grounds so the grass disappeared and the driveway resembled a faint beige strip. Clouds swept across the sickle moon, the stars barely discernable in the murk above. He pressed a button on the keypad, and the Victorian lamps outside burst into life. Their glow wasn’t enough to illuminate much beyond a few metres, but Croft knew the security team waited out there on the main road, headlights switched off, engines silent.

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He glanced at his watch as Frost entered the room, and looked up at the boss. He appeared haggard, as though Stephen’s murder played on his mind. For the first time, Croft saw Frost as a man with feelings and not just a wanker out to make money off the backs of little kids. Don’t think of him like that. He’s a bastard. Deserves what’s coming to him. “All right, boss?” he asked, staring back out the window. “Five minutes, Croft, then let the team in.” “Yep.” “Once security is in place, the punters will start arriving. I know I’ve been through this with you before, but this is your first time, and I want everything going right. So, like I said, once you open the gates, go out there and instruct the men as to where they need to be. Pick two for checking in the punters—the clipboard’s in the foyer on the sideboard; watch the crystal, for fuck’s sake. Ten need to be in a line guarding the front of the house, and the rest should be dispersed around the back. Tell them if anything’s off, shoot on sight, unless they recognise one of us or the

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punters. A shot to the kneecap’s preferable, just in case it’s someone who shouldn’t have been gunned.” Frost sighed, as if his speech had robbed him of breath. Croft turned his head and eyed the boss, nodding before facing the window again. “When the auction’s over,” Frost said, “and the punters have gone with their cargo, security need to do a sweep of the property to make sure no one’s been left behind. I trust no fucker, so this part of the plan is important. Parker once had some trouble—a punter had brought someone with him without signing him in. Found the nonce in the house, searching for a lad. Didn’t fancy buying one, did he? Thought he could just take.” He snorted. “I’m not fucking having that happen again.” He clamped a hand on Croft’s shoulder and squeezed. “You got all that?” “Yep, boss. Don’t worry, I’m on it.” Croft looked at Frost and smiled. “Good lad. Oh, and those two down in the basement. Get them cleaned up. Suited nicely— you know where the spare clothes are. I want

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them in the viewing room with me. Been thinking of taking them on, know what I mean?” “Good idea, boss.” Frost chucked. “The fates fucking smiled on me when they sent you my way.” Frost stalked out of the room, and Croft blew out a huge breath. He stared out the window again, seeing headlights had pierced the darkness out on the road. Pressing the button that opened the gates, he waited until the convoy of five black jeeps eased along the track then up the driveway before he collected the clipboard from the foyer and left the house, nodding to Jonathan, who guarded the door from inside. At the head of the drive, he pointed the drivers to his right, waving to tell them they should go around the side of the mansion and park there on the large square of asphalt. As the last car turned, he followed, and by the time he reached the car park, the twenty security men stood together behind one car. Croft approached Darrow, the detective dressed identical to the other men: black combat trousers, black bomber jackets, and black

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baseball caps. Jerking his head so Darrow followed, Croft led him to the edge of the car park and relayed everything Frost had told him. He gave him the clipboard. Darrow nodded. “You’ll text just before the punters get ready to leave. When everyone is still in the viewing room. Before the kids are taken.” “Yeah.” Croft glanced around nervously, hoping Frost hadn’t planted one of his men out here in the darkness. “Good.” Darrow patted Croft’s shoulder. “I’d rather my men storm the house when the kids are still safe.” He paused, then, “I’m sorry about your brother.” “Yeah, well…he’ll be all right in an hour or two, won’t he?” “He will.” “If…if I’m nicked, make sure Fraser isn’t returned home. Mum and Dad, they—” “I know.” He paused once more. “I’ll brief my men, then.” Darrow patted Croft again. “Right. See you later.” Croft moved to walk away, remembering he’d forgotten to tell Darrow something. “Oh, the young man, Stephen?”

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“Yes?” “He was shot today.” “Fuck!” Darrow sighed. “Buried with the other kid.” “Right.” Croft walked away, heading for the house. The darkness spooked him tonight, seeming to close in on him like an unwelcome hug. He hurried toward the lamps, thankful for their brightness as he strode along the front of the house. As he reached the steps by the black doors, he heard footsteps behind him. He glanced back to find two officers walking toward the gates and another two approaching the steps. This is it, then. No turning back now. Croft entered the house and went back into the living room, jabbing his thumb on the button to close the gates. It wouldn’t be long before the punters arrived, a caterpillar of cars wheeling along the drive, containing some of the sickest people on Earth. Croft gritted his teeth, angry that so many of these nights had gone before— and he hadn’t known anything about it.

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Where are those boys now? Some are men, fucked-up in the head, no doubt. He couldn’t lose concentration. Had to focus on the here and now. A shuffle of feet sounded out in the foyer, and he turned from the window to gaze through the living room doorway. Frost’s men paraded past, each holding a lad by the wrist. Their cries tore into him, their sad faces streaked with tears. His heart spasmed, and his stomach clenched. Poor little bastards. Reminding himself it would all be over soon, he waited for sight of Fraser. He came last in the line, and as if his brother sensed Croft’s stare, Fraser glanced through the doorway. The boy nodded in acknowledgement and held one hand up, fingers crossed. Christ, he really thinks he’s being adopted. The pain of Croft’s throat swelling made him turn away, and he burned that last image of Fraser into his mind in case he never saw him again. Focus! Focus on the fucking job at hand.

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A convoy of cars drove down the main road on the other side of the iron-railed fence. He pressed the gate button and waited until the last of the punter’s cars had swerved right and headed toward the car park. He closed the gates and then the drapes, shutting out the sight of a copper’s back outside the window. Once Croft had texted Darrow with the goahead, it was down to the detective from there on out. What came after that could turn nasty, what with the police and Frost’s men being armed. He stood in the middle of the room and felt for his own gun, tucked snugly in his waistband. He only hoped he never had to use it. With a deep breath, he left the living room, purposely keeping his gaze away from where the kids had been taken. Upstairs, he selected a couple of suits, two shirts, ties, underwear, socks and shoes, guessing Russell’s and Toby’s sizes. He also grabbed fresh towels and a new bottle of shower gel. Taking everything downstairs, he walked through the kitchen to the door beside the breakfast bar, inserting his key

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and unlocking it. Securing it again on the other side, he strode to the basement door and did the same there. Walking down the stairs, he flicked on the light. Someone cursed. The light was too bright, then. He hung the clothes on a hook and placed the towels and gel on a chair beside the shower stall. He walked toward the two men on the mattress, arms swinging. Russell was awake. Toby appeared to be asleep. “Right,” he said, watching Russell blink and try to see him properly. “You’ve got yourself a reprieve.”

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sat up and stared at Beard. Had he heard him right? “What do you mean?” “Frost wants you upstairs tonight.” “What for?” He eyed the man with suspicion. After the shit they’d been through, he didn’t trust any fucker anymore except Toby. Beard dug into his pocket for a bunch of keys and stood on the mattress, feet either side of Russell’s thighs. “If you try anything when I unlock you, just bear in mind every man upstairs is armed.” He slid the key into the manacle, lifting the top half.

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The metal drew back with a tiny squeak, the weight of it putting pressure on the edge of the lower half so it bit into Russell’s skin. He cringed and held back a cry of pain, lifting his free, heavy arm to take the offending thing away. He dropped it to the mattress, the chain’s jingle sending a rush of apprehension up his spine. A reprieve sounded good in one way but ominous in another. Wasn’t Frost just delaying the inevitable? Maybe that’s what the bastard’s up to. Making us more scared before he finally decides to end it all. Getting pleasure out of us not knowing what the hell’s going on and when he’s going to off us. “You didn’t answer my question,” Russell said. “What are we going upstairs for?” Beard stepped over to Toby, his footing unsteady on the springy surface. He gave Russell a sideways glance. His face looked like he was weighing up whether to tell him something. He sighed. “Look, I could tell you there’s nothing to worry about. I could tell you, that after you’ve gone upstairs and seen whatever it is Frost wants

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you to see, heard whatever it is Frost has to say, everything will be all right. But I won’t. D’you understand what I’m saying?” Did he? He thought so, but Russell didn’t dare hope. Beard could be stringing them along, fucking with their minds. Despite the sincerity in Beard’s eyes, Russell was confused as to what to believe. Being abducted, brought to God knew where, and whipped with a chain did that to a body. “So, you’re telling me we ought to just do as we’re told and everything will be all right?” Beard inserted the key into Toby’s manacle. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. It might not seem like that when you’re up there, but trust me, things’ll pan out.” He eased the manacle off Toby’s wrist, gently, with care. What the fuck? He’s acting like he gives a shit. “Trust you?” Russell said, a tired laugh leaving his parched mouth. His throat was so dry it hurt, and he swallowed, the lack of spittle bringing on more pain. “Listen to yourself, will you? Trust you, my arse. Would you trust you if you were me? I don’t think so.”

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Beard backed off the mattress and stood on the floor at the end. “Listen, let him sleep for a bit longer, yeah? You need to shower, get yourself ready.” Russell looked down at his wrists. One was scabbed over, a ring of red craters, bruises a fierce purple backdrop to the scribble of blue veins showing prominently through his skin. The other was still raw, translucent fluid shining on the open sores, the crust of dried blood forming on the outer edges. He nearly rubbed them but stopped himself. That would hurt like a bitch. “I need to shower? What, doesn’t Frost like killing dirty people?” He laughed at his joke, getting up on all fours and dragging himself to the end of the mattress. He winced as aches and pains took over his body. Disoriented after being prone for so long, he sat for a moment until his head stopped spinning. He looked up at Beard, who stared down at him, features showing compassion. “Fuck,” Beard said, sighing and rasping a hand over that black beard. He stared up at the

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ceiling as if asking for guidance, then back down again, pinning Russell with his gaze. “Russell, if I tell you something, you need to keep it to yourself, all right?” Russell nodded. What’s going on? Not knowing, or knowing something was off with this scenario, set his nerves on edge. He tried to stand but failed. “Stay put for a minute,” Beard said. “And give him a nudge, will you?” He jerked his thumb toward Toby. “He needs to hear this too.” Russell studied Beard for a minute. The bloke looked on pins and needles, like he was about to break a motherfucking big rule. Russell’s instincts told him to trust the guy, and he reasoned that was all he had left now, instincts. Maybe having everything stripped away—dignity, life as he knew it—left him with only the tools he needed to survive. He leaned back and reached across to Toby, digging his elbow in the mattress for support, careful to lay his hand on a part of Toby’s skin that wasn’t covered in welts. Shaking his lover’s shoulder, he whispered, “Toby. Wake up.” Toby

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shifted, pain scrunching his face even in sleep. “Come on, mate. You’ve got to wake up.” Toby opened his eyes, blinking in the light. He frowned, probably wondering why the light was on, and moved to sit up. He groaned and flopped back down, lifting one hand to shield his eyes. “What’s going on?” “The big bastard who took us is here.” Russell gave Beard an apologetic glance, though why he did was anyone’s guess. He didn’t owe the man sod all, shouldn’t even be trusting him, but survival was on his mind, and he’d do anything to make sure he and Toby got out of this mess alive. “My name’s Croft,” Beard said. “Just so you know. I’ll wait over here, but try and get a move on, yeah?” He glanced at his watch then walked back to the stairway and leaned on the wall, staring down at fingers that played against one another in an agitated beat. Russell regarded him a minute. Something about—Croft, did he say?—told him the man wasn’t acting like someone loyal to his boss. Him telling Russell everything would be all right

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wasn’t consistent with what Russell knew of him prior to now. What was his game? He’s fucking going against Frost! Jesus Christ… “What’s going on?” Toby eased up onto his elbows, face creasing once again, a gasp and curse leaving him. “I’m not sure,” Russell said, pushing up and shunting back down the mattress. He looked over his shoulder. “But we need to get showered and dressed. And Croft there,” he indicated the man with a nod, “has got something to tell us. Reckons it’s going to be all right when we go upstairs.” Toby shifted to sit beside Russell. “All right? What the fuck is all right about this place? And does all right mean not dead? Fuck, this shit is doing my head in.” “All right means not dead,” Croft said. “All right means going home.” Russell snapped his head forward, staring at Croft like he’d grown two heads. He hadn’t heard him say that, had he? Not dead? Going home? “Look, stop fucking with us, mate. I’m too tired for this bullshit.”

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Croft pushed off the wall and strode toward them, face lighting up, animated, as though he had new purpose. “I reckon I can trust you, so—” Russell’s laugh cut him off. “That’s rich! Bloody hell, you’re something else, you are.” Croft hunkered down before them, hands dangling between his splayed knees. “I know what this looks like, but I’m not what or who you think I am.” “And what’s that? You’re not a fucking nutcase?” Russell asked. Toby rested a hand on Russell’s knee and waited for Russell to look at him. “Hear the bloke out. We’ve got nothing to lose at this point. We could be dead either way…” He shrugged. Russell turned back to Croft. “Okay. Give us what you’ve got.” As Croft explained what he’d been doing the past six months, admiration for him grew inside Russell, despite telling himself this could all be some elaborate trick. What a turnabout if Croft was telling the truth. He’d gone from distrusting him to admiring him, yet still a frisson of doubt writhed in his belly. This could be one massive

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mind-fuck, designed to make them let their guard down. Once Croft had finished, Toby said, “So, they’re trafficking little kids? That’s what I interrupted last year? A fucking abduction?” “’Fraid so.” Croft put his hands on his knees and pushed himself standing. “Darrow and his men are in place.” He glanced back at the stairs, obviously worried they were being overheard. “Frost’s got it into his head you two will want to work for him. Now, this is where you have to play along. When he puts the suggestion to you—and really, if I hadn’t told you this shit you’d have no choice but to agree if you wanted to live—try and react like you would have if you didn’t know what’s going to happen. If he suspects… That’s why I never said anything before. I had to play it carefully, make him think I was ‘one of the boys’.” His bottom lip quivered. “And believe me, at times it’s been fucking hard.” Russell felt sorry for the man. He couldn’t imagine doing something like that for six months. And that kid hanging himself—man, that was fucking awful.

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“Right,” Russell said, easing slowly off the mattress. “Shower time, yeah?” Standing proved more difficult than he’d thought. His muscles protested at him using them so soon after they’d been damaged, and his skin, taut from the crusted blood around the welts, drew tighter as he took a tentative step. But the promise of going home in a few hours— shit, even going to the police station for questioning would do him nicely—gave Russell the determination to walk over to the shower. Two fresh towels with a bottle of shower gel on top had never looked so normal, a signal that the terrible turn his and Toby’s lives had taken might be about to take a different direction again—one that led to better things. I need to trust Croft. If he’s lying, then… Don’t think about that. Deal with that if it happens. Just trust him for now. He allowed hope to blossom inside him, relishing the warmth it gave his tired and hurting body. His mind became more alert, and he set the shower to warm, knowing anything hotter would have him screaming in pain. Before stepping into

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the stall, he glanced back at Toby, who nodded. Croft gave a wonky smile, his eyes pleading with Russell to believe him. Returning the grin, feeling better than he had even two minutes ago, he got under the spray. The sound of the water, the feel of it on his skin, made Russell’s bladder release the piss he’d been holding for so long. Damn lemonade. He didn’t give a shit that urine splashed into the tray at his feet, or that Croft might be looking and see it. Nature’s call was strong, and if he’d tried to control it, he’d have failed. The expulsion was both sweet and painful. His bladder cramped, sending sharp pains throughout his abdomen, and he almost doubled over in agony. The heat of the water spraying directly onto his belly eased the gripes there, although it brought fresh bursts of pain to his angry welts. He reached out to the chair, grabbing the shower gel. Was it wise to wash with soap? It would sting, he knew that, but thought he’d better use it. His cuts needed cleaning before they festered with infection, and besides, he wanted to wash away the stink of fear ingrained in his skin.

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The soap did sting. Gritting his teeth, he carefully washed his wounds, the soap bringing on prickles of sharp pain. The lather turned pink as the crusty blood dissolved, and Russell watched the rose-coloured water swish down the drain. He lifted his face, opening his mouth to let the sprinkle of water fill it. Though warm, it tasted like a drink from Heaven, easing his arid throat and taking away the fuzz that had coated his tongue. He felt guilty for drinking when Toby sat back there, his throat undoubtedly as dry as a nun’s chuff, and told himself to hurry up so his lover could have the same blessed relief he’d had. Quickly, he inspected his body, seeing the welts didn’t look so bad now they’d been cleaned up. The bruises were another matter. A blue, purple, and bright pink map of the damn world covered his body. The towel against them brought fresh pain, though, and dressing was even worse. Material chafing on raw wounds wasn’t something he relished, but if it meant getting out of here, he’d endure it.

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The shirt was a little too big, the suit trousers a little too long, but the jacket was roomy enough that he could move without the fabric rubbing too much. He stepped into the shoes—a tad tight on the toes, but nothing compared to what he’d suffered so far—and felt a million times better; less a prisoner of war, more human. As Toby showered, Russell spoke with Croft, who elaborated some more. “Like I said to Toby when you were showering…Frost had someone killed today.” “Shit. Who?” “Young bloke called Stephen. They’d picked him up thinking he was younger than he was. Turns out he was eighteen, and Frost took a liking to him, if you catch my drift. Thing is, the bloke wasn’t into that kind of shit, but…the lemonade, the injections.” Croft shrugged apologetically, as though saying sorry for giving Russell and Toby the drink and drugs. “The kid signed to say he agreed with Frost fucking him.” “Jesus. And the boys? Don’t tell me Frost—” “Yeah, he did.”

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Russell felt sick. Bile painted the back of his tongue, and he swallowed, breathing deeply to combat nausea. “So this Darrow. How come you never got arrested for abducting us if he knew you’d done that? I don’t get it.” “I wouldn’t tell him where this place was until I had to. If he came here before tonight, there was a risk of some of Frost’s men getting away. Even Frost himself. I don’t know, maybe I should have let Darrow in on everything right from the start, but I wanted the punters caught too, you know?” “Yeah, but Frost’s got to have information on them somewhere. No way would he not have kept a log of who they are. It’s his insurance in case any of them grassed him up.” “Yeah, but I heard he’s got this hi-tech computer system.” He paused, frowning. “Saying that, Stephen accessed the information. Printed it all out. That’s why Frost had him shot.” “Makes no sense. If the information was available, Darrow could have caught the punters that way. Look, I’m not saying what you did was wrong, but those kids could have been home with their parents sooner, know what I mean?”

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Croft nodded, his marred brow showing he wrestled with his conscience now. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying, but I had my plan in place, didn’t want to deviate from it. Reckoned if I did, everything would go wrong. It’s done now, and we are where we are. I can’t undo the past or fix that mistake now, and the boys…I made sure they were well cared for all the way. If I thought they’d be harmed after Frost initiating them, I would’ve told Darrow where to come sooner.” Russell nodded, realising Croft was justifying his actions while dealing with a shitload of guilt over his decisions. “Yeah, what’s done is done, mate. All we can hope for is everything works out so no innocents get hurt.” He glanced over to the shower stall. Toby stepped out and gingerly wrapped a towel around his body. Russell returned his attention to Croft— he couldn’t deal with watching Toby in pain when he knew how bad that towel felt as it abraded the skin. “Besides,” Croft said. “Frost’s been playing a game with me.” He gave Russell a grim look, eyes moist, lips a thin straight line.

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“By doing what?” “You know I told you earlier one of the kids hung himself?” “Yeah.” “Well, Frost had a replacement kid picked up. Reckon he’s testing me, seeing if I’m loyal to him or not.” “What d’you mean? What’s a new kid got to do with it?” “The new kid’s my brother.” For a moment, it felt like Russell’s innards left his body then returned with a forceful rush. What the hell went through Frost’s mind? He was damn insane. “Oh, fuck. Jesus Christ.” “Yeah, but I’ve made out I don’t know Fraser’s here. That’s my brother, by the way. And Fraser doesn’t know I’m his brother.” “How come?” Russell’s frown deepened. “Because I left home years ago. Remember me telling you that? The kid was only seven back then. I’ve talked to him about his brother, and fuck…” Croft bit his wobbling lip and took in a deep breath through his nose. “He said he’s been looking for me ever since he left home.” His voice

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broke on the last word. “But that…but that he wouldn’t know what I looked like now.” Russell rested a hand on Croft’s meaty forearm. “Listen, mate. You’ve done the right thing. Fraser and the other kids are going to be all right now. Who knows, if the police can get the information off Frost’s computer, a shitload more kids will be all right too. You’ve got to believe that. As for Frost playing games with you like that… He’s one fucked-up wanker who deserves everything he gets.” “Yeah. And the others. Jonathan and Kevin are the worst. They’re the ones who abduct the kids and kill people who piss Frost off.” All this information was too much for Russell. He blinked, trying to comprehend it all, to process everything and compartmentalise it into boxes in his mind—things he needed to think about now, and things that could wait until later. Croft straightened his shoulders, shaking his body out as though erasing all the kinks his confession had brought. Toby limped over, and Croft said, “Listen. I’m fucking sorry for putting you through this, yeah? But I had no choice. I

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had to get those kids free, and you two going through what you did… Small price to pay.” He smiled sheepishly. “I know you won’t feel that way—you’re the ones who got the whipping—but those kids…” Russell patted Croft’s shoulder, the movement pain-filled and heavy. “It’s all right. We didn’t enjoy it, but fuck, if it means those kids going home, then I’d go through it all again.” And he meant every word.

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Toby had never winced or cringed so much in his life. He’d never been so scared either. What he’d been through the last few hours beat being buried alive hands down. Now, with all that information swirling through his head, he struggled to make sense of it. Yeah, Croft had explained it well enough, but Toby’s mind, sluggish from whatever drugs he’d been given and from the lack of food and water, refused to cooperate as it would if he’d been told these things before all…this. As Croft led Toby and Russell up the basement stairs—every step weighty and achy— he thought about what lay ahead. This Darrow

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bloke knew of their existence but not what they looked like. Who was to say they wouldn’t get shot, mistaken for one of Frost’s men? Mind you, Croft had told them when Darrow and his team would be coming in. Maybe he and Russell could slip away somehow, go somewhere safe until everyone else had been rounded up. He felt guilty for his selfish thoughts. He should be working out how he could help the police, not saving his and Russell’s arses, but shit, it was a copper’s job to deal with situations like this. Toby was just an office worker caught up in Frost’s mad world. I’m just a bloke who saved a kid last year from being snatched off the damn street and sold to the highest bidder. Just some bloke who dragged Russell into this mess and wished he fucking hadn’t. He stopped his thoughts wandering in that direction. He and Russell had discussed this. There were to be no recriminations, no regrets. When Toby thought about it, they’d met one another because of Frost. Not that Toby was grateful streams of kids had gone through crap,

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enabling him to meet the best thing that had ever happened to him. No, he wouldn’t wish that life on anyone, but yeah, he’d met Russell, and for that he’d always be thankful. Croft unlocked the door at the top of the basement steps and ushered them into the corridor. The light seemed so much brighter here, what with the illumination bouncing off the white walls and doors. His head throbbed, the stronger light exacerbating the incessant ache, and he winced—again. “Frost will be in the viewing room. Or maybe the living room,” Croft said, locking the basement door. Toby wondered why Croft locked it. Force of habit? Croft led the way down the corridor. “I don’t know what he’s going to say to you, what he expects you to do tonight, if anything, but I suspect he’ll ask you to work for him.” He huffed out a breath. “No, he’ll tell you you’re going to work for him. Just agree. Do whatever it takes to get you through the next couple of hours.” At the end of the corridor, he slid a key into the lock and

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turned it. Lowering his voice, he said, “From here on out, act like you would if I hadn’t let you in on this shit. Don’t even look at me if you can help it.” He lifted his arms and plonked his bear-like hands, one on each of their shoulders. “Good luck. And if I don’t see you again after tonight…well, have a good one.” He faced the door and squared his shoulders, taking a deep breath as if telling himself to get a grip and slip back into being Frost’s employee. Swinging the door wide, he allowed Toby and Russell through, locking the door behind them. “This way,” he said, taking them through the massive kitchen. Toby had been too distraught to take much notice of the room when they’d been brought through here before, but now he looked around, wanting to memorise the layout in case the information proved useful later. Who the hell knew how things would work out? Even police operations were known to go wrong, and he was fucked if he wanted to be in the thick of it if this one did.

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You’re a selfish bastard, thinking of yourself like that. But it was normal, wasn’t it? To feel like this? So long as he and Russell got out of this unscathed—and wasn’t that a damn joke, considering the state of their bodies and minds?—and the kids got saved, what did the rest matter? All right, he didn’t wish ill on any of the coppers, or Croft for that matter, but the rest of them? Frost and his warped men? They could go fuck themselves as far as Toby was concerned. He glanced at Russell, who appeared nervous—as he should do. Even if they weren’t privy to all that information, his lover had the air about him one in this situation would have. Pinched features, blanched cheeks, quivering lips. Russell’s hands shook, too, and Toby wondered why his own didn’t spasm that way. For all Russell’s proclamations of not being scared in the past, he was apparently shitting himself right now. Toby smiled at him, trying to give reassurance. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered. “I promise.”

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Russell nodded, and Toby’s attention was taken away from him as they rounded the doorway that led to the foyer. Christ, it hadn’t seemed this big last time he saw it. This place was monstrous. All bought and paid for by selling little kids. Anger surged inside Toby, obliterating any fear that lingered. He hid his ire, though, intent on doing as Croft asked and acting submissive in front of Frost. Following Croft across the foyer, who took them through a door to the right, Toby stared at a massive two-way mirror that spanned the opposite wall, shocked by the sight of a bright spotlight casting a cone of illumination inside the room beyond. Pitch black surrounded that cone, and a shudder rippled up Toby’s spine as he imagined the lads standing there being inspected. An empty row of black, easy leather chairs, ten in all, stood before the mirror, ready to hold the arses of perverts and deviants in the guise of respectable businessmen. They even got to bid in comfort. Sickened, Toby almost freaked, wanting to lash out at the man who stood directly behind those chairs, his wide back and height

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proclaiming him as someone not many would mess with. The man turned to face them. Frost. “Here they are, boss,” Croft said, nodding at Russell and Toby. “Want me to go back to the living room window? Keep an eye out?” “Yes, Croft. Good man. Thank you.” Frost stared first at Russell, then at Toby. Croft left the room, and Toby felt a sense of loss, like their anchor had been pulled up, leaving them buoyant and vulnerable. The anger inside him wasn’t enough to completely obliterate the fear. Frost’s dark eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head, regarding them in a silent stare that gave Toby the damn creeps. He glanced at Russell, who clenched his jaw and fists, then looked back to Frost. “Gentlemen,” Frost said. “I have a proposition for you.” Here we go. Frost laced his fingers down by his groin. He laughed, the sound strangely normal. But what

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had Toby expected? Some maniacal jangle that proved this man was insane? “Well,” Frost said. “Hardly a proposition. Let me try again. I have an order for you. You’re now working for me.” He grinned, showing perfect white teeth that set off a succession of memories in Toby’s mind. Frost smiling the same way last year as he questioned him in the basement. Frost jabbing that needle into his arm when whatever was in the lemonade hadn’t worked. Frost’s face growing redder, his queries sounding more desperate when he didn’t get the information he wanted. “For tonight,” Frost said, “you’ll just observe the culmination of months’ worth of hard graft. This is what you’ll be helping us achieve again in six months.” He lifted one arm, encompassing the room. “Watch and learn what hard work and determination can do. Of course, you won’t be allowed to leave the house for a good while yet— got to earn my trust—but I’ve got a good feeling about you two.” He nodded, patting them on their shoulders before lacing his hands again. “Reckon you could become the next Jonathan and Kevin.

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My two top men, by the way. Yes,” he nodded again, as though trying to convince himself he spoke the truth, “you’ll do nicely. Get paid too.” He laughed uproariously, and Toby managed to stop the “Fuck you!” on his tongue and the frown from forming on his brow. “So, what do you reckon to that, lads?” Frost eyed them, clearly expecting nothing but their agreement. “Doesn’t much look like we have a choice, does it?” Russell said, his tone surly, hands still shaking. Frost widened his eyes and rocked on his feet. “That’s right, my old son, you don’t.” He looked at Toby. “Russell’s a bright one, isn’t he? And what about you? What’s your take on this?” “Better than fucking dying,” Toby said, forcing a jovial, conspirator’s laugh. “Excellent. Fucking knew I’d read you two right.” Frost looked pleased with himself—too pleased. Disturbing. “Right,” Frost said. “In a short while, the punters will be shown into this room. You’ll

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observe from the back here, beside the door. You’ll understand what this is all about very soon. Any questions, save them for later. All you need to do is watch and shut the fuck up. Absorb.” He led them to their places. “Mike here will keep you company for the time being. I’ll be back shortly.” Frost nodded and left the room via a door to the right of the mirror. He’s going to check on the kids, I’ll bet. Or meet the punters. This is so fucking nasty I can’t stand it. The way I feel now, I don’t know how Croft managed to act the way he has for so long. Toby glanced at Russell, who stood to his left, and gave a supportive smile. Mike loomed in the corner, eyes facing forward, but Toby knew that man watched them. Jesus he was a big bloke, all muscle and brawn. He tried to recall if Mike had been down in the basement with him last year but couldn’t remember seeing him then. His blond hair, shaved at the sides and back and cropped short on top, looked as if he’d styled it for a casual night out at the pub. His suit moulded to his form, his body giving more weight to the term ‘built like a brick shithouse’.

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Fuck being on the end of his fist. Toby stared forward, but noted in his peripheral vision another man coming through the doorway Frost had disappeared through. He shifted his gaze so it appeared he was looking above the man’s head at the door lintel. If the man glanced his way, he wouldn’t think he was being studied. Mind you, he might. The bloke stood nearly as tall as the damn doorframe, and Toby wondered why Frost had employed him and Toby. They were dwarfs compared to Frost’s other men. The bloke crossed his arms over his barrel chest and stood with legs apart. He meant business. No bastard was getting past him without a fight. A sharp knock startled Toby from his study, and the huge man turned to open the door behind him. A parade of suited men came in, of various ages and nationalities. Ranging from the mid-thirties to sixties, from white to black to Asian, the men each took a seat. From where Toby stood, he could just about make out ten pairs of legs, all in assorted poses. Crossed at the knee. Crossed at the ankle.

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One ankle balanced on a knee. Wide open and relaxed. Jesus, it’s like they’re here for a fucking jolly get together. No nerves in any of them. Conversation started up between them, their excitement at purchasing a new toy a tangible thing. Toby heard Russell swallow beside him, and he knew his lover either held back his anger or battled fear—fear that this kind of shit went on all over the world, and they hadn’t had a clue about it until now. All right, they knew it existed, the news saw to that, but it wasn’t something you dwelt on, was it? There was too much shit on this planet for one person to think about it all the time, to actively do something to stop it all, and the average human left the catching of these sick nonces to the professionals. Toby blinked, the sudden sting of tears shocking him. He wasn’t a hard bastard by any means, he had emotions as much as the next person, but he hadn’t wanted to show his empathy in this room. For all he knew, Frost could have asked Mike and the other big bloke to watch for Toby’s and Russell’s reactions, to see if

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they were likely to become a liability. People who needed to be offed. Frost entered the room again, jolting Toby out of his thoughts. He made his expression blank— at least he hoped it looked blank—and faced ahead, gaze focused on the cone of light behind the mirror. “Gentlemen!” Frost took up residence in front of them, nodding and smiling to each man in turn. “Tonight is the night you’ve all been waiting for. For those of you who haven’t been here before, if you lift up the right arm of your chair, you’ll find a keypad inside. When each item of cargo is brought into the room behind me—possibly your precious new plaything!—you may use the buttons there to bid. As you’ll see, at the top of the keypad is a small screen, which will show you the starting price. As each one of you bids, the price will change. Of course, some of you may not bid on one particular morsel—he may not be to your liking, I understand that— but if you do bid, please note that once no one has continued to bid three minutes after the last, the auction for that particular bundle of

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arse is closed. The last bidder wins. You may bid for as many lovers as you wish, but as you know, at the start of the auction there is one lover for every one of you. It is up to you whether you manage to go home with a new addition to your bedroom, or end up with two or even three. As you’re aware, as soon as your funds have reached my account tonight, you may take your prize home.” Frost beamed, clapping his hands once. “Any questions?” No one spoke. “Good. So, without further ado, let the bidding begin!” Frost strode across the room toward the big, crop-haired bloke, nodding for him to go through the door. So the big bloke’s the one who’ll take the kids into that room, then. Toby didn’t have his suspicions confirmed. Around a minute later, the door to the room behind the mirror opened toward them, and a young boy walked inside. Toby’s stomach contracted, and it took every ounce of strength he had not to rush over and get the kid out.

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The boy stood beneath the light, as he’d no doubt been instructed, and stared straight ahead. He’d undoubtedly be looking at his own reflection, as from what Croft had told them earlier, he’d be thinking someone had come to adopt him. Fucking sick. This really is just fucking sick. Don’t cry. Don’t break down now. Remember they’re being saved. It was difficult to remain stoic, uncaring, as though what was happening was normal. Nothing. All in a day’s work. A few of the men leaned forward, and one, a wiry bald bloke with a goatee to compensate for his lack of hair, got out of his seat to press his face to the glass for a better look. He returned to his chair and jabbed his keypad, earning quick glances from the other customers. Customers. Christ, like they’re just buying meat at the market. And they were, if he was honest. To most of them, that kid was just a prime piece of steak, tender and ready to be pulverised. Toby swallowed bile.

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Frost raised a walkie-talkie to his lips and said, “Turn around.” The lad did so, presenting his back to the window and gaining the men’s full attention. His backside, was, after all, their main concern. Oh, God… Another sting of tears pricked Toby’s eyes. He wanted to look at Russell but didn’t dare. If he saw tears in his eyes too, he’d come undone. They’ll be going home or into care. They’re not really being sold. It’s all right. They’ll be fine. Knowing this didn’t make this situation any better. Thoughts of previous boys bought like this filtered into Toby’s mind, and he had to fight to keep from thinking about what they went through once they left this house. Despite what Frost had been doing all these years, at least the kids were well fed and cared for, albeit left alone for the most part to become catatonic or crazy from loneliness and fear, from missing their families. Stop it. Don’t think about that shit. Russell’s hitching breaths brought Toby up short, and he glanced at his lover. Tears streamed down Russell’s face, and his lips quivered as he

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struggled to maintain composure. Toby reached out a hand and grasped Russell’s, giving it a small squeeze. He leaned across and whispered, “Get a hold of yourself. I know how you feel, but think on what Croft said.” Russell hastily wiped his face and swallowed, nodding and staring at the strip of wall above the mirror. “Focus on something else. Anything other than what’s going on here,” Toby murmured. He should take his own advice, but he was fucked if he could. This was too real, too shocking, too damn much. He sucked in a breath, battling his own tears, and glanced over at Frost to make sure he hadn’t spotted the pair of them crying. It appeared he hadn’t. The man was too intent on studying the lad behind the glass. “Turn to the side,” Frost said. The boy did as he’d been instructed, showing the room his slender profile. This kid was one who had withdrawn into himself. Passivity came off him in waves, and Toby wondered where he’d gone inside that head of his. Was he imagining himself back at home, safe with his parents? Or

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had he locked himself in a virtual room, where emotions didn’t play a part and he was kept safe? Another flurry of jabs at keypads, and then a tense three minutes passed. Frost pulled a phone-like machine from his pocket and glanced at it. He looked up and beamed at the men. “Sold, to Mr Ainsworth, for the sum of two-hundred thousand pounds!”

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Frost

loved this part of the process almost as much as he loved the beginning, when new boys were brought home. To see the culmination of the past six months coming to fruition gave him a hard-on. That and looking at the boys through the mirror, remembering the time he first saw them, the time he’d sampled their delights. The ninth boy stood behind the mirror now, looking surly and nothing like how he’d been told to look—if Croft had explained everything right. Frost had expected as much from this kid. He was about fifteen, clearly knew why he was here and what tonight was about, even though Croft

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had been instructed not to tell them. He didn’t doubt Croft. No, far from it. This lad had sense enough to put two and two together. After all, who the fuck put boys in rooms while they were naked and ordered them to turn around on demand? This kid had taken it upon himself to put the punters off, Frost saw that as plain as day. It didn’t matter. Mr Hawthorn there, the customer rubbing his cock through his trousers in full view of everyone, liked a lad with a bit of the “little bastard” about him. With his free hand, Hawthorn jabbed at the keypad, making it crystal clear he expected to win the boy. Hawthorn, a jowly fucker with bushy black eyebrows and a penchant for the booze, if the broken veins on his nose were anything to go by, had been recommended by another punter. Frost had checked him out, finding nothing untoward on paper or via his contacts. But upon meeting him for the first time, a couple of months ago now, Frost had experienced a touch of the heebie jeebies. This bloke, for all the world trying to make an impression on Frost, hadn’t

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quite made the right one. Frost didn’t like a know-it-all, and Hawthorn knew it all in spades. Or so he seemed to think. He’d spoken over Frost when he’d been explaining the process, and couldn’t get to grips with having to wait for his new toy. After thinking about Hawthorn for several days, the time away from the man had dulled Frost’s unease. Consoling himself with the fact his men were armed and wouldn’t hesitate to take Hawthorn out if he caused trouble, Frost had let the burly, overbearing man be accepted as a customer. Frost smiled now at Hawthorn’s frantic rubbing of his cock and prodding of the bid button. The man’s hair, reminiscent of a brown scouring pad, bobbed with his movements, and Frost turned away, his gaze now fixed on the kid. Jonathan and Kevin told him, back when they’d brought the boy home, how he’d fought them all the way. They’d spotted him as he stood at a bus stop in Harrow Wield, the eleven o’clock night time hour creating a desolate street with

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only the boy occupying it. Houses, curtains drawn, shut out the road and what went on in it. Jonathan had no doubt they’d picked a perfect abduction spot. Watching from the driver’s seat of the van, which was parked opposite the bus stop, Jonathan waited for the right moment. He knew all the bus timetables by heart, and the next bus wasn’t due until eleven-twenty—plenty of time to grab the kid and get the fuck out of Dodge. Jonathan said he’d mentally ticked off all the boxes, making sure the lad fitted their criteria. Slim build, young, innocent-looking. There had been something about him, though, that made Jonathan question whether they should proceed with taking him home. The boy may have appeared innocent, but there was a hard edge to his demeanour, almost as if he was a tough street kid who knew how to handle himself. Yet he wasn’t a street kid, that much was obvious. He wore good clothes, the branded kind, the pair of Nikes on his feet likely to have cost upward of one hundred pounds. He kept them clean, unless they’d been a recent purchase, and

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appeared to take pride in his appearance. Even the black baseball cap would have set his parents back twenty or thirty quid. Either they were well off people, or this was an only child. Or a spoiled brat. The kid leaned against the plastic interior of the bus stop like he owned the damn thing. He must have been comfortable with his surroundings, knew his way around the area, and Jonathan had wondered where the boy had been that night. A friend’s house? The local youth club, perhaps? A navy blue rucksack dangled from one shoulder, branded again, the bright logo of a white cat mid-leap evidence of that. He lowered it to the seat—if two metal poles side by side could be classed as such—and unzipped the main compartment. He pulled out a long strip of material—black, a fucking black belt—and Jonathan had another bout of indecision. If the belt belonged to the kid, he was risky business. Jonathan knew how to handle himself all right, but he wasn’t sure he could take on a black belt, even if it was a young one.

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Frost had told Jonathan he’d have to find some time during his day to learn karate. Jonathan hadn’t found that particularly funny, but Frost remembered almost wetting his fucking pants over it. After admiring the belt, rolling it up, then putting it back into his bag, the boy stared across the road, directly at the van. Although the windows were tinted, Jonathan felt the kid could see right through the glass and into his eyes. He’d shuddered, quickly shaking off the foreboding sensation, telling himself he could handle the little bastard if he started kicking off. He nodded to Kevin and got out of the van, leaving Kevin to get out once Jonathan made it across the road. Kevin would open the back doors in readiness and offer help if Jonathan couldn’t handle the cargo alone. He approached the bus stop, walking over the rain-slicked road that reflected the amber glow of nearby streetlights, splashes of colour in an otherwise dull street. Jonathan had a third warning in his gut not to touch the kid, to go back to the van and pick up the lad they’d been

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watching over in Bethnal Green. Never to be thwarted, though, Jonathan ignored the tightening of his stomach and quickly gripped the boy by his jacket lapel. As Jonathan had expected, the kid lashed out, giving him a swift roundhouse, his foot connecting with Jonathan’s groin. Reflexively bending double, Jonathan groaned in pain, hastily reminding himself they couldn’t afford to let the boy go now he’d had a good look at him and the van. Lunging forward, head in the cargo’s belly, he gripped the boy’s upper arms and spun him round, standing upright to clamp the kid’s back to his chest. Arms holding the lad in place, Jonathan dragged him across the road, bracing himself to clamp a hand over his mouth if he started getting vocal. Too late. The kid had a good set of lungs on him and belted out his yells, screaming for help, that some motherfucking cocksuckers were trying to kidnap him. Jonathan smacked his hand over the lad’s mouth, pressing hard, his finger blocking his nostrils. Kevin had the van door

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open and, laughing despite them coming close to being caught, helped Jonathan bundle the cargo inside. As Kevin took over driving, Jonathan stayed in the back. The kid fought some more, regardless of the confined space and the van careening along the road, and shouted, “Let me go. Get off me. Fucking let me go!” After a tussle, Jonathan managed to pitch the boy to the floor and hold him down with his knee at the small of his back. He wrenched the lad’s arms back and tied his wrists. The boy screamed blue murder again and, sick to death of his fucking voice, Jonathan stuffed a rag in his mouth to put a stop to the tones that sounded manlier than the body it belonged to. The boy screamed through the gag all the way to Frost’s mansion. Taking the latest addition down into the basement, Jonathan returned upstairs and reported back to Frost, who lounged in the living room, a well-earned whiskey in hand. Frost had changed into his pyjamas, a blue-and-white pinstriped affair beneath a matching terry-

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towelling robe, and rested his bare feet on a white footstool, which still had the plastic covering on it from when he’d bought it. “Give you a spot of bother, did he?” Frost asked. “Yeah. Fucking little bastard’s a black belt. Kicked me in the nuts.” Frost roared with laughter at Jonathan’s pained face. “Ah, mate, you do pick them. Was he chosen off the cuff?” “Yeah.” “There you go then. Serves yourself right for not checking him out over a series of days. I don’t have these rules for no reason, you know.” “Yep. I know. Lesson learned.” Jonathan looked suitably chastised, but a sparkle of mischief lit his eyes. He enjoyed a tussle, did Jonathan. Earned his money, that one. “Good. What happened about the kid in Bethnal Green you’ve been watching?” “We went to pick him up but he wasn’t in his usual spots. Drove around for a bit, but didn’t

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want to trawl so much we’d be taken notice of, know what I mean? Black vans…I don’t want to speak out of turn here, boss, but maybe you ought to think about changing them to white. Shitloads of white vans about.” Frost nodded. “Good point there, mate. Anyway, back to the Bethnal Green lad. From what you’ve told me about him, I’d say he’s been nicked. Fucking gang members have no clue how to evade the law, though they’d protest different. Still, there’s always tomorrow. Catching one of those little fuckers would make for an interesting study, don’t you think?” Jonathan nodded. “Yeah. There’s something about watching their outer shell crack and seeing the soft shit inside.” “I agree. Very rewarding part of the job. So, where did the feisty one come from?” Frost asked. “Harrow Wield.” “Fuck me. A little way off our patch, isn’t it?” Jonathan shrugged. “What does it matter where they fucking come from?”

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“True, true. Kevin getting him ready for me?” Jonathan nodded. “Yeah. Reckon he’ll have got him to drink the lemonade by now.” “Good, good.” Frost downed the rest of his drink, wincing at the burn, slid his feet in his slippers, and made his way to the basement. The boy sat on a wooden chair in the middle of the room, anger subdued. Two spots of high colour stood out on his cheeks, and he’d lost his baseball cap since coming down here. Frost would have to make sure it was found. Burned. “Hello,” Frost said, standing about a metre in front of him. Some kids, despite the lemonade, struck out. Frost didn’t fancy a bruised shin. “Fuck you,” the kid slurred. “Now, now. No need to be nasty.” “You’re so fucking dead,” he said, eyeing Frost with hate. “Oh, really? I rather think it could be the other way around if you don’t shut the fuck up and tell me what I want to know.” Frost’s tone had unsettled the boy, and he glanced down at the floor until another bout of

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defiance gripped him. “Even if you kill me, you’re still dead.” “How so?” Frost asked, curiosity piqued at the certainty in the boy’s voice. “My dad’s a copper.” He sneered. “And that helps you how?” Cocky little shit. “He’ll find me. Find you. Lock you up.” “Ah, but it’s not as easy as that, is it? Consider this: What if no one saw you taken? What if no one saw the van?” “Someone will have, you’ll see.” Frost smiled at the fact the lemonade appeared to be doing its job. No need for an injection with this boy. “Right. If you say so.” “I do.” “So tell me.” Frost eyed the blond hair, the undefined jaw, the angry blue eyes. “What’s your father’s name?” “Mike Darrow.” Frost had sampled the boy, proclaimed him suitable, and left him in Croft’s care. He’d gone to his office and Googled Darrow, finding out the man was at the top of his class and well respected within the community. Not that it mattered. Every

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caring parent crumbled when their child went missing, no matter how hardened they thought they were to the harsh realities of life. It was one thing to deal with this kind of thing as your job, but when it invaded your personal life… Deciding Darrow wasn’t a threat, Frost had continued life as normal, although he kept a closer eye on the news. The boy’s disappearance had made the top slot on the local TV network, and a grim-faced Darrow had spoken directly to Frost through the camera: “Be under no illusion. I will find you.” Whatever… Frost stared at the boy now, smug in the knowledge the detective’s son would be going on to a life without his father in it. Except in his dreams and memories, that was. Six months hadn’t changed the kid. He still had the same fighting spirit he’d arrived with, and Hawthorn, who jabbed the keypad several more times, was possibly the only man Frost knew who could tame him. Frost lifted the walkie-talkie. “Turn around and face the back wall.”

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The boy stared at the mirror, defiance bleeding out of him. If he didn’t turn within thirty seconds, Frost would go in there and make sure he fucking did. A surge of anger burned in his belly. If the kid fucked up this viewing… He glanced at Hawthorn to check the man’s reaction. The boy still hadn’t turned, and a lecherous grin spread over the punter’s face. Anger doused by Hawthorn’s expression, Frost turned back to the boy and repeated his request. Darrow’s son remained in place. Jerking the door handle down, Frost entered the corridor and shoved his man guarding the door to the viewing room out of the way. He took a deep breath to compose himself then went inside. Shielded from the punters by the door, Frost growled, “Fucking turn around or your father’ll find himself minus a damn life.” The boy blinked several times, and he appeared to be weighing the truth in Frost’s statement. Whether Frost’s tone brooked no argument or the lad thought it best to just do as he’d been asked, he turned and faced the back wall.

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“Good,” Frost said. “And when I ask you to turn and face this door, fucking do it.” Barging out, Frost stepped back into the viewing room. “Sorry about that, gentlemen. It seems our little guest doesn’t know how to behave.” Hawthorn’s eyes gleamed, and he rubbed his cock faster. Bouncing out of his chair, he approached the window, eyeing the boy with wide eyes. Frost studied the other punters, those with seats beside Hawthorn appearing disgruntled that he blocked their view. “If you could retake your seat, sir,” Frost said, taking a step forward. Hawthorn ignored him. “Please, sir. The other customers can’t see.” Frost stretched out a hand to place it on Hawthorn’s arm. Hawthorn threw it off. “This one’s mine.” Frost gave an unsteady laugh. “It doesn’t quite work like that, sir. You read the bidding rules. They apply to everyone.” “Get him out of the fucking way,” another man said. “And if he can’t abide by the rules, get him the hell out!”

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Unused to such behaviour—Hawthorn was new, and shit, Frost wished he’d vetted him better now—Frost had to think on his feet. “Sir. Mr Hawthorn, sir. Please return to your seat, otherwise my men will have to escort you off the property.” When Hawthorn ignored him, he added, “And they are armed.” While Hawthorn had been at the mirror, Frost had noted from his peripheral vision the other men bidding fast and furiously. By the time Hawthorn returned to his chair, he’d find the price for the boy had enlarged dramatically. Hawthorn reluctantly ripped his gaze from the boy and stared at Frost. Lips wet and slack, he dashed his tongue out to lick them. “Like I said, that one’s mine.” He stomped back to his seat, flopping down and leaning toward his keypad. His eyes bulged at the amount on the screen. Frost peeked at his little machine. The boy currently cost half a million pounds. “This is fucking rigged!” Hawthorn shouted, leaping out of his chair. “When I went up to that window, that kid cost a hundred grand!”

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Anticipating trouble—real trouble—Frost gave Mike the nod. “Sir,” Frost said, waving a placating hand. “If you’d just like to bid yourself…” Hawthorn bunched his fists, standing in the middle of the room. Mike strode toward him, and Frost caught a glimpse of Russell and Toby as they watched, their faces showing shock and more than a little concern. Mike took hold of Hawthorn’s arm. “Are you going to sit down, sir?” Hawthorn attempted to shake Mike off but failed. “I repeat, for the last time I might add, are you going to sit down, sir?” Frost had a bad feeling about this. Hawthorn raised his other arm, and everything happened in slow motion. The punter’s fist connected with Mike’s jaw, sending the man sprawling backward. The other customers rose as one, converging on Hawthorn to diffuse the situation. Somehow, Hawthorn broke free of the scrum and headed directly for Frost. Quickly opening the door and barking an

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order at his man to secure the boys, Frost slammed the door again and pressed his back against it. Hawthorn reached Frost in a second, and just before the punter obscured his view of the rest of the room, Frost saw Jonathan filling the doorway. Hawthorn raised his hands, clamping them around Frost’s throat. And then all hell broke loose.

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SCARED ~ Chapter Nineteen

Croft

heard the commotion going on in the viewing room and quickly moved to the living room doorway. He stared across the foyer, just making out a boy standing in the spotlight, his back to the room. None of the punters sat in their chairs, and strangled groans filtered to him along with muffled shouts and curses. What the fuck? Russell and Toby appeared in the doorway, Toby looking left and right for somewhere to run, no doubt. What the hell was going on? Had something gone wrong?

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As Croft marched across the foyer, he felt in his jacket for his mobile phone in order to text Darrow. It wasn’t there. Fuck! He patted himself, panic taking over his limbs, his heartbeat accelerating and his pulse thudding in his ears. It would mean he’d have to alert Darrow face to face, and if Frost saw him… Toby gripped Russell’s wrist and dragged him across the foyer toward the door. Running to intercept them, Croft chanced a peek inside the viewing room. The punters surrounded Frost, apparently trying to pull a man off him, whose hands held tight around Frost’s neck. Go on, kill the son of a bitch. Jonathan reached the melee at the same time as a staggering Mike, and Croft knew guns would be drawn any second. While the people in the viewing room were distracted, he made a snap decision. Yanking open the front door, he glanced about for Darrow, who spun from his position at the bottom of the steps, his stance showing he was

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ready for action. Toby and Russell barged past Croft and out into the night, halting on the top step as another police officer pulled out a gun and aimed it at them. Darrow also drew his gun. “Wait!” Croft said, breaths coming hard and fast. “These two are all right—Russell and Toby. You need to get in here now, Darrow. Fuck knows what’s going on in there, and I don’t know who’s minding the bloody kids!” Croft’s stomach churned at the thought of Fraser left unguarded. He hadn’t been able to see if the men who usually stood guard in the corridor were among those in the jostling crowd. If anything happens to Fraser… Darrow gave a shrill whistle through his teeth. It pierced the air, sharp and loud, and several coppers ran from the darkness toward the house. Croft went back inside, thankful the heavy footsteps of the police sounded behind him. “In there!” he shouted, pointing at the viewing room door.

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Frost would think he had alerted security, and for now that suited Croft. Torn between helping in the viewing room and finding Fraser, brotherly love won out. Croft dashed through the front doorway, rushing down the steps and spotting Russell and Toby running full pelt toward the side of the house where the car park was. “Wait! Where are you fucking going?” Croft yelled, chasing after them. “The kids,” Russell shouted. “We’ve got to save the kids!” “Fuck!” Speeding up, Croft came abreast of them. “They should be guarded, and the police will get to them in time. We’re meant to stick to the fucking plan!” “Yeah.” Toby panted. “But what if they’re not guarded? What if the police don’t get to them? D’you want your brother getting hurt?” They streaked across the car park until they reached a side door. Croft peered through the glass, relieved to see one of Frost’s men outside the mirror-room door and one outside the holding room.

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“They’re all right,” Croft gasped out. “What the fuck happened in there?” Russell eyed the corridor then looked at Croft. “Some punter got funny. Reckoned the kid being shown was his, so he stood close to the glass for a better look. The others didn’t like it, and Frost asked the bloke to sit down. He wouldn’t. Fuck, they’re so sick. I almost lost it in there.” “Tough, isn’t it?” Croft said, compassion for Russell and Toby having to witness the nasty side of life making his mouth downturn. Croft looked back through the glass, mentally working out why the police hadn’t come through the bottom door yet. There were enough of them, and he had no doubt some of them who’d be guarding the back of the house would have gone round to the front by now. Some would stay behind to make sure no one ran, and others still would enter the house and search out the rest of Frost’s men, but tonight there was only a skeleton crew, seeing as the viewings always ran so smoothly. Frost had been proud to relate that fact.

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That information had shocked Croft this afternoon. He’d wanted all of Frost’s men caught, but they wouldn’t be back until morning, and unless Frost had alerted them via his speed dial warning, the police could lay in wait for their return. The door at the end of the corridor suddenly burst open, and the police poured through. Frost’s two men put up a good fight but were knocked to the ground in short order, handcuffed and dragged into the viewing room. Half of the police officers poured into the holding room. On instinct, Croft tried the door handle. It turned. “Jesus! They left the fucking door unlocked!” He dashed inside, heading for the commotion at the other end. “Guard the fucking door!” he shouted to Russell and Toby over his shoulder. Despite the high police presence, Croft managed to infiltrate the crowd, following Darrow inside the mirror room. He’d guessed,

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by the amount of time that had passed, that Fraser would be in there by now. He had to make sure his brother was all right, to see him one last time before being arrested and carted off. Croft stopped dead in the doorway. A kid, the one who had refused to tell Croft his name despite his best efforts, stared at Darrow, a broad grin across his face. “I knew you’d come!” he said. “I knew it!” The lad flung himself at Darrow, who wrapped his arms around that slender back and held on tight. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Darrow said, his voice hoarse. “I had no fucking idea, son. No fucking idea you were here.” Son? Darrow drew back, holding the boy by the arms. “Let me look at you. Oh, Jesus. It’s so good to see you.” He hugged him again, the boy’s face pressed to his chest, Darrow’s hand holding the lad’s head steady. The boy’s eyes twinkled with tears, and he stared at Croft. “Dad. Dad. That’s one of

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them.” He pulled away a little and pointed at Croft. Croft’s heart sank. “You all right, mate?” He took a step farther into the room. “It’s all right, son. It’s all right. Croft’s one of the good guys.” Darrow’s son? Fuck me sideways. “What?” the boy asked, cocking his head. “Did he hurt you?” Darrow asked, gripping the boy’s chin between finger and thumb to make his son look at him. “No, he…he was nice. Fed me. Talked to me. Made sure I was always all right.” “That’s because he’s the one who brought me here, son. Do you understand? He told me about this place. He’s the one who saved you all.” Croft’s emotions spilled over, and a relieved sob barked from his mouth. “It’s all right, mate,” he choked out. “Everything’s going to be all right. I told you that, didn’t I, eh?” Backing out of the room, his vision blurred, Croft stumbled past two policemen and pushed open the holding room door. The lads

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were all crying, some silently, some with great racking sobs, and Croft sought out Fraser, dying to see him, dying to make sure he was okay. He spotted him in a corner being checked over by a policeman. At Croft’s approach, Fraser widened his eyes and smiled through the tears. He flew at Croft, gripping him around the waist, his naked body trembling. Looking up at Croft he said, “Those other boys, they told me… We weren’t being adopted like you said. They said… But it’s all right, because the police are here. Tell them not to let me go back home. Tell them, please. I can’t go back there.” “You’re not going home.” Darrow’s voice behind him brought a surge of relief to Croft. “Not to your parents anyway.” Croft turned his head to look at Darrow, who stood in the doorway, his son glued to his side. Croft mouthed “Thank you” and tried to hold his tears back. He failed. They spilled, a hot and steady stream, and he let them have their way. It had been a long, hard six months, and now

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he’d face the consequences of his part in this shit. “Hopefully,” Darrow said, stepping closer, “you’ll be living with your brother.” Croft stared down at Fraser. “You’ve found him?” Fraser asked, looking at Darrow, hope displayed plainly on his face. “You’re hugging him,” Darrow said, his own tears falling. “What?” Fraser stared up at Croft. “Ben?” “Yes, mate,” Croft said, the words strained and tight. He couldn’t manage to say anything else as his throat closed and emotion claimed him. **** Frost was marched out of his house, greeted by the sight of police vans and cars on his lawn. Their tyres had gouged great muddy swathes out of the grass, and he gritted his teeth at the mess they’d made. No fucking respect for other people’s property.

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Shunted toward a van, Frost memorised the license plate. Shoved inside, his hands cuffed behind him, he sat on a bench opposite Jonathan and Kevin. The van doors slammed shut. “James Klein’s been informed,” Frost said. “He’ll take over until we get out.” Jonathan nodded. “Fifteen years max?” “Yeah. Fifteen sweet years, just like the majority of our lads.” Frost laughed heartily. “Seven for good behaviour.” “S’long time, boss.” Jonathan stared at the floor. “Yeah, it is if you intend serving it.” Frost smiled. “What do you mean?” Kevin asked, frowning. “Like I said.” Frost grinned. “Klein’s been informed. Speed dial warning—the wonders of modern technology. We’re not even going to make it to the police station.” “Ah.” Jonathan nodded. “Thing is, I wanted Croft with us.” Frost picked a speck of fibre off his trousers. “He’ll enjoy Spain, I reckon.”

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“Yeah. He could do with getting a tan.” Kevin chuckled. Frost sighed. “Let’s just hope he gets put in this van with us then, eh?” He took out his phone and selected the message option, punching in the van’s registration number. Wrote: Whoever is inside, get them to safety. He pressed SEND then stamped the phone underfoot. Reaching down, he picked it up and worked through the mangled back until he prised out the small SIM card. Popping that into his mouth, he swallowed. All his contact numbers gone. Klein used a disposable and would ditch it the minute he’d finished organising what had to be done. They all used unregistered pay-as-you-go phones. Frost smiled smugly. “Your turn.” He’d instructed all his men to do this with their phones if they got caught. He imagined them doing so now as Jonathan and Kevin took the backs off theirs and swallowed their SIMs. “What about the others who weren’t here tonight?” Jonathan asked. “What about them? They’re not here so don’t need to know what’s happened.”

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The van door swung open, and a security guard filled the space. In all the commotion, Frost hadn’t given a thought to being led outside by security people he’d hired. Security people Croft had hired. “Fuck!” he growled, eyeing the van ceiling. That little fucking bastard! “Out!” said the guard, jerking his head. Frost allowed Jonathan and Kevin to leave the van first, giving himself time to work through the panic overtaking him. Croft had betrayed him, probably knew all about Fraser being his brother, and now they were being ushered across the damn grass toward a different van? Suddenly, fifteen years didn’t seem so funny. **** Later, Croft stood with Darrow, Russell, Toby, and a senior detective in Frost’s living room. He gained a warped sense of satisfaction that everyone had traipsed over the white carpet with their shoes on. As the detectives talked, his

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mind turned to Fraser, who had been taken to the police station, where the doctor would check the boys over and gently question them about their ordeal. The process could take days, or even weeks with counsellors used to dealing with children who had suffered this kind of trauma. They would need extensive therapy, but Croft hoped they’d all come through okay. He’d saved them a harsher incarceration while they’d been here and could only hope his kindness had gone some way to easing the psychological damage their ordeal had caused. “You won’t be going anywhere, will you, Croft?” Darrow said, bringing Croft out of his reverie. “Hmm? What was that?” Croft’s face burned. “As I was telling Chief Inspector Bartram, you’re not a threat. Your being here was under duress, and by helping those boys instead of helping Frost, you’ve proved, at least to us, that you pose no threat to the public. You’ll have to be questioned, no doubt about that, but I really don’t see you need locking up. There’ll be a trial,

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but I think your cooperation and behaviour toward the boys will hold you in good stead.” Relief left Croft weak. “Do you have somewhere you can stay?” Darrow asked. “Stupid question. Sorry. Would you like us to set you up some place? It might be advisable to move somewhere further afield. If Russell and Toby’s story is anything to go by, Frost has a long reach. Who knows whether he has contacts out there who might try and find you?” Croft’s stomach lurched. “Yeah. I see what you mean. Fraser…?” Darrow smiled. “After he’s been initially questioned and given support with experts in the field, we can arrange for him to come to you. Might be a couple of days. Mind you, seeing as Fraser was only here overnight, he probably won’t need much medical attention, but he will need counselling to help him understand the abuse he suffered at home wasn’t his fault. Can you handle that and everything that goes with it?” Croft nodded, unable to say a word, the emotion of the moment too much.

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“He can stay with us, if he likes,” Russell said. “In Wraxford.” “Might be too far from Fraser,” Toby said. Russell smiled. Shrugged a little. “Yeah, well. The offer’s there.” **** The boy sat in a room much like a living room, dressed now in grey, loose tracksuit bottoms and a red T-shirt that was a little too big. He recalled the red coat he’d worn out on the streets, and it brought Pete to mind and the nights they’d slept by the oil drum fire. A woman sat opposite him in a matching armchair, clipboard on her lap. She looked kind, light wrinkles around her eyes, her auburn hair hanging in soft waves around her face. Her jeans and baggy sweater made her appear normal, nothing like the counsellor she’d announced herself to be when she’d entered the room. He’d expected a stern woman in a suit, hair pulled back so tight it made her look Chinese.

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“How are you, Fraser?” she asked, smiling. “All right.” He returned the smile. “Would you like to tell me about what happened? You don’t have to yet, if it’s too painful, but if you want to talk, I’ll listen.” Her voice was one Fraser had imagined a proper mother’s to be, and he warmed to her immediately. Words tumbled out quicker than he had time to form them, and he had to take a deep breath and slow down. When he’d finished, the woman smiled at him and nodded. “I think you’re going to be just fine,” she said, placing the clipboard on a coffee table between the chairs. “I reckon so. Now I’ve found my brother.” He frowned then. “Can you get a message to someone for me?” “Of course. Who would that be?” “Pete.” “Pete who?” “I don’t know. He just told me his name was Pete.” “Is he one of the men from the house?”

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“No. He’s an old bloke I met when I left home. He was my friend.” “Do you know where I can find him?” “Yeah. He sleeps under the bridge down by that disused car park off Moreland Road.” She picked up her clipboard and scribbled a few words. “What would you like me to tell him?” “Just let him know the van took me, but I’m all right. That the police found me.” “Okay.” “He said he’d tell the police I’d been taken, see, and even if they didn’t listen, I want him to think they did.”

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SCARED ~ Chapter Twenty 2 Weeks Later

Russell

sat on the end of their bed in the Wraxford flat and looked around the room. Cardboard boxes filled the available floor space, leaving only a narrow aisle for them to get to the wardrobe, chest of drawers, and bed. They’d been packing for the last fortnight, and he was amazed at the amount of crap they’d accumulated. He supposed people hoarded when they thought they’d settled in one place for the foreseeable future. Though he and Toby had been aware Frost would try and find them, a small part of Russell hadn’t believed he would.

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How wrong can a person be? Much of their stuff had been taken to charity shops or the dump, leaving only the necessities and a few keepsakes they couldn’t bear to part with. Their last meeting with Darrow after the intense police questioning gave them much food for thought. It was best they changed their names, Russell knew that deep down, what with some of Frost’s men still out there and free. They couldn’t run the risk of being hunted down again. If they hid behind an alias, at least their only fear would be, by some cruel twist of fate that didn’t bear thinking about, them being recognised by one of them. But it would be hard to get used to being called something else. Mind you, if they stayed away from London and Wraxford, maybe they’d be left in peace. Who knew, though, how far Frost’s reach was? There’d been talk of a Spanish operation, maybe even one in France, a band of men, all linked in the sordid business of sex trafficking. Russell had trouble comprehending such a massive

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outfit, and why these perverts wanted kids that way. What the fuck’s up with them? It’s wrong. Just bloody wrong. Sighing, he sorted through the last few books in a stack by his feet. He didn’t want to part with any of them, but like Toby had said, they weren’t necessities, and books could be bought again. The less they had to take with them the better. But it wouldn’t be the same. When the book spines were marked with lines where he’d left the book facedown and open on the arm of a chair, the pages folded over in the top corner to mark his place, they became a part of him. A well-loved friend. In a fit of acceptance, he picked the pile of books up and placed them all in a box, folding down the lid flaps to hide them, as though if he couldn’t see what the box contained, then the books weren’t in there. Silly to be so attached to things when they’d been through so much, been shown what was really important, but he’d found, since returning home, that it was the little things that mattered

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now. His ambition, if he ever had any, had deserted him. All he wanted was to live in fucking peace, without fear. Without being scared. He stood, smiling at the sound of Toby pottering about in the kitchen making dinner. That man had taken it upon himself to learn to cook well, and Russell wondered if it was them being so hungry after their ordeal, having gone without food for their duration at Frost’s, that had prompted Toby to appreciate their meals. They appreciated many things now. Still being together was one of them. Still being alive was another. Russell walked into the kitchen and leaned on the doorjamb. He gritted his teeth at the sharp pain from one of his healing welts. The skin was tight around the affected area. Antibiotics had cleared up any infection before it had the chance to infest his body, but it seemed his muscles and skin had a tough time getting better until the last day or so. It would take a while for the scars to heal, but longer for those in his mind to be something he could deal

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with without shaking. He kept the memories locked up, unable and unwilling to revisit the past. At least for now. The upcoming trial would bring it all back into sharp focus, but that was a long way off. Once that was over, maybe the pair of them could finally put the past to rest and start again without worrying over every glance or funny look from a stranger. He studied Toby, who was unaware he was being watched, iPod headphones jammed in his ears, his head bobbing to a beat that told of him listening to one of his dance tracks. Toby quickfried some chicken breasts on the hob opposite the door—sealing in the flavour he’d informed Russell earlier—ready for them to be popped in the slow cooker in a spicy curry sauce of his own making. Russell smiled, thinking back to the time he’d first fed Toby in his London flat, the curry a microwave effort that had tasted good but not as good as Toby promised his dish would taste. The mid-morning sun slanted though the vertical blinds covering the kitchen window,

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giving Toby’s bare back a striped look, the lines of light accentuating his smooth skin, the darker lines making it dull. Once again Russell thought about the incidents that had led them to this place—not in too much detail, mind, just the quick dash of a memory that he quickly squashed—to them even being together. What a price they’d paid for it too. But they’d beaten the odds so far, and he had no doubt in his mind that their being together was meant to be. Oh, he knew that sounded fantastical, that fate had a hand in life, pushing you to meet the one you’d spend the rest of your life with, sending tests along the way to see if you could get through them together, but there it was. That’s how he felt. Toby’s black jogging bottoms rode low on his waist, and Russell studied the way his lover’s spine curved inward at its base. He liked to rest his hand in there when they hugged, the space making him think it had been created just for him. Their bodies fitted together, every dip and curve, every rise and fall of flesh, and he was so

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damn lucky his feelings for Toby were reciprocated. They got along so well, rarely arguing or disagreeing, and that’s how Russell wanted it to stay. He couldn’t imagine their relationship turning sour, with black looks and words said to wound, and hoped they never came to that. Surely their experience at Frost’s had cemented their bond forever, never to be broken by a conflict of opinions or a fight as to whether they should go out tonight or stay in. Not that they were the type to go out, but he knew what he meant. He often thought about shit like this, tossing things around in his head. It beat really thinking. Toby placed the chicken in the slow cooker dish and grabbed an onion from the vegetable rack. Russell smiled at Toby being oblivious to him being there, enjoying watching his lover as he worked in a world of his own. Maybe Toby using the iPod a lot lately was his way of blocking the crap out. Maybe, if his head was full of music, it left no room for anything else.

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Onion chopped and added to the dish, Toby unscrewed a jar of curry sauce, and Russell nearly laughed out loud. So much for him adding the spices and creating the sauce himself. A wide smiled curved Russell’s mouth, and he had the urge to grab hold of Toby and squeeze him, to press against his body and never let go. As though he finally sensed Russell watching, Toby turned and grinned, then set the cooker on low for the food to cook throughout the day. He yanked the earphones out and switched off his gadget, laying it on top of the microwave. “Been there long?” Toby asked, going over to the sink to wash his hands. “Long enough to see your homemade sauce didn’t quite make it into the pot.” Toby chuckled and shrugged, unconcerned at being caught out. “Yeah, well, I decided we may as well use up the jar of sauce. Saves taking it with us.” “Any excuse…” God, I love you. “No, no. Not an excuse. Just a fact.” Toby

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dried his hands on a tea towel then threw it at Russell. It landed on his head, and he laughed, pulling it off and throwing it back. It missed Toby, landing on the worktop. “So,” Toby said, walking toward Russell and holding him close, arms resting on his waist. “You finally accepted the books have to go?” “Yeah. All boxed up.” They hadn’t had sex since their ordeal, their muscles and sore skin preventing much intimacy beyond kisses. Even touching or spooning in bed had given them both too much pain. The abstinence had wreaked havoc with Russell, when all he’d wanted to do was express his love in that special way only having sex could, and now his cock betrayed him. It hardened fast, what with Toby’s groin pressed so tightly there, and he sucked in a short breath at the intensity of his need. His balls joined the party, tightening then throbbing, wanting attention as much as his cock. “Someone’s pleased to see me,” Toby said, the skin beside his eyes crinkling with his smile.

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“Yeah, well…it’s been a while. Sorry.” “Why be sorry? We’ve always had,” Toby skimmed his hands down Russell’s arse, “a healthy sexual appetite.” Oh, God. He gets me every time. “Yeah, but we haven’t exactly been in a position to—” “We’ll get into a position all right. You up for that?” Toby tilted his head. Toby stared so deeply into his eyes Russell thought he’d lose all sense of where he was. “Yeah, I’m up for that.” Russell mimicked Toby, cupping his lover’s arse, kneading the taut flesh. It felt so good beneath his palms, but the sudden remembrance of how raw his skin had been cooled his ardour. “Your skin. Sorry, I’m…I don’t want to hurt you.” “It’s nearly better. Just old bruises and pink marks left. Touch me. Feel me.” Toby’s breath feathered Russell’s cheek as he dipped his head and peppered kisses along the column of Russell’s neck. A rash of goose bumps spread out over Russell’s skin. Fuck, he’d missed this. Missed their closeness and the sensations

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that spiralled through his body every time Toby touched him like that, his hands skating over Russell’s arse. Russell smoothed his hands up and caressed Toby’s lower back, either side of his spine. The skin was raised in places now, knobbles from the contusions Frost had inflicted a constant reminder of what they’d been through. Russell hated that they marred his own skin, but Toby didn’t seem fazed, was just content to be alive, extra markings or not. Raising his hands, Russell traced his palms up his lover’s back, rediscovering his body all over again. Memorising each new lump, each new crevice. He brought his hands up further, trailing them over Toby’s shoulders and down his arms. Toby’s lips and tongue did things Russell had only dreamed about this past fortnight, licking and kissing, his mouth suckling and loving. And shit, it felt good. With their hands exploring one another, Russell lowered Toby’s jogging bottoms, and Toby stepped out of them, kicking them aside. Russell dipped his head and licked along Toby’s

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collarbone, tasting the skin as if for the first time. He savoured the salty tang, trailing a path to the dip below Toby’s Adam’s apple, circling his tongue in the hollow. His fingertips brushed over Toby’s biceps, the tribal tattoo ruined by an angry, raised red scar. But it didn’t matter, he loved Toby just the same—the inside counted for so much more than the outside. The self, the part of his lover that felt and longed and hoped and loved. Toby’s erection pressed against Russell’s, showing his need was just as vibrant. This…this part of their lives had always been so right, the way they knew which buttons to press and what the other liked. Fondling like this, taking the time to just explore and revel in their discoveries had become an important part of the way they had sex. It wasn’t just about the fucking, although they did a fair bit of that as well. Images of previous fast fucks skittered through Russell’s mind, and his longing heightened, his desire pushing up to painful levels. His cock throbbed, ached with the need to

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be touched. His balls tightened further, the desire to release what they held building with every second. Arsehole clenching, Russell sucked in a breath then let it out, the hot air fanning Toby’s neck and cooling as it puffed back over his face. Toby placed his hands on Russell’s chest, gently pushing him against the wall beside the door. The cold contact sent shivers down his spine, and Toby grasping Russell’s wrists and lifting them above his head brought more, the anticipation of what Toby was about to do intense and all-consuming. “Lace your fingers,” Toby whispered against Russell’s temple. “Hold them up like that. And don’t touch me. Let me be the one who touches.” Russell did as he was asked, the position of his arms reminding him of Frost’s basement. He quickly shut the thought out, telling himself he could do this, combat this phobia of raising his arms like that. Toby had done this on purpose, he knew, showing him that they had nothing to fear now.

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Blowing out a long, steady breath, Russell focused on Toby, who licked and kissed down Russell’s chest as he lowered to his knees. The thought of Toby sucking his cock…fuck, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold off for much longer. The fierce longing inside him grew, making him jut out his pelvis. Toby dragged Russell’s boxers down his legs, leaving them pooled at his ankles. Hands warm on Russell’s waist, Toby kissed and teased Russell’s hipbones, lips and breaths an agonising appetiser. Russell jerked his cock toward his lover, the motion reflexive, his body taking charge. He longed to sink his fingers into that black head of hair, guiding that mouth to cover his tip, sinking himself inside. Toby had other ideas, nipping the skin below Russell’s hipbone, fingers kneading the backs of his thighs. Russell’s cock strained, bobbed against his lower belly, and he flexed his fingers to stop himself lowering his arms and fisting himself. Pre-cum glistened, a perfect globe of liquid sitting in his slit, and the thought of Toby

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licking it off had Russell groaning in frustration. “Suck me,” he breathed, his chest and muscles tight with expectation. “Please…I need—” Toby plunged Russell’s cock into his mouth, the wet heat burning into his skin, bringing a rush of sensation. Russell lowered his hands— fuck, he couldn’t not touch Toby—and fisted his lover’s hair, the feel of it soft on his palms. Toby eased his head up and down, the sheath of his mouth tight and unforgiving with suction. Pleasure spiralled through Russell’s groin—cock pulsing, balls aching, arsehole puckering, again, again, again—and he gasped out a succession of breaths to try and control his need to come. “I’m close…fuck, I’m close.” Toby sucked harder, faster, his tongue pushing against Russell’s cock, the soft yet hard pressure of it exciting him further. He let go of Toby’s hair, one hand slamming onto the doorframe, his fingers gripping it hard, the other splayed against the wall, fingernails scratching

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for something to hold on to. His hips jerked, sending him deeper into Toby’s mouth, and Russell gained his own rhythm, his lover keeping up with the pace. Russell fucked Toby’s mouth, watching his length slide in and out, the skin wet, the vein pulsating. Toby’s fingers dug into Russell’s skin then he raised his hands, gliding them up to Russell’s waist and holding him firmly. Russell’s gaze slid down, away from the sight of those lips clamped around his width, to Toby’s cock, hard and bobbing every time Toby sucked Russell inside. His fingers itched to curl around his lover’s shaft, but the sensations pouring into his cock meant he wouldn’t have time to change position. “Shit, I’m coming!” His knees sagged, a jet of cum speeding out of him, and he bucked, the spasms of orgasm taking over his body, taking control. He gave in, let the ecstasy roll over him, claim him in that moment of bliss he’d been working toward. Toby swallowed what Russell gave him, pumping him with tightened lips and a

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more forceful tongue. Another jet of cum filling Toby’s mouth had Russell keening, his fingers plucking the wall and doorjamb, his eyes half closed. His torso jolted forward, sweat-slicked back peeling from the wall, and then he leaned back again, pushing his cock forward to send another stream spitting out of him. Toby groaned, stuttered ah-ah-ahs that told Russell he was about to come himself. Spent, Russell pulled out of Toby’s mouth and stepped out of his boxers. He sank down the wall, turning just before he reached the floor, facing the wall with his arse nestled against Toby’s cock. Bringing his hands up, he pressed his palms to the cool surface and waited. “Get inside,” he said, cock still throbbing with aftershocks. “Need you…inside.” He sucked in a steady breath to calm his fast-beating heart and felt Toby ease back a little. The sound of a drawer opening reached him— Toby getting the lube—and a short moment passed before a douse of fluid cooled the skin

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around his arsehole and the tube clattered to the tile. “Fuck, I want you,” Toby breathed. “I need to…fuck you hard. I’ve missed you.” “Missed you too. Just shut up and fuck me.”

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SCARED ~ Chapter Twenty One

Toby

smoothed the lube around Russell’s arsehole, his thumb gliding over the pucker then dipping inside. The scent of sex heavy in the air, he took a deep breath through clenched teeth and hissed it out again. “Going to fuck you hard,” he whispered. “Love you with my cock.” His nipples hardened, and his balls ached, heavy and pendulous between his legs. Using his free hand, he picked the lube up off the floor and held the tube above Russell’s arse. Squeezing, he drizzled more lube down the cleft, watching it drip as the heat of Russell’s

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body warmed it. He pulled his thumb out until just the tip remained inside, catching the lube to scoop it up and inside Russell’s channel. “That feel good?” he asked. “Is that what you’ve been waiting for?” Russell nodded. “D’you want me inside you. My cock inside you?” He nodded again. “Please. I’ve missed you…this.” Toby’s cock throbbed with his need for release, but he could wait a little longer. He loved this part where he primed his lover’s hole, ready to take him inside. Russell’s tight sheath clenched every time Toby eased his thumb in and gave every time he pulled out. Finding the sensitive nub inside, Toby circled it, adding pressure and using his fingertips to fondle Russell’s balls. “This feels so fucking good. Your tight arse, your smell, your body…” A sharp intake of breath told him Russell was turned on, and Toby leaned to the side, taking in

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the sight of the other’s cock. It was growing hard again, the shaft moving upward. “You ready for me again? Fuck, yeah. You want me…” Toby slid his cock into the valley between Russell’s arse cheeks, rubbing his shaft up and down at the same time as thumb-fucking Russell’s hole. Toby watched his cock rise and fall, the soft skin enclosing it cushioning him. His tip glistened with lube, the clear pre-cum in his slit dripping down to his corona. The friction proved too much. “Fuck, I want to be inside you. Fucking need you.” “Do it. Fuck, just do it.” Toby pulled his thumb out and grabbed the lube, squeezed it over his cock, again coating Russell’s pucker. He settled his tip against the other’s arsehole, the barrier unyielding. He pushed, the ring popping open with the slightest pressure. With slow care, he pushed his tip inside, loving how the rim clamped him. “Ah, fuck! This is…ah…shit, I love you,” Toby whispered.

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Toby smoothed his hands up Russell’s back, palms skating over the new ridges there, and curled his fingers over his lover’s shoulders. His grip firm, he raised his hips, pulling down on Russell’s shoulders until his cock was well seated. Russell groaned. “Feels good. Missed you so much.” He bent his head to rest his brow on the wall. The sound of that groan and Russell’s words heightened Toby’s need, and he clenched his jaw, holding off his threatening orgasm. He eased his cock out, watching it emerge, wet with lube and thick with lust. Applying pressure to the tip with finger and thumb, he counted to ten, praying he didn’t come in his hand. He’d gone too far already and, unable to hold back any longer, shunted back inside, creating a fast rhythm that gave maximum friction. Russell’s sheath tight around him, each time Toby pushed inside, he pulled on the other’s shoulders, making his lover’s arse slam down. Their skin slapped, the sound pushing Toby close to the edge, and he watched

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himself—in, out, in, out—while gritting his teeth. “Yes! Fuck, yes!” Head lightening, he held onto Russell’s shoulder with one hand while roving his other up and down his back. He couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t feel him enough, couldn’t get close enough. Snaking his hand down, Toby leaned forward so his torso cupped Russell’s back. The heat of Russell’s skin warmed Toby’s chest, and he clasped the other’s cock, his grip firm. Moving his hand to match his thrusts in and out of Russell’s arse, Toby held back his orgasm, intent on getting Russell harder. He jerked Russell’s length faster, his wrist burning from the exertion, and felt the telltale sign that his orgasm was too close to keep at bay. “Touch yourself,” he breathed, reaching up to pull Russell’s arm down from the wall. Russell fisted his cock, his elbow jerking in time with Toby’s thrusts. Toby raised his free hand and brought it down on Russell’s thigh, the sound of the slap loud and striking.

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Russell’s breath whooshed out of him, and Toby slapped again, then gripped the other’s waist with both hands. He drew Russell toward him then away again, manoeuvring his lover’s body on and off his cock so he could watch himself spearing into that tight sheath. It was too much. Cum shot from him without warning, the rush of sensation holding his mind suspended for a second, like he floated. He cried out, the pleasure shooting through his cock and into his groin. The vein in his dick throbbed with each expulsion, and he hung his head back, revelling in the tingles and bliss radiating through him. Russell gasped, moaning and murmuring Toby’s name as he came again. Toby pumped on, waiting for a third jet to leave his cock, Russell’s channel slick with cum. Leaning to the side, Toby watched the creamy ropes shoot out of his lover, slapping onto the tile. It felt as though Toby had more to release, but after one last gush he was spent, had given as much as he could. He

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slowed, their breathing out of sync and roaring in his ears. Stuttered groans came from Russell, his abdomen jerking of its own accord, and he yelled out through his second orgasm. Slowing to a stop but remaining in place, Toby caressed his lover’s back until he stopped fisting himself. “Fuck, that was…intense,” Toby said, easing out of Russell. Russell gripped the doorjamb and stood, looking back over his shoulder. “Hug me?” Toby stood and stepped up behind Russell, spooning him, running his hands up and down Russell’s chest and resting his cheek to his back. “Love you, man,” he said, legs weak and breaths still fast and ragged. “Love you too.” **** After cleaning up the tiles, Toby joined Russell for a quick shower then, for the rest of the day, helped him with the last of the packing. He wasn’t sad to be leaving Wraxford. The place held

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bitter memories now, and the new town of Glinsworth, farther up north, beckoned with open arms. They’d be on their way tomorrow, to a safer existence, living as best they could until the trial. The thought of returning to London made his stomach roll over—he didn’t relish going back one bit. Who wanted to relive that kind of crap? He sighed, throwing an old pair of jeans in a refuse sack, the hems worn, loose threads white and hanging. But it’s one of life’s little foibles, something we just can’t get out of. Seeing them all again… Fuck, I hope I manage to get through it. Hope Russell does. He’s taken it harder than me. Can’t even talk about it much. He glanced over at Russell, who ferreted inside the chest of drawers beside their bed, holding garments up for inspection then putting them back inside. “You’re not keeping that old thing, are you?” Toby asked, nodding at the drawer. “What!” Russell took the T-shirt out again, giving it a fond once-over. “I thought I could keep it for when we decorate the new place. Don’t want

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to get my other stuff dirty, do I? Had this ages. It’s comfortable.” “Yeah well, make sure you just keep that one. I can see a few from here that need binning. Holes in the bloody armpits and all sorts.” “Fuck off,” Russell said, smiling. “You don’t see me telling you what to throw away.” “That’s because I’m not attached to my shit by an invisible thread. Jesus, it’s not like you can’t get new ones.” “Change the sodding record.” Russell laughed. “You’re like a fussy old woman.” “Ah, piss off. Come on. I think we’re about done here. Anything else can wait until the morning. After making each of them a coffee, Toby flopped on the sofa beside Russell for a wellearned break and asked, “You scared?” He clutched Russell’s hand, bringing it to his lips and brushing the knuckles against them. “What of?” Russell leaned his head back on the sofa and looked at him. His eyes were hooded, as though he knew what was coming and didn’t want to discuss it.

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“Starting again. The trial. Waiting to be spotted by one of Frost’s men.” Toby’s stomach bunched at the latter. “We’ll be safer with new names.” Russell laughed then said, “And we could grow beards, grow our hair long.” He shrugged. “We’ll get through, you know? It’s a case of having to, isn’t it? Anyway, we’ve been through all this before.” “Yeah. S’pose. I hate not having a choice, though. Hate having things put on me when they’re not my fault, know what I mean?” “Fuck, yeah. But that’s how things are now. Sod all we can do about it.” Silenced by his thoughts, Toby stared ahead at the wall their flatscreen TV used to hang on. It stood on the floor now, waiting to be placed in its box tomorrow. Their new flat was a top-floor effort in a block of six, the windows giving them a glimpse of the surroundings so they could see in every direction. It paid to be vigilant, and he guessed that would become a routine now. Who knew when, or if, Frost’s remaining men would be rounded up? Darrow had told them the

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organisation was much larger than Frost’s little business, but he’d vowed to catch every single one of the men involved. Who could blame him, when his son was very nearly sold to the highest bidder? Toby had nightmares about that viewing room, reckoned he’d have them for a good few years to come too. He saw the boys beneath the spotlight, crying and clawing at the mirror to be set free, their glassy eyes pleading. “Release us! Please, I want my mum!” He couldn’t get to grips with the mentality of the punters, how some of them, when questioned by Darrow, had claimed it “wasn’t their fault they felt this way”. It was “just the way they were made”. That sickened Toby, and if he lived to be one hundred, he’d never understand the mad bastards. Darrow shouldn’t have told them any of this really, but they’d formed a bond with the detective, Croft, and Fraser since that terrible night, meeting up a couple of nights after the ordeal at a family pub called The Lightning Bolt. Things Darrow shouldn’t have been

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discussing were discussed, but he knew none of them would say anything. They were all on the same side, and the poor bloke needed someone to talk to, having been through a nasty ordeal himself. Most of the kids had been returned to worried parents, but a couple were taken into care. Their parents were either unfit to look after their boys, didn’t give a shit they’d even gone missing in the first place, or couldn’t be found. It was a fucking sorry business all round, and Toby had been exposed to the realities of life that lived and breathed right under his nose if only he’d taken the time to notice. But you don’t, do you? You get on, waking each day to deal with the shit in your own life, and what anyone else is doing is irrelevant. Until it involves you, then you’re brought up short by the disgusting way some humans behave. They should be caged, the lot of them locked away. That wasn’t going to happen. Toby knew that. But shit, if he could just wave a magic wand and make it all go away, he would.

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“So,” Russell said on a sigh. “Tomorrow we start using our new names. Be weird, won’t it.” “Yeah. Take a bit of getting used to.” Toby palmed his chin, trying to get to grips with responding to being called something else. What if he forgot and ignored whoever had spoken? What if he started his new job—an assistant manager in the local pub a couple of streets from their new flat—and failed to answer in time? He’d have to make sure he was alert when outside of their flat, that was all. “A fucking lot of getting used to.” “Needs must. We can’t risk them finding us. Can’t rely on the police finding them all. Someone, somewhere will slip through the net.” “Yeah.” Toby sighed. “At least we’re alive, eh?” Russell nodded. “That’s something to be grateful for. I thought… When we were hanging in the basement, what happened to you?” Toby frowned, knowing where this was leading, but asking anyway, “What do you mean?” “When I was calling you. I thought you were dead.”

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He had been, Toby knew that now. He’d had time to think it through, analyse that field of buttercups and what it represented. He remembered who the woman was, a very young version of his nan, and knew she had come to take him to the other side. He shuddered, glad he’d turned from her and ran away. “I know, but I must have just fallen asleep.” You don’t need to know where I was, what could have happened if I’d gone with her. I didn’t, and I’m here. I chose you because you’re the only thing I give a shit about. He squeezed Russell’s hand and smiled at him. “It’s all a kind of blur now. I remember bits of what happened, but there are huge chunks missing, especially the time in the basement. We were drifting in and out of consciousness, and so much time just frittered away while we slept. Good job really, what with the pain, eh?” Russell winced. “Yeah.” “Sorry. We won’t talk about it anymore.” “Thanks. I just…it’s just I can’t—”

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“I know. It’s all right. I’m sorry for bringing it up. Any time you do want to talk, I’m here.” Toby squeezed his hand again. “Love you, man.” “Yeah, fucking love you too.” A few moments of silence passed. “We’ll be all right, you know, Terry Jones.” Toby laughed until his ribs hurt. Russell smiled, waiting patiently for Toby to finish laughing. “You can laugh, Mr Aiden Drake. There are shitloads of Jones’ in the phone book. Take a pissing mastermind to find me. Besides, it’s better than Drake. What are you, a fucking duck?” “Knob off, Terry. It appealed to me, all right? Don’t be mean.” “You started it.” “Yeah, well, I’m finishing it now.” Toby chuckled then sobered. “Seriously, though, we’ll take each day as it comes, yeah? And if, later on, we need to speak to someone about this crap, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. No harm in seeing a shrink, is there? If it means working through it and living without all that shit

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in our heads, it’s worth a try.” Russell sighed. “Thought the same thing myself. Anyway, shut up about it for now, yeah?” “Yep. Time to move on.” “It is.” Russell blew out a long breath. “S’pose I’d better put the rice on, then,” Toby said. “Yeah. Boil in the bag by any chance?” “Well, yeah. May as well use it up, eh?” “Whatever you say, mate. Teaching yourself to cook properly my arse.” Toby laughed and pushed up off the sofa. “And what a fine arse it is too.”

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The boy, now a man, stood in the disused car park, still disused and still with ratty yellowed grass bordering the asphalt. It looked the same length, and he wondered if someone came to cut it every now and then. He couldn’t imagine why they would—this place was as desolate as it had been seven years ago. More so, in fact, now that he took the time to study it properly. Great cracks marred the ground in places, big enough to turn your ankle in if you weren’t paying attention. And he would. Didn’t want to get his shoes scuffed—a far cry from all those years ago when he’d worn footwear with holes in them.

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Funny how life changes. He walked toward the grass, stopped where the man had back then, and stared across the river at the bridge. That, too, looked exactly the same, except for some new spray-paint art and a little more mould. Dark grey smoke belched from inside, bringing back memories, and he smiled. That bridge will always keep someone dry. Turning to walk toward the bridge so he could cross the river to the other side, he took a deep breath, stomach churning. It had taken quite a bit of courage to come here. Memories he’d suppressed, despite the counselling, had prevented him from returning. His reason for gathering his nerve today had come from him spotting someone who could have been Pete. A whole slew of recollections had assaulted him, and he thought about the old man and what he could be doing now. Whether he was even still alive. He hadn’t asked Darrow about Pete for a while. A gentle breeze laced with fine specks of rain pushed him gently as he walked the bridge, and he glanced down into the river, remembering how

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he’d likened it to melted milk chocolate. Was it wishful thinking of the boy he once was, hungry as he’d been that night, because the river looked green and thick with filth now. Refuse sailed on its watery journey, MacDonald’s drink cups, a lollipop stick, a plastic Pepsi bottle. Green and brown fronds attached to the riverside stretched across the water, wavering with the current, catching the lolly stick and dragging it beneath the surface. Almost like him, really, if his brother hadn’t taken him under his wing after all that shit with Frost. He stopped in the centre of the bridge and leaned his forearms on the ledge, staring over at the London Eye in the distance. He’d been on it, could afford the fare now, and it wasn’t anything to write home about. Oh, he’d seen the city from the top, how vast the place was, but he’d barely been on the damn thing and it was time to get off again. No bang for your buck these days. Seeing things with an adult eye was so different from that of a child, wasn’t it? What was

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glamorous then certainly wasn’t now, and the sparkle of life tended to taint when reality reared its ugly head. He thought about that for a minute. His whole existence, up until being reunited with his brother, had been one long, freakish nightmare, yet he’d still had hope, had still seen the beauty in things and wished that one day he’d get a break. And he had. He went by the name of John now, a good old average name that didn’t arouse suspicion. John Libéré. He wasn’t French, didn’t even attempt to sound French when he spoke, but his surname meant “liberated”, and that’s what he became the day he moved into the flat in Camden with Ben. His brother had changed his name, too, choosing the same surname and going by the first name of Alex. Official name changing was a good thing when you had people chasing your arse. John sighed and continued walking, making it to the other side of the river, his hair only a little askew from the wind, a little damp from the rain. His suit, covered in a fine mist of

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individual, tiny raindrops that reminded him of fuzz, would need to go to the dry cleaners tomorrow. He didn’t like the smell of dried rain on his clothing. It brought back too many memories of nights spent out in harsh weather, chilled to the damn bone and wishing he had a warm bed to sleep in. So why come here today? Why let the past back in? Climbing down the bank, shoes sliding in the wet mud, he stood on a path he’d stood on so many times before, one he could have stretched out on as a kid but couldn’t now. Too tall. He peered beneath the bridge. An oil drum, much the same as the one from years ago but painted yellow, the top lip blackened and rusty, held a fire that smelled of coal not wood. Whoever had lit it was a lucky bastard if he’d got a hold of coal. John plunged his hands in his trouser pockets and walked under the bridge. As he approached the drum, he saw two feet poking out, covered in shoes much like his own. Black

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and shiny. Decent, no holes. Ankles encased in grey socks peeked out from beneath the hem of black trousers, and John smiled again, knowing no tramp warmed himself beside the fire this day. Abreast of the drum, he looked down at the man sitting with his back against the bridge wall. A man who didn’t look like a head sitting on top of a bundle of rags—one who didn’t have shoulder-length grey hair but a neat, short cut like so many of the elderly today, and a trimmed goatee beard. “Hello, Pete,” John said, tears misting his vision. The old man looked up, eyes rheumy, and he narrowed them. “Fraser?” That name sounded alien, seeing as he hadn’t been called that in so long. “Yeah, it’s Fraser.” “My God, boy. What are you doing here?” Pete struggled to stand, flapping John’s hand away as he reached to help him up. “Get out of it. I may be old, but I ain’t fucking dead yet.” He stood as upright as his old body allowed, shoulders stooped, back rounded.

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“I came to reminisce. Just once before we move away.” “Ah. Finally getting out of the big jungle, are you?” Pete warmed his hands over the fire, eyeing John with a sideways glance. “Yeah. Didn’t expect to find you here. Thought you’d gone into sheltered housing after Darrow helped you out.” Pete smiled, showing pristine dentures. “I did, but old habits die hard, boy. Besides, I have to keep my eye out for the vans, don’t I? They’re white now, you know.” “Are they? Have you told Darrow?” “Yep. He’s on top of it. Been watching them himself.” He cleared his throat. “Some woman came and found me years ago. Did you know that, boy? Reckons they wouldn’t have known anything about you being missing and where to find you if it wasn’t for me. She said I was right about them black vans too.” He beamed, nodding, rasping his hands together to encourage warmth. “Yeah. I heard you ringing the police had helped them a great deal.” God bless the old bugger.

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“Yep. And I’ll keep coming here, keep walking the streets like I always did. Got to do my bit to protect the kids.” “Aren’t you scared, Pete? Seven years has made a big difference out there. The streets aren’t like they were when we used to live on them.” “Nah. I ain’t fucking scared. You?” John thought about where his life was headed, to a new country where no one would find them. Frost and the men who’d been at the house that night were serving hard time, and those who hadn’t been found were fuck knew where. Although John and Alex had new names, being in London, shit, even England, made him and his brother uneasy. Austria sounded good when they’d stabbed a pin in the map and the point had landed there. Life would be good from tomorrow onward, getting better every day they were gone from this stinking, evil place. He smiled, feeling lighter of heart than he ever had. “No, Pete, no. I’m not scared.”

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About The Author Sarah writes in many genres. Her love of fantasy and historicals often features in her work, and she leans toward the highly erotic. She lives in England with her adorable husband and children. www.sarahmastersauthor.wordpress.com

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