FIC: Gone Horribly Wrong [4/?]
Mar. 21st, 2012 12:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Gone Horribly Wrong
Author: Alex
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: John Finnemore, Pozzitive Productions for le BBC.
Summary: From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. Douglas gets in a little over his head in regards to his smuggling, but it's Martin who suffers for it.
Warnings: Nonconsensual sex.
Notes: This is my very first Cabin Pressure fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
PLEASE HEED WARNINGS IN THIS CHAPTER. THANK YOU.
Continued from Part 3
You can also find this fic on AO3
*
The scissors glowed in the dimness of the office, the curves of the grip as tempting as the sleek, shining, rounded lines of a new Gulfstream IV. Martin stared, hypnotized by their silvery sheen. They looked new, and therefore sharp. And they were close – less than three meters away.
He shut his eyes tightly and opened them again. They shone so brilliantly, the Excalibur of scissors, the means to his freedom.
No. NO. Out of all the bumbling, foolish ideas he’d had in his life, this was without a doubt the worst, and if he made the absolutely brainless, witless, ill-advised, thick-headed decision to try to get them, he would probably end up slicing his wrists open and bleeding to death on the concrete floor, too timid to attract the necessary attention that would alert his kidnappers to his imminent demise, not that they would transport him to hospital. They’d just let him bleed out on the concrete floor and laugh at him, ha ha, stupid git, serves you right. Look, Eddy, we didn’t even have to touch him.
Resolutely, Martin turned his face away. He wouldn’t make the attempt. He’d sit here for another day or so. It wasn’t so bad. He didn’t hurt so much now that they’d left off tying his hands and feet together, and he could breathe a bit more easily without the wide tape covering his mouth completely. It was chilly, but not enough for hypothermia. He was still thirsty, but people could go three days without water, even longer without food, and Douglas would be back soon enough. He’d manage. There would be Words with Douglas after this, though. Martin wouldn’t actually tell Carolyn about Douglas’ little jaunt to France (and God knows where else whilst her back was turned) but he wasn’t above a threat. Douglas deserved a bit of a scare after what he’d put Martin through.
Martin shifted miserably, trying to ease the ache in his shoulders. Why had Douglas called him a berk in front of Eddy and the other thugs? Wasn’t it enough that he teased and taunted Martin mercilessly – he had to kick him while he was down? It was like the worst schoolyard chanting he’d endured as a kid, magnified ten times. He’d thought there had been affection at times behind Douglas’ little jabs, but yesterday had proved him wrong. You didn’t say that sort of thing about a friend, especially not to nasty, frightening people who’d decided to take one hostage.
The worst of it was that if Douglas showed up now, with that odd cocktail of lackadaisical wit and dashing-pilot verve that he seemed to mix by feel, and untied Martin and hauled him to his feet, Martin would all but collapse in his arms out of sheer gratitude. Douglas was steady and reassuring; his quick thinking and resourcefulness had got Martin out of more scrapes than he could possibly count. Perhaps he’d only feigned disdain so that the smugglers wouldn’t regard Martin as valuable enough to be a hostage. Douglas was always two steps ahead of everyone else. Why that mattered now, he had no idea. But he hoped that was so. If the smugglers killed Martin, only Douglas would know. It would be nice to think that at least one person missed him.
But he didn’t want to die. It might have been his own stupid fault that he’d stumbled onto Douglas’ smuggling operation – he’d bloody well known Douglas was always at it, how else could Douglas have afforded his Lexus and lovely house, not to mention the upkeep of three ex-wives and a daughter? – but Martin didn’t want to simply lie still and wait for them to come and slit his throat, or worse.
He looked back at the scissors, gleaming silver, beckoning.
Oh, God….
He hurt. There was absolutely no point in trying to fool himself. He hurt so badly he wanted to scream. The human body wasn’t meant to be held bound and still for so long. Every muscle trembled, every nerve ending itched for freedom. His feet were numb from lack of circulation, and the prickly twine had gouged raw circles around his wrists. His jaw was sore, his mouth was dry, and his throat burned. What if he just…cut himself free and stayed exactly where he was? Eddy Groves and his huge, hulking sidekicks would know that he didn’t pose a threat to them.
Right. As if they needed to be told that.
Carefully, he drew his knees up to his chest, wincing at the ache, and planted his feet on the floor. Using the back of the desk as a bulwark, he inched upward, steadying himself until he was standing. He sat on the edge of the desk before his legs gave out, his breath coming in fluttery shivers. What if they came in and saw him? He’d be sunk. He couldn’t tell what time it was, nor hear anyone outside the door.
If they come in, I’ll just tell them I wanted to get off the cold floor, that’s all.
Three meters, a bit less. A matter of nothing to hop over there and grab them, and then with caution and dexterity – well, caution…a couple of quick slices and….
And then what?
Martin scowled. First things first. Getting over there, that was first.
He slid off the desk and felt the blood flowing down to his feet. They itched and tingled and finally hurt, but he waited it out, biting down hard on the knotted t-shirt in his mouth. It’ll pass, it’ll pass, he assured himself, and when it finally, finally did, he took a deep breath and flexed his knees a bit. If he was slight, he wasn’t without a certain wiry strength; complete and utter weaklings need not apply for a position as a man with a van. He stared at the scissors (they actually seemed to be calling to him now, or maybe that was just the blood singing in his ears) and then took one small, tentative hop forward.
Oh dear. Martin swayed a bit – it was difficult to balance with his hands tied – and then stood still. How many bloody hops to get three meters? He focused grimly and hopped again. Not bad. A bit better. He hopped again, a little further. Eight or nine more hops – God, he probably looked like a giant deranged bunny rabbit.
Maybe he could cut it to six if he tried to lengthen his jumps. He flexed his knees and hopped again, landing with one foot flat and the other slightly bent to one side. He teetered awkwardly, listed to port, and felt a wave of dizziness creeping up. Oh God, don’t black out now, NO. He listed again, overcorrected, and crashed to his knees on the concrete floor.
Twin spikes of anguish slammed into his kneecaps. Martin clenched his teeth on the gag, but a stifled wail of pain emerged nonetheless as he fell over onto his side and writhed, tears blurring his vision. He lay curled up, distantly amazed that he had any moisture left in his body for tears, and prayed for the agony to pass. His shoulder and elbow hurt now too because of his impact with the floor. Douglas had been right; he wasn’t just a berk, he was a disaster. He rested his feverish cheek against the cold floor and keened softly.
Douglas, please help me. Don’t let me die here.
When his vision cleared, he saw the scissors, less than two meters away. He’d fallen toward them.
Martin raised himself to the elbow that wasn’t throbbing and stared at them. They were taunting him now, just daring him to get a little closer. Maybe if he just wriggled a bit….
He moved forward, grunting, ignoring the twinges in his body that ordered him to stay still. He dragged himself closer, panting, until at last he reached the metal shelves. The scissors gleamed in mellow triumph, seeming to congratulate him. They were just at eye level, if he sat up. He tried to get to his knees, but the effort sent another nauseating wave of pain up and down his legs. Had he broken his kneecaps? Who did that, for God’s sake?
Frantic now, he looked around for a way to get the scissors down. He’d wedge his head inside the shelf except the space was quite narrow and he’d probably get stuck or something horrible like that. If there was something he could use for – ah! There was an aluminium curtain rod on the bottom shelf a little way over. Perhaps his luck wasn’t all bad.
He leaned over and grasped it, then shifted back and maneuvered it upward, trying to hook the grip of the scissors. Sweat misted his brow as he gently moved the rod back and forth, up and down – and then the bloody thing slipped and knocked the mug off the shelf. It crashed to the concrete floor with a noise far louder than any common coffee mug had a right to make.
Trembling, Martin waited for angry voices and the tramp of boots. He held his breath. They mightn’t kill him for what he’d done, but they wouldn’t be best pleased, either; he could expect a beating at the very least. Long moments passed, but there was no sound outside the office. They hadn’t heard.
He shuddered in mingled fear and relief, and carefully groped amongst the ceramic shards for the scissors, nearly sobbing when his hand closed around them. Come on, get a grip – you’ve still got to cut yourself free!
And then what?
Martin ignored the question and carefully turned the scissors in his numb hand. He cringed as the point dug into his flesh and forced himself to move slowly. There – he’d opened them, wedged one blade beneath the rope. He took a firmer grip on the handle and closed the scissors.
Nothing happened.
A little moan of frustration strangled itself in his throat. He’d turned the bloody thing sideways, hadn’t he? He repositioned them and tried again.
There. A little slice. Not much; they weren’t sharp after all. But Martin hadn’t taken his ATPL test eight times for nothing. If he had any virtues at all, patience was certainly one of them. He worked steadily, like a mouse nibbling at a nut, jabbing himself more than a few times, until finally, at last, thank God, the rope fell away from his wrists.
Another noise, this one of triumph, escaped him. He brought his arms from behind his back, heedless of the pain, and massaged his hands. He left his wrists alone – they looked awful, all raw and red, the skin torn away. When he felt a bit more normal, he reached down and cut the rope binding his ankles, gritting his teeth past the sparkling jabs of sensation, blood flowing back into oxygen-starved tissue. Finally he wrenched the gag out of his mouth and stretched his aching jaw. “Oh, God, oh, God,” he whispered. Free. It felt glorious.
Now what?
Now…. Martin glanced fearfully at the door, which had remained closed the entire time. Thank you, thank you, thank you, God. Maybe the smugglers had deserted the warehouse altogether. Maybe….
An ember of hope glowed in his chest. Perhaps there was a way round all of this –
“Oh!” Martin got to his feet, wobbled for a moment, then moved toward his anorak on the floor. He dug through the pockets, coming up with his mobile phone. He could have kissed it. That’s it. Phone Douglas, then the police. Find a place to hide until it’s all over. Eagerly, he flipped it open and saw a blank, black screen.
Maybe he’d forgot to turn it on. He thumbed the ON button and waited. The screen glowed, then flashed red. LOW BATTERY. RECHARGE NOW. Then the screen went black again.
Martin, who never used profanity, let out a long, low breath. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He hit the button again, and got the same curt message. “Fuck.”
Phone box. There had to be one somewhere. Or just some kind soul with a mobile – hadn’t Groves said there were people close by? Maybe he was in an industrial estate of some kind. Perhaps the call would have been useless – he’d no idea where he was and his cheap mobile wasn’t equipped with a GPS.
Of course, that would entail leaving the office.
He stared at the door, looming large and dark in front of him. What if those thugs were just outside? They’d hurt him, and then tie him up again, probably a lot tighter this time, and they’d make sure he was a good distance from any scissors.
But what if Groves had just told him that to intimidate him, to make certain that Martin behaved himself? Wouldn’t it be awfully stupid to just sit here if there was a chance he could get away?
Martin swallowed. God, he was dying for a drink of water and something to eat. Anything – a packet of crisps, a biscuit, even Surprising Rice would do the trick. He laughed and clapped a hand to his mouth, horrified at the spume of silly giggles that escaped him. Post-traumatic hysteria, doubtless. The manuals had mentioned that.
He slipped his mobile into his jeans pocket and pulled on his anorak, grateful for its flannel-lined warmth. Tiptoeing over to the desk, he opened the drawers, looking for something to eat. Lots of people kept nibbles at their desks, but apparently the owner of this desk was an abstemious soul – there was nothing but paper and office gear. Disappointed but undaunted, Martin stealthily searched the rest of the office and found a small, unopened bottle of water behind a stack of A4. He twisted off the cap and drank the whole thing at a draught, careful not to let it crackle too loudly as he squeezed the last drops of water from it. He felt it winding through his abused body in a bright trickle, nourishing him. So delicious.
Now that he was up, he couldn’t just sit still. He moved quietly to the door and put his ear to the old-fashioned keyhole. Silence. He peered into it, but saw only darkness. Maybe that was a trick that only worked in the movies. Would it be so awful to look out, if he was really quiet?
Martin shuddered, then carefully grasped the handle and twisted. It may have been old, but it was kept oiled, and moved silently, easily, as did the hinges. Martin opened the door a crack and looked out anxiously.
The corridor was empty. It was quiet, and totally, utterly empty.
Blood pounded in Martin’s ears as he swung the door open a little wider and slipped out. Soundlessly, he closed the door behind him and took two cautious steps forward. There was the loo door, and another that said CLEANING SUPPLIES, and two that were unlabelled. He took another hesitant step forward. One of the doors had a square pane of reinforced glass; Martin saw with a jolt that it opened onto what seemed to be the main room of the warehouse. And there was Tony and Pete and – and he didn’t know the other one’s name, but he was there as well, sleeping in a chair. God, they had stayed the night!
Go back into the office, Martin commanded himself. Don’t do anything stupid --
There was a bang from the warehouse, and Martin saw Eddy Groves striding in with his mobile plastered to his ear. He wore a smart navy raincoat over another expensive suit and carried a very nice briefcase, almost as if he were a posh City banker rather than a drug smuggler. Martin had always imagined drug smugglers looking a bit flashy, with long, low sports cars and lots of gold rings.
Eddy was striding straight toward him, and his thugs had fallen in behind him.
No! Martin looked around in terror, then bolted for the last unmarked door at the end of the hallway. He tugged on the handle, his breath coming in ragged, panicky gasps, and then realized he had to depress the lever atop it first. He pushed it down, pulled the handle, and took in a dim alley - outside.
Oh, God, please –
The sky was almost black and pouring rain, but he didn’t care. He ran stumbling down the alley, slipping on the muddy pavement, and turned a corner just as the door banged open again.
“There he is!”
No, no – Martin put on a burst of speed and ran almost directly into a wire-mesh fence. Without thinking, he hooked his fingers into the wire and scrambled up.
“Fucking hell –“
They were right behind him. Please, no! He scrambled higher, reached out to grab hold of the fence, and closed his hand on something sharp. He let out a yelp, lost his balance, and fell backward. Hands grabbed at his arms and broke his fall. They’d caught him.
“No,” Martin pleaded hoarsely. “Please, no.” He looked wildly around, and saw a car park beyond the wire fence. “Help me.” Louder, you BERK. Last chance! “Help me! HELP!”
Pete, his erstwhile loo tormentor, drove a fist into his midsection. Martin gasped for air as they dragged him backward, back into the warehouse, and flung him down at Eddy Groves’ feet. Martin saw a brief flash of rage in Groves’ eyes before the men fell on him, punching and kicking with ferocious glee. Martin crumpled under the onslaught, curling up to protect himself, but it didn’t help.
“Little fuck. I’m going to fucking kill you.”
Someone kicked him in the chest, and he couldn’t get air. I can’t breathe I’m going to die sorry Douglas I’m sorry—
“That’s enough!” The voice came from a distance, as if Martin were at the bottom of a well. “Get him up.”
The hands dragged Martin up to his knees and held his arms. Oh God I think I did break my kneecaps! He still felt the crushing pain in his chest. Broke a rib, I think. Hurts….
Groves was still on the phone. “You’re bloody lucky, you know. No, I’m not going to let you talk to him, you fucking stupid sod. You ought to be on your fucking knees thanking Christ we got him back, because if the little berk had got away, your fucking head would be on the fucking chopping block, do you understand me? Yes? Good. Good.” Groves’ face was white, and he was breathing hard. “Right. Okay.”
Martin gazed blearily up at Groves. “Douglas?” he rasped. “Douglas.”
Hard fingers dug into his jaw. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Martin says hello,” Groves said, his eyes flicking contemptuously over Martin’s battered and bedraggled figure. “No, you can see him tomorrow. I’m very fucking annoyed right now, Douglas. Am I making myself clear? Very fucking annoyed. No. No. If one more thing goes wrong, I promise your little friend is fucked.” Groves paused and gave Martin another once-over. “Right, I’m through talking to you. The next time I want to talk to you is when we see you back at Fitton.” He rang off and rubbed his eyes.
“What do you want us to do with him, Eddy?”
“Give me a fucking minute, will you?” Groves snarled. “You bloody idiots can’t even keep a weedy little twerp contained for ten fucking hours.”
“You’re the one who said just wrists and ankles,” Pete pointed out. “If it were me, I’d have hogtied him again.”
“Oh, piss off.” Groves kicked a chair, sending it spinning across the concrete floor. He leaned close to Martin, slowly twining his fingers in Martin’s hair and yanking his head backward. “What were you planning to do, Martin? Were you going to go to the police?”
Martin stared into Eddy Groves’ dark eyes and shook with fear. “I-I- I was –“
“Because that was stupid, what you just did, Martin. Very, very stupid.” Groves’ voice grew softer and softer. “And I’m afraid that we’re going to have to make sure that you don’t make another stupid mistake like that again.”
Martin choked back a sob of pure fear. “You are going to get caught one day, you know. You c-c-can’t treat people like this and get away with it forever.”
Groves smiled. “Why ever not?” He slipped his mobile in his raincoat pocket, then shrugged out of it, draping it over a shelf. “Hold him still.”
The thugs on either side of him grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back. Martin struggled halfheartedly. There was no getting away; they were going to beat him to a pulp.
Groves’ hand moved to his trousers, and he unbuttoned them.
Martin watched, uncomprehending, for a moment. Then he saw a flash of pale-grey underwear, and realized what was happening. “No. No, no, no –“ He struggled wildly now, straining to get away, back to the office, flat on the floor, anywhere but where he was right now, helpless as a pinned butterfly.
“Shh.” Groves laid a finger on Martin’s mouth. “As punishments go, it’s not so bad. You should see what they do to pretty boys like you in prison, Martin. You are rather pretty, for a stupid fucking berk.” The thugs chuckled.
Groves lowered his underwear.
“Don’t.” Martin couldn’t breathe. “Please. Please don’t.”
“Open your mouth.”
Martin shook his head and folded his lips together as tightly as he could.
Groves stroked Martin’s cheek. “You do it, or I let my boys here do whatever they want to you. Bad idea, Martin. Tony acquired a particular liking for fisting in prison. Trust me, you don’t want his arm up your arse. It’s huge.”
Martin lowered his head. He couldn’t, he couldn’t -- not like this….
A hand slipped under his chin and tilted it up with surprising gentleness. “Come on now, Martin. Don’t cry, not yet.” Groves’ thumb brushed at the wetness beneath Martin’s eye. “You don’t want me to get violent.”
He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be hurt more than he already was. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth.
“Wider.”
Someone please help me…. But there was no one who could help him, not now. Briefly, he twisted against the hands holding him, but it was useless. Douglas.
“Come on. Wider.”
He opened wider. Groves pushed his cock into Martin’s mouth.
“Ah. No biting, Martin, or I’ll fucking kill you.” Groves put his hands on either side of Martin’s head. “Open your eyes and look up at me.”
Martin opened his eyes. He looked at what he was doing and gagged.
“Look up at me, I said.”
He met Groves’ eyes.
“That’s nice. Good. Pretty blue eyes. Sweet mouth. Ah, God.” Groves’ cock moved back and forth in Martin’s mouth. “You’re making me do all the work here, Martin. Start sucking.”
It wasn’t happening. That was all. Not to him.
“Good. Good boy. That’s it. Fuck…oh, fuck yes.”
Stickiness on his face. A finger thrust in his mouth. Sourness, stickiness. He gagged again.
“Lick it off.”
Pale grey everywhere, except for those dark eyes. Burning eyes.
“I think I might let the lads have a little taste of you after all. No rough stuff, boys. You can fuck his face, but that’s all.”
Afterward, they locked him back up in the office. Hogtied again. Gagged with a flannel the ‘boys’ had wiped across Martin’s face, cleaning off what they’d done. Taped elbows, knees, thighs. He wasn’t going anywhere.
He didn’t care.
*
Author: Alex
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: John Finnemore, Pozzitive Productions for le BBC.
Summary: From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. Douglas gets in a little over his head in regards to his smuggling, but it's Martin who suffers for it.
Warnings: Nonconsensual sex.
Notes: This is my very first Cabin Pressure fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
PLEASE HEED WARNINGS IN THIS CHAPTER. THANK YOU.
Continued from Part 3
You can also find this fic on AO3
*
The scissors glowed in the dimness of the office, the curves of the grip as tempting as the sleek, shining, rounded lines of a new Gulfstream IV. Martin stared, hypnotized by their silvery sheen. They looked new, and therefore sharp. And they were close – less than three meters away.
He shut his eyes tightly and opened them again. They shone so brilliantly, the Excalibur of scissors, the means to his freedom.
No. NO. Out of all the bumbling, foolish ideas he’d had in his life, this was without a doubt the worst, and if he made the absolutely brainless, witless, ill-advised, thick-headed decision to try to get them, he would probably end up slicing his wrists open and bleeding to death on the concrete floor, too timid to attract the necessary attention that would alert his kidnappers to his imminent demise, not that they would transport him to hospital. They’d just let him bleed out on the concrete floor and laugh at him, ha ha, stupid git, serves you right. Look, Eddy, we didn’t even have to touch him.
Resolutely, Martin turned his face away. He wouldn’t make the attempt. He’d sit here for another day or so. It wasn’t so bad. He didn’t hurt so much now that they’d left off tying his hands and feet together, and he could breathe a bit more easily without the wide tape covering his mouth completely. It was chilly, but not enough for hypothermia. He was still thirsty, but people could go three days without water, even longer without food, and Douglas would be back soon enough. He’d manage. There would be Words with Douglas after this, though. Martin wouldn’t actually tell Carolyn about Douglas’ little jaunt to France (and God knows where else whilst her back was turned) but he wasn’t above a threat. Douglas deserved a bit of a scare after what he’d put Martin through.
Martin shifted miserably, trying to ease the ache in his shoulders. Why had Douglas called him a berk in front of Eddy and the other thugs? Wasn’t it enough that he teased and taunted Martin mercilessly – he had to kick him while he was down? It was like the worst schoolyard chanting he’d endured as a kid, magnified ten times. He’d thought there had been affection at times behind Douglas’ little jabs, but yesterday had proved him wrong. You didn’t say that sort of thing about a friend, especially not to nasty, frightening people who’d decided to take one hostage.
The worst of it was that if Douglas showed up now, with that odd cocktail of lackadaisical wit and dashing-pilot verve that he seemed to mix by feel, and untied Martin and hauled him to his feet, Martin would all but collapse in his arms out of sheer gratitude. Douglas was steady and reassuring; his quick thinking and resourcefulness had got Martin out of more scrapes than he could possibly count. Perhaps he’d only feigned disdain so that the smugglers wouldn’t regard Martin as valuable enough to be a hostage. Douglas was always two steps ahead of everyone else. Why that mattered now, he had no idea. But he hoped that was so. If the smugglers killed Martin, only Douglas would know. It would be nice to think that at least one person missed him.
But he didn’t want to die. It might have been his own stupid fault that he’d stumbled onto Douglas’ smuggling operation – he’d bloody well known Douglas was always at it, how else could Douglas have afforded his Lexus and lovely house, not to mention the upkeep of three ex-wives and a daughter? – but Martin didn’t want to simply lie still and wait for them to come and slit his throat, or worse.
He looked back at the scissors, gleaming silver, beckoning.
Oh, God….
He hurt. There was absolutely no point in trying to fool himself. He hurt so badly he wanted to scream. The human body wasn’t meant to be held bound and still for so long. Every muscle trembled, every nerve ending itched for freedom. His feet were numb from lack of circulation, and the prickly twine had gouged raw circles around his wrists. His jaw was sore, his mouth was dry, and his throat burned. What if he just…cut himself free and stayed exactly where he was? Eddy Groves and his huge, hulking sidekicks would know that he didn’t pose a threat to them.
Right. As if they needed to be told that.
Carefully, he drew his knees up to his chest, wincing at the ache, and planted his feet on the floor. Using the back of the desk as a bulwark, he inched upward, steadying himself until he was standing. He sat on the edge of the desk before his legs gave out, his breath coming in fluttery shivers. What if they came in and saw him? He’d be sunk. He couldn’t tell what time it was, nor hear anyone outside the door.
If they come in, I’ll just tell them I wanted to get off the cold floor, that’s all.
Three meters, a bit less. A matter of nothing to hop over there and grab them, and then with caution and dexterity – well, caution…a couple of quick slices and….
And then what?
Martin scowled. First things first. Getting over there, that was first.
He slid off the desk and felt the blood flowing down to his feet. They itched and tingled and finally hurt, but he waited it out, biting down hard on the knotted t-shirt in his mouth. It’ll pass, it’ll pass, he assured himself, and when it finally, finally did, he took a deep breath and flexed his knees a bit. If he was slight, he wasn’t without a certain wiry strength; complete and utter weaklings need not apply for a position as a man with a van. He stared at the scissors (they actually seemed to be calling to him now, or maybe that was just the blood singing in his ears) and then took one small, tentative hop forward.
Oh dear. Martin swayed a bit – it was difficult to balance with his hands tied – and then stood still. How many bloody hops to get three meters? He focused grimly and hopped again. Not bad. A bit better. He hopped again, a little further. Eight or nine more hops – God, he probably looked like a giant deranged bunny rabbit.
Maybe he could cut it to six if he tried to lengthen his jumps. He flexed his knees and hopped again, landing with one foot flat and the other slightly bent to one side. He teetered awkwardly, listed to port, and felt a wave of dizziness creeping up. Oh God, don’t black out now, NO. He listed again, overcorrected, and crashed to his knees on the concrete floor.
Twin spikes of anguish slammed into his kneecaps. Martin clenched his teeth on the gag, but a stifled wail of pain emerged nonetheless as he fell over onto his side and writhed, tears blurring his vision. He lay curled up, distantly amazed that he had any moisture left in his body for tears, and prayed for the agony to pass. His shoulder and elbow hurt now too because of his impact with the floor. Douglas had been right; he wasn’t just a berk, he was a disaster. He rested his feverish cheek against the cold floor and keened softly.
Douglas, please help me. Don’t let me die here.
When his vision cleared, he saw the scissors, less than two meters away. He’d fallen toward them.
Martin raised himself to the elbow that wasn’t throbbing and stared at them. They were taunting him now, just daring him to get a little closer. Maybe if he just wriggled a bit….
He moved forward, grunting, ignoring the twinges in his body that ordered him to stay still. He dragged himself closer, panting, until at last he reached the metal shelves. The scissors gleamed in mellow triumph, seeming to congratulate him. They were just at eye level, if he sat up. He tried to get to his knees, but the effort sent another nauseating wave of pain up and down his legs. Had he broken his kneecaps? Who did that, for God’s sake?
Frantic now, he looked around for a way to get the scissors down. He’d wedge his head inside the shelf except the space was quite narrow and he’d probably get stuck or something horrible like that. If there was something he could use for – ah! There was an aluminium curtain rod on the bottom shelf a little way over. Perhaps his luck wasn’t all bad.
He leaned over and grasped it, then shifted back and maneuvered it upward, trying to hook the grip of the scissors. Sweat misted his brow as he gently moved the rod back and forth, up and down – and then the bloody thing slipped and knocked the mug off the shelf. It crashed to the concrete floor with a noise far louder than any common coffee mug had a right to make.
Trembling, Martin waited for angry voices and the tramp of boots. He held his breath. They mightn’t kill him for what he’d done, but they wouldn’t be best pleased, either; he could expect a beating at the very least. Long moments passed, but there was no sound outside the office. They hadn’t heard.
He shuddered in mingled fear and relief, and carefully groped amongst the ceramic shards for the scissors, nearly sobbing when his hand closed around them. Come on, get a grip – you’ve still got to cut yourself free!
And then what?
Martin ignored the question and carefully turned the scissors in his numb hand. He cringed as the point dug into his flesh and forced himself to move slowly. There – he’d opened them, wedged one blade beneath the rope. He took a firmer grip on the handle and closed the scissors.
Nothing happened.
A little moan of frustration strangled itself in his throat. He’d turned the bloody thing sideways, hadn’t he? He repositioned them and tried again.
There. A little slice. Not much; they weren’t sharp after all. But Martin hadn’t taken his ATPL test eight times for nothing. If he had any virtues at all, patience was certainly one of them. He worked steadily, like a mouse nibbling at a nut, jabbing himself more than a few times, until finally, at last, thank God, the rope fell away from his wrists.
Another noise, this one of triumph, escaped him. He brought his arms from behind his back, heedless of the pain, and massaged his hands. He left his wrists alone – they looked awful, all raw and red, the skin torn away. When he felt a bit more normal, he reached down and cut the rope binding his ankles, gritting his teeth past the sparkling jabs of sensation, blood flowing back into oxygen-starved tissue. Finally he wrenched the gag out of his mouth and stretched his aching jaw. “Oh, God, oh, God,” he whispered. Free. It felt glorious.
Now what?
Now…. Martin glanced fearfully at the door, which had remained closed the entire time. Thank you, thank you, thank you, God. Maybe the smugglers had deserted the warehouse altogether. Maybe….
An ember of hope glowed in his chest. Perhaps there was a way round all of this –
“Oh!” Martin got to his feet, wobbled for a moment, then moved toward his anorak on the floor. He dug through the pockets, coming up with his mobile phone. He could have kissed it. That’s it. Phone Douglas, then the police. Find a place to hide until it’s all over. Eagerly, he flipped it open and saw a blank, black screen.
Maybe he’d forgot to turn it on. He thumbed the ON button and waited. The screen glowed, then flashed red. LOW BATTERY. RECHARGE NOW. Then the screen went black again.
Martin, who never used profanity, let out a long, low breath. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He hit the button again, and got the same curt message. “Fuck.”
Phone box. There had to be one somewhere. Or just some kind soul with a mobile – hadn’t Groves said there were people close by? Maybe he was in an industrial estate of some kind. Perhaps the call would have been useless – he’d no idea where he was and his cheap mobile wasn’t equipped with a GPS.
Of course, that would entail leaving the office.
He stared at the door, looming large and dark in front of him. What if those thugs were just outside? They’d hurt him, and then tie him up again, probably a lot tighter this time, and they’d make sure he was a good distance from any scissors.
But what if Groves had just told him that to intimidate him, to make certain that Martin behaved himself? Wouldn’t it be awfully stupid to just sit here if there was a chance he could get away?
Martin swallowed. God, he was dying for a drink of water and something to eat. Anything – a packet of crisps, a biscuit, even Surprising Rice would do the trick. He laughed and clapped a hand to his mouth, horrified at the spume of silly giggles that escaped him. Post-traumatic hysteria, doubtless. The manuals had mentioned that.
He slipped his mobile into his jeans pocket and pulled on his anorak, grateful for its flannel-lined warmth. Tiptoeing over to the desk, he opened the drawers, looking for something to eat. Lots of people kept nibbles at their desks, but apparently the owner of this desk was an abstemious soul – there was nothing but paper and office gear. Disappointed but undaunted, Martin stealthily searched the rest of the office and found a small, unopened bottle of water behind a stack of A4. He twisted off the cap and drank the whole thing at a draught, careful not to let it crackle too loudly as he squeezed the last drops of water from it. He felt it winding through his abused body in a bright trickle, nourishing him. So delicious.
Now that he was up, he couldn’t just sit still. He moved quietly to the door and put his ear to the old-fashioned keyhole. Silence. He peered into it, but saw only darkness. Maybe that was a trick that only worked in the movies. Would it be so awful to look out, if he was really quiet?
Martin shuddered, then carefully grasped the handle and twisted. It may have been old, but it was kept oiled, and moved silently, easily, as did the hinges. Martin opened the door a crack and looked out anxiously.
The corridor was empty. It was quiet, and totally, utterly empty.
Blood pounded in Martin’s ears as he swung the door open a little wider and slipped out. Soundlessly, he closed the door behind him and took two cautious steps forward. There was the loo door, and another that said CLEANING SUPPLIES, and two that were unlabelled. He took another hesitant step forward. One of the doors had a square pane of reinforced glass; Martin saw with a jolt that it opened onto what seemed to be the main room of the warehouse. And there was Tony and Pete and – and he didn’t know the other one’s name, but he was there as well, sleeping in a chair. God, they had stayed the night!
Go back into the office, Martin commanded himself. Don’t do anything stupid --
There was a bang from the warehouse, and Martin saw Eddy Groves striding in with his mobile plastered to his ear. He wore a smart navy raincoat over another expensive suit and carried a very nice briefcase, almost as if he were a posh City banker rather than a drug smuggler. Martin had always imagined drug smugglers looking a bit flashy, with long, low sports cars and lots of gold rings.
Eddy was striding straight toward him, and his thugs had fallen in behind him.
No! Martin looked around in terror, then bolted for the last unmarked door at the end of the hallway. He tugged on the handle, his breath coming in ragged, panicky gasps, and then realized he had to depress the lever atop it first. He pushed it down, pulled the handle, and took in a dim alley - outside.
Oh, God, please –
The sky was almost black and pouring rain, but he didn’t care. He ran stumbling down the alley, slipping on the muddy pavement, and turned a corner just as the door banged open again.
“There he is!”
No, no – Martin put on a burst of speed and ran almost directly into a wire-mesh fence. Without thinking, he hooked his fingers into the wire and scrambled up.
“Fucking hell –“
They were right behind him. Please, no! He scrambled higher, reached out to grab hold of the fence, and closed his hand on something sharp. He let out a yelp, lost his balance, and fell backward. Hands grabbed at his arms and broke his fall. They’d caught him.
“No,” Martin pleaded hoarsely. “Please, no.” He looked wildly around, and saw a car park beyond the wire fence. “Help me.” Louder, you BERK. Last chance! “Help me! HELP!”
Pete, his erstwhile loo tormentor, drove a fist into his midsection. Martin gasped for air as they dragged him backward, back into the warehouse, and flung him down at Eddy Groves’ feet. Martin saw a brief flash of rage in Groves’ eyes before the men fell on him, punching and kicking with ferocious glee. Martin crumpled under the onslaught, curling up to protect himself, but it didn’t help.
“Little fuck. I’m going to fucking kill you.”
Someone kicked him in the chest, and he couldn’t get air. I can’t breathe I’m going to die sorry Douglas I’m sorry—
“That’s enough!” The voice came from a distance, as if Martin were at the bottom of a well. “Get him up.”
The hands dragged Martin up to his knees and held his arms. Oh God I think I did break my kneecaps! He still felt the crushing pain in his chest. Broke a rib, I think. Hurts….
Groves was still on the phone. “You’re bloody lucky, you know. No, I’m not going to let you talk to him, you fucking stupid sod. You ought to be on your fucking knees thanking Christ we got him back, because if the little berk had got away, your fucking head would be on the fucking chopping block, do you understand me? Yes? Good. Good.” Groves’ face was white, and he was breathing hard. “Right. Okay.”
Martin gazed blearily up at Groves. “Douglas?” he rasped. “Douglas.”
Hard fingers dug into his jaw. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Martin says hello,” Groves said, his eyes flicking contemptuously over Martin’s battered and bedraggled figure. “No, you can see him tomorrow. I’m very fucking annoyed right now, Douglas. Am I making myself clear? Very fucking annoyed. No. No. If one more thing goes wrong, I promise your little friend is fucked.” Groves paused and gave Martin another once-over. “Right, I’m through talking to you. The next time I want to talk to you is when we see you back at Fitton.” He rang off and rubbed his eyes.
“What do you want us to do with him, Eddy?”
“Give me a fucking minute, will you?” Groves snarled. “You bloody idiots can’t even keep a weedy little twerp contained for ten fucking hours.”
“You’re the one who said just wrists and ankles,” Pete pointed out. “If it were me, I’d have hogtied him again.”
“Oh, piss off.” Groves kicked a chair, sending it spinning across the concrete floor. He leaned close to Martin, slowly twining his fingers in Martin’s hair and yanking his head backward. “What were you planning to do, Martin? Were you going to go to the police?”
Martin stared into Eddy Groves’ dark eyes and shook with fear. “I-I- I was –“
“Because that was stupid, what you just did, Martin. Very, very stupid.” Groves’ voice grew softer and softer. “And I’m afraid that we’re going to have to make sure that you don’t make another stupid mistake like that again.”
Martin choked back a sob of pure fear. “You are going to get caught one day, you know. You c-c-can’t treat people like this and get away with it forever.”
Groves smiled. “Why ever not?” He slipped his mobile in his raincoat pocket, then shrugged out of it, draping it over a shelf. “Hold him still.”
The thugs on either side of him grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back. Martin struggled halfheartedly. There was no getting away; they were going to beat him to a pulp.
Groves’ hand moved to his trousers, and he unbuttoned them.
Martin watched, uncomprehending, for a moment. Then he saw a flash of pale-grey underwear, and realized what was happening. “No. No, no, no –“ He struggled wildly now, straining to get away, back to the office, flat on the floor, anywhere but where he was right now, helpless as a pinned butterfly.
“Shh.” Groves laid a finger on Martin’s mouth. “As punishments go, it’s not so bad. You should see what they do to pretty boys like you in prison, Martin. You are rather pretty, for a stupid fucking berk.” The thugs chuckled.
Groves lowered his underwear.
“Don’t.” Martin couldn’t breathe. “Please. Please don’t.”
“Open your mouth.”
Martin shook his head and folded his lips together as tightly as he could.
Groves stroked Martin’s cheek. “You do it, or I let my boys here do whatever they want to you. Bad idea, Martin. Tony acquired a particular liking for fisting in prison. Trust me, you don’t want his arm up your arse. It’s huge.”
Martin lowered his head. He couldn’t, he couldn’t -- not like this….
A hand slipped under his chin and tilted it up with surprising gentleness. “Come on now, Martin. Don’t cry, not yet.” Groves’ thumb brushed at the wetness beneath Martin’s eye. “You don’t want me to get violent.”
He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be hurt more than he already was. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth.
“Wider.”
Someone please help me…. But there was no one who could help him, not now. Briefly, he twisted against the hands holding him, but it was useless. Douglas.
“Come on. Wider.”
He opened wider. Groves pushed his cock into Martin’s mouth.
“Ah. No biting, Martin, or I’ll fucking kill you.” Groves put his hands on either side of Martin’s head. “Open your eyes and look up at me.”
Martin opened his eyes. He looked at what he was doing and gagged.
“Look up at me, I said.”
He met Groves’ eyes.
“That’s nice. Good. Pretty blue eyes. Sweet mouth. Ah, God.” Groves’ cock moved back and forth in Martin’s mouth. “You’re making me do all the work here, Martin. Start sucking.”
It wasn’t happening. That was all. Not to him.
“Good. Good boy. That’s it. Fuck…oh, fuck yes.”
Stickiness on his face. A finger thrust in his mouth. Sourness, stickiness. He gagged again.
“Lick it off.”
Pale grey everywhere, except for those dark eyes. Burning eyes.
“I think I might let the lads have a little taste of you after all. No rough stuff, boys. You can fuck his face, but that’s all.”
Afterward, they locked him back up in the office. Hogtied again. Gagged with a flannel the ‘boys’ had wiped across Martin’s face, cleaning off what they’d done. Taped elbows, knees, thighs. He wasn’t going anywhere.
He didn’t care.
*
