FIC: Gone Horribly Wrong [5/?]
Mar. 25th, 2012 04:02 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.
Continued from Part 4
You can also find this fic on AO3
Given the fact that the last twenty-four hours had been a hellish nightmare, it was perhaps surprising that the trip home, by contrast, went terribly well. True, there was a five-hour fog delay at Orly, the lineup had been horrendous, Douglas was filled with nearly enough coffee to power GERTI without the additional encumbrance of aviation fuel, and a combination of dread, fatigue, and caffeine was hardly optimal for piloting a Lockheed McDonnell, but all that considered, the journey was surely a success rather than a failure. He ignored the hoovering on the sound theory that Carolyn would blame Arthur for the state of the carpets under any circumstances, locked up, and made his way to the office…which was totally dark.
Tamping down a surge of panic-induced nausea, Douglas fished out his mobile and punched in Eddy’s number.
“Hello?”
“It’s Douglas. I’m at the office.” And don’t see you here, you wretched sack of dung.
“Right. We’re here, Douglas, don’t worry. I had the boys park just outside the airfield gates. Better not to attract too much attention, don’t you think?”
“Is Martin with you?” Douglas barked.
“For Christ’s sake…of course he’s with me, where else would he be? Are you coming?”
“I’ve got to get my car. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“See you then,” Eddy replied cheerily before ringing off. Douglas growled a curse at the mobile, then made a dash through the rain for the car park.
The windscreen wipers made a comforting metronomic swish across the glass as he drove to the outer gates, but even so, his grip on the wheel whitened his knuckles. He’d spent the last thirty hours, with a hard-got four-hour respite of uneasy sleep, worrying about Martin: what he’d done (an escape attempt, that was clear enough, and in his heart Douglas had cheered Martin’s courage even as he’d cursed his foolhardiness; he didn’t think Martin had that sort of bravery in him) and what Eddy and his minions had done to Martin in return (a beating, certainly, though Douglas hoped not too severe. Surely Eddy saw Martin as something less than a serious threat to his operations). Tickling behind that worry was the knowledge that Martin was suffering (not, Douglas hoped, too much) because of Douglas. And behind that, perhaps worst of all, was the unpleasant and inevitable consciousness that his streak of good luck had reached its end. If Martin didn’t tell Carolyn about this debacle (and of course he would; Douglas expected no less) then he would likely have to endure Martin’s disapproval over every slightly to the left of legal piece of cargo brought on board. It was appallingly selfish, but Douglas had made a nice little extra nest egg from his illicit activities, dismissal from Air England notwithstanding, and he was understandably reluctant to part ways with comfort.
But at least this particular ugliness was over. He’d drive Martin home, generously phone a vehicle recovery service for Martin’s horrid van, perhaps give him a percentage (a small percentage) of the fee to persuade him to stay quiet and not open his mouth to Carolyn, and all would be well.
He hoped.
There was a large BMW parked outside the gate with its lights on. Douglas slid opposite and got out. Eddy emerged from the car and popped open a large golf umbrella. “Evening, Douglas.”
“Hello.” Douglas peered into Eddy’s empty car and fixed him with a furious glare. “You said Martin was with you.”
“He is.” Eddy turned and waved, and a set of van lights came on. The doors opened, and the goons piled out, then pulled Martin out and yanked him over to Eddy’s car.
“Good God –“ Douglas recoiled. Even in the spotty Lexus headlights, he saw that Martin’s face sported a black eye, cuts, and a split, swollen lower lip. Martin stumbled, and as two of the thugs steadied him, he bent over a little, gasping in pain. They’d broken a rib or two, Douglas realised, and his hands curled into fists of helpless rage. The thugs stopped beside the car and grinned at him. Martin, imprisoned between them and looking worrisomely frail, more so than Douglas had ever seen him, cast his eyes down and breathed in short, shallow pants. “Martin,” Douglas said softly, “are you all right?”
“Oh, he’s fine. A bit worse for wear, but no permanent damage. Right, Martin?”
Martin kept his eyes fixed on the ground and didn’t answer. Eddy leant forward and patted his cheek, and Martin cringed away.
“Leave him alone, Eddy. I think you’ve done quite enough.” Douglas hadn’t been in a physical fight in more than ten years and hadn’t had the urge since, but now he felt a sincere and powerful desire to beat Eddy Groves’ face to a bloody pulp.
Eddy smiled. “Yes, you might be right at that.”
“And I think you can let him go, now that our…transaction is concluded.”
“But that’s just it. We’re not quite done, you and Martin and I.” Eddy reached out, drew Martin away from the goons, and put an arm round his shoulders. Martin visibly flinched, but wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t look at Douglas, and held his body as far away as he could. “Jasper, pay the man, please.”
Douglas looked at the wad of cash the thug held out as though it were covered in snot. “I don’t want your money.”
Eddy smiled. “It’s not a public service you’ve performed, Douglas.”
“All the same.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Then let me be perfectly blunt.” Douglas bit off each word and spat it out. “You’ve hurt my friend, and I’m not taking your cash. And I’m afraid I won’t be available for future engagements either. So sorry.”
“Ah.” Eddy released Martin and took the cash from Jasper’s hand. He handed the umbrella to Jasper and moved close to Douglas, a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then we have a problem. You see, if you don’t take my cash, then I’ll owe you a favour, and I make it a point never to owe favours.”
“Trust me, in no way –“
“I didn’t fucking ask you to speak, did I? No. You’ll take the money, or I’ll have the boys break both your legs.” He slipped the money into Douglas’ pocket and patted it, then moved back under the umbrella and put his arm round Martin’s shoulders again. “Job well done, Douglas. Thanks. Now both of you –“ He patted Martin’s bruised cheek, and Martin flinched again. “Listen to me. If either of you decide that the police should be involved in this little affair, then we have a very serious problem. If you call them – if any of my boys are apprehended – then I’m going to personally make sure Martin suffers, and I’ll take you down for smuggling, Dougie. If I should happen to be arrested, then you’re dead. Both of you. It’s only a matter of deciding which of you dies first, but either way it’s going to be slow and excruciating. It’s not difficult to find either of you. Are we clear on that?”
Martin lifted his head and looked in Douglas’ eyes. His face, battered as it was, was blank. His eyes were dull with exhaustion and pain and something else Douglas couldn’t identify. Too much fear, perhaps. Douglas shook his head slightly, trying to reassure Martin without words. Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.
Martin looked down at the ground again.
“Are you having a touching romantic moment?” Eddy snapped. “I want to know if you managed to comprehend what I’ve just said.”
“I understand,” Douglas replied. He gave Eddy a look that would have turned lesser mortals to stone.
“Good. Well, Martin here has certainly kept us on our toes – I just want to make sure it’s understood.” Eddy reached into his pocket and extracted a smaller bundle of cash, then slid it into Martin’s jeans pocket in a gesture Douglas found unpleasantly intimate. “Your cut, Martin. Good boy.”
They all stood in silent tableau for a moment, the only sound the idling engines of their vehicles, and Douglas had a fleeting impression that they must have looked like a bad spy movie - I’ve got the negatives, now give me the kid. “I assume we’re finished.”
“I suppose. Though don’t be too hasty about refusing more work, Douglas. Think it over, at least.”
Douglas held out a hand. “Come on, Martin.”
Eddy took his arm from Martin’s shoulders, but Martin didn’t move. Eddy chuckled. “I think he wants to stay.”
“Martin,” Douglas said quietly.
Martin took a tentative step forward, and Douglas moved to gather him close. Martin twitched away, opened the car door, and slid in.
“Bye, Martin!” Eddy called. He wiggled his fingers at Douglas. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I hope you rot in hell.”
Eddy shrugged. “Well, we’ll see. Good-bye, Douglas.” He stepped into his car, the thugs got back into the van, and both vehicles glided away into the rainy night.
Douglas got into the Lexus and switched on the bright overhead. “Martin, are you all right?”
Martin was turned toward the window. “I’m fine.”
“I doubt that.” Douglas put the car in gear and drove off. He kept one eye on the road, the other on Martin, hunched over motionless in the passenger seat. The adrenaline of the encounter was starting to wear off, and he longed to pull the car over and fall asleep despite the jittery sensation in his limbs and chest. Far too much caffeine. He stifled a yawn and drove grimly.
After five minutes of silence, Martin sat up. “Where are you going? This isn’t the way to my flat.”
“No, it isn’t. I’m taking you to Fitton Hospital.”
“No!” Martin’s body gave a convulsive jerk, as if he were trying to escape the safety belt. “No, Douglas. I just want to go home.”
“Martin, you’re injured. I can tell by the way you walked that they broke a rib, and you’ve no doubt other injuries that need attention. We’re going to Fitton Hospital.”
“No. Stop the car.”
“What on earth –“
“Stop the car!” Martin reached out and grasped the wheel.
“For God’s sake –“ Douglas grabbed Martin’s hand reflexively and gasped. “Martin, your –“
Martin snatched his hand away and turned back toward the window. “Leave me alone.”
Douglas pulled over and switched on his hazard lights. “Martin, let me see your hand again.”
“No.”
“Martin.”
With a furious exhalation of breath, Martin thrust his right hand at Douglas. Douglas took it gently, pushed up the sleeve of Martin’s anorak, and examined the angry welts and raw red circles against the pale skin of his wrist. “You have to have this looked at.”
“If you don’t turn around and take me back to my flat, I’m going to jump out of the car and walk.”
“You can’t just ignore this.” Your fault, Douglas Richardson. Your fault this happened to him. “It’s going to get infected if it’s not properly looked after.”
Martin extracted his hand from Douglas’ grasp and folded his arms tightly together. “And what do I tell them, Douglas? What do I say when they ask what happened to me?”
“You can tell them you were…attacked. Robbed.”
“Oh, right. They’ll believe that.” Martin’s voice oozed scorn. “They’re not complete half-wits, you know. They’ll be able to tell how old my injuries are, and they’ll want to know why I didn’t come immediately. Then they’ll want to involve the police. And maybe you weren’t attending when Eddy Groves was talking, or maybe you didn’t take him seriously, because God knows you never take anything seriously, but I did. I’m not talking to the police. Now are you going to take me home, or should I walk?”
There were few times in his life when Douglas was paralysed by indecision, and this was one of those times. On one hand, Martin obviously needed medical attention. His face, his rib (or ribs; Eddy and his thugs had clearly given him the beating of a lifetime) and those ugly marks on his wrist (and presumably on the other) – all were awful-looking, and the last thing Martin needed was an infection on top of his injuries; on the other hand, he was right about the police. Martin was certain to crumble under direct questioning, and if he told the police, there would be inquiries. Eddy and his boys might be arrested, and Douglas had no doubt that Eddy would make good on his promise. Too, if he were entirely honest with himself, he had no desire to be arrested for smuggling either.
Douglas Richardson, you are a low, cowardly, craven, white-livered sod.
Correction. He was a low, cowardly, craven, white-livered sod who was going to spend his life out of prison. He turned off his hazards, then swung the car round and drove back to Martin’s flat in silence and a shame so great that it permeated every fibre of his body with a low red throbbing. Beside him, Martin was wordless, curled up on the seat like a child.
Every light save the attic was on in the house Martin shared with the Fitton Ag students. A few people loitered outside, chattering and giggling and drinking beer, and the deep thump of dance music came from the open windows. Douglas glanced at Martin. “I can take you to my house, if you like. It’s quiet there.”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“Martin.” Douglas laid a restraining hand on Martin’s arm. Martin looked at him, and Douglas’ heart contracted with guilt. He looked so…wounded. “Martin, I’m sorry. If I could take it back, I swear, I’d never….” He shook his head. “I’d understand completely if you told Carolyn. I’m so sorry.”
“Yes. I expect you are.” Martin’s voice shook.
Impulsively, Douglas reached into his pocket and pulled out the bundle of cash Eddy had stuffed inside. “Here. I don’t want this. It’s –“ Tainted, he wanted to say, but didn’t. “You should have it.”
It was the wrong thing to say entirely. Martin’s faltering stoic expression collapsed. His eyes clouded over, and he drew a deep, shuddering breath. “No,” he whispered, then opened the car door and slid out slowly. He closed it firmly and headed for the stairs.
Douglas watched as Martin ascended the steps slowly, nodding to the students outside. Someone held out a beer, but Martin shook his head and went inside. Thankfully for Martin, the outdoor light was extinguished, so he was spared any concerned inquiries.
Go in after him, Douglas admonished himself sternly. It’s your bloody fault he looks and feels so wretched – the least you can do is help to patch him up if he won’t go to hospital. Christ knows he won’t look after himself properly.
He feared a rebuff, though. Cool, poised, charismatic Douglas Richardson, the very embodiment of unconquerable confidence and aplomb, was afraid that Martin Crieff would cut him. And Martin would be right to do so. Quite right indeed.
I’ll speak to him in a few days, when we’re back at work. Apologise and hope he doesn’t tell Carolyn. But if he did, Douglas would accept it. Even if it meant Carolyn sacking him.
He drove away, toward home. On the way he called his vehicle recovery service and arranged for them to pick up Martin’s van in Luton and tow it to a garage. Douglas would pay all expenses. It was the least he could do.
The very least.
*
Five days later, Martin’s van wasn’t in the car park, though Douglas knew it had been repaired and driven to Martin’s house, and Martin was always punctual – indeed, early, boyishly eager to get into the sky. With not a little trepidation Douglas made his way into the office. Carolyn was there, a thundercloud on her brow. “Douglas. A word.” She pointed to a vacant chair.
The jig, as they say, was up. “Certainly, Carolyn.” Douglas seated himself smoothly and arranged a pleasant expression on his face. His heart thudded dolefully in his chest.
“First of all, Mr. Broughton cancelled for today. He, as well as nearly his entire hunting party, has come down with some sort of tummy distress and thought it would be best, fortunately for all of us, not to decorate the cabin with vomit. But that’s not what I want to speak to you about. I had a little chat with Martin this morning.”
“Yes?”
“Would you care to tell me exactly what is going on?”
Ugh. “I can’t think what you mean.”
“He came in looking as though he’d tangled with a leopard, Douglas, and announced that he was taking a leave of absence. Announced, mind you, not asked.”
Douglas felt the blood drain from his face. Relief, or more worry? He couldn’t tell. “Is that so?”
“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know something about it. What on earth happened to him?”
“What did he say happened to him?” Douglas hedged.
“He said that he was attacked and robbed, but you know Martin – he couldn’t lie if his life depended on it.”
Douglas winced.
“He’s almost as bad as Arthur, and heaven knows Arthur’s the worst liar on the face of God’s green earth,” Carolyn went on. “When I asked him if you knew, he squirmed for what seemed an interminable amount of time, and then muttered something about you possibly being aware of things. So I’m asking you – what really happened to him?”
Douglas could well imagine that basilisk stare intimidating Martin. How he’d have coped with the pointed inquiries of hospital staff, Douglas had no idea. “He told me he was robbed as well. Did he look dreadful?”
“Of course he looked dreadful,” Carolyn snapped. “Ghastly yellow-green bruises all over his face, and he walked as if his body hurt. I asked him if he’d been to hospital and he simply dodged the question. Terribly annoying. But why a leave of absence? Surely it won’t take him that long to heal.”
“Surely not,” Douglas murmured. If Martin was taking a leave of absence from flying, his greatest and dearest love, then things were quite bad indeed. But he hadn’t told Carolyn about the smuggling. Martin had protected him.
The guilt surged again, and Douglas covered his eyes with his hands.
“Douglas, what in God’s name are you doing? Pay attention, please. I’ve got to find a relief pilot as soon as possible. Cheap.”
“Did he say what he planned to do whilst on leave, Carolyn?”
Carolyn blinked. “No. Do you suppose that I asked him for a detailed itinerary?”
“Hardly. Did he say how long he would be gone?”
“Two weeks. Now may we concentrate on the matter at hand?”
“Get Herc.” Douglas rose to his feet. “Go snatch someone from EasyJet. Steal someone from the work experience queue. Really, Carolyn, if anyone can work it out, you can.” He closed the door on her indignation and strode to his car.
*
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.
Continued from Part 4
You can also find this fic on AO3
Given the fact that the last twenty-four hours had been a hellish nightmare, it was perhaps surprising that the trip home, by contrast, went terribly well. True, there was a five-hour fog delay at Orly, the lineup had been horrendous, Douglas was filled with nearly enough coffee to power GERTI without the additional encumbrance of aviation fuel, and a combination of dread, fatigue, and caffeine was hardly optimal for piloting a Lockheed McDonnell, but all that considered, the journey was surely a success rather than a failure. He ignored the hoovering on the sound theory that Carolyn would blame Arthur for the state of the carpets under any circumstances, locked up, and made his way to the office…which was totally dark.
Tamping down a surge of panic-induced nausea, Douglas fished out his mobile and punched in Eddy’s number.
“Hello?”
“It’s Douglas. I’m at the office.” And don’t see you here, you wretched sack of dung.
“Right. We’re here, Douglas, don’t worry. I had the boys park just outside the airfield gates. Better not to attract too much attention, don’t you think?”
“Is Martin with you?” Douglas barked.
“For Christ’s sake…of course he’s with me, where else would he be? Are you coming?”
“I’ve got to get my car. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“See you then,” Eddy replied cheerily before ringing off. Douglas growled a curse at the mobile, then made a dash through the rain for the car park.
The windscreen wipers made a comforting metronomic swish across the glass as he drove to the outer gates, but even so, his grip on the wheel whitened his knuckles. He’d spent the last thirty hours, with a hard-got four-hour respite of uneasy sleep, worrying about Martin: what he’d done (an escape attempt, that was clear enough, and in his heart Douglas had cheered Martin’s courage even as he’d cursed his foolhardiness; he didn’t think Martin had that sort of bravery in him) and what Eddy and his minions had done to Martin in return (a beating, certainly, though Douglas hoped not too severe. Surely Eddy saw Martin as something less than a serious threat to his operations). Tickling behind that worry was the knowledge that Martin was suffering (not, Douglas hoped, too much) because of Douglas. And behind that, perhaps worst of all, was the unpleasant and inevitable consciousness that his streak of good luck had reached its end. If Martin didn’t tell Carolyn about this debacle (and of course he would; Douglas expected no less) then he would likely have to endure Martin’s disapproval over every slightly to the left of legal piece of cargo brought on board. It was appallingly selfish, but Douglas had made a nice little extra nest egg from his illicit activities, dismissal from Air England notwithstanding, and he was understandably reluctant to part ways with comfort.
But at least this particular ugliness was over. He’d drive Martin home, generously phone a vehicle recovery service for Martin’s horrid van, perhaps give him a percentage (a small percentage) of the fee to persuade him to stay quiet and not open his mouth to Carolyn, and all would be well.
He hoped.
There was a large BMW parked outside the gate with its lights on. Douglas slid opposite and got out. Eddy emerged from the car and popped open a large golf umbrella. “Evening, Douglas.”
“Hello.” Douglas peered into Eddy’s empty car and fixed him with a furious glare. “You said Martin was with you.”
“He is.” Eddy turned and waved, and a set of van lights came on. The doors opened, and the goons piled out, then pulled Martin out and yanked him over to Eddy’s car.
“Good God –“ Douglas recoiled. Even in the spotty Lexus headlights, he saw that Martin’s face sported a black eye, cuts, and a split, swollen lower lip. Martin stumbled, and as two of the thugs steadied him, he bent over a little, gasping in pain. They’d broken a rib or two, Douglas realised, and his hands curled into fists of helpless rage. The thugs stopped beside the car and grinned at him. Martin, imprisoned between them and looking worrisomely frail, more so than Douglas had ever seen him, cast his eyes down and breathed in short, shallow pants. “Martin,” Douglas said softly, “are you all right?”
“Oh, he’s fine. A bit worse for wear, but no permanent damage. Right, Martin?”
Martin kept his eyes fixed on the ground and didn’t answer. Eddy leant forward and patted his cheek, and Martin cringed away.
“Leave him alone, Eddy. I think you’ve done quite enough.” Douglas hadn’t been in a physical fight in more than ten years and hadn’t had the urge since, but now he felt a sincere and powerful desire to beat Eddy Groves’ face to a bloody pulp.
Eddy smiled. “Yes, you might be right at that.”
“And I think you can let him go, now that our…transaction is concluded.”
“But that’s just it. We’re not quite done, you and Martin and I.” Eddy reached out, drew Martin away from the goons, and put an arm round his shoulders. Martin visibly flinched, but wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t look at Douglas, and held his body as far away as he could. “Jasper, pay the man, please.”
Douglas looked at the wad of cash the thug held out as though it were covered in snot. “I don’t want your money.”
Eddy smiled. “It’s not a public service you’ve performed, Douglas.”
“All the same.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Then let me be perfectly blunt.” Douglas bit off each word and spat it out. “You’ve hurt my friend, and I’m not taking your cash. And I’m afraid I won’t be available for future engagements either. So sorry.”
“Ah.” Eddy released Martin and took the cash from Jasper’s hand. He handed the umbrella to Jasper and moved close to Douglas, a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then we have a problem. You see, if you don’t take my cash, then I’ll owe you a favour, and I make it a point never to owe favours.”
“Trust me, in no way –“
“I didn’t fucking ask you to speak, did I? No. You’ll take the money, or I’ll have the boys break both your legs.” He slipped the money into Douglas’ pocket and patted it, then moved back under the umbrella and put his arm round Martin’s shoulders again. “Job well done, Douglas. Thanks. Now both of you –“ He patted Martin’s bruised cheek, and Martin flinched again. “Listen to me. If either of you decide that the police should be involved in this little affair, then we have a very serious problem. If you call them – if any of my boys are apprehended – then I’m going to personally make sure Martin suffers, and I’ll take you down for smuggling, Dougie. If I should happen to be arrested, then you’re dead. Both of you. It’s only a matter of deciding which of you dies first, but either way it’s going to be slow and excruciating. It’s not difficult to find either of you. Are we clear on that?”
Martin lifted his head and looked in Douglas’ eyes. His face, battered as it was, was blank. His eyes were dull with exhaustion and pain and something else Douglas couldn’t identify. Too much fear, perhaps. Douglas shook his head slightly, trying to reassure Martin without words. Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.
Martin looked down at the ground again.
“Are you having a touching romantic moment?” Eddy snapped. “I want to know if you managed to comprehend what I’ve just said.”
“I understand,” Douglas replied. He gave Eddy a look that would have turned lesser mortals to stone.
“Good. Well, Martin here has certainly kept us on our toes – I just want to make sure it’s understood.” Eddy reached into his pocket and extracted a smaller bundle of cash, then slid it into Martin’s jeans pocket in a gesture Douglas found unpleasantly intimate. “Your cut, Martin. Good boy.”
They all stood in silent tableau for a moment, the only sound the idling engines of their vehicles, and Douglas had a fleeting impression that they must have looked like a bad spy movie - I’ve got the negatives, now give me the kid. “I assume we’re finished.”
“I suppose. Though don’t be too hasty about refusing more work, Douglas. Think it over, at least.”
Douglas held out a hand. “Come on, Martin.”
Eddy took his arm from Martin’s shoulders, but Martin didn’t move. Eddy chuckled. “I think he wants to stay.”
“Martin,” Douglas said quietly.
Martin took a tentative step forward, and Douglas moved to gather him close. Martin twitched away, opened the car door, and slid in.
“Bye, Martin!” Eddy called. He wiggled his fingers at Douglas. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I hope you rot in hell.”
Eddy shrugged. “Well, we’ll see. Good-bye, Douglas.” He stepped into his car, the thugs got back into the van, and both vehicles glided away into the rainy night.
Douglas got into the Lexus and switched on the bright overhead. “Martin, are you all right?”
Martin was turned toward the window. “I’m fine.”
“I doubt that.” Douglas put the car in gear and drove off. He kept one eye on the road, the other on Martin, hunched over motionless in the passenger seat. The adrenaline of the encounter was starting to wear off, and he longed to pull the car over and fall asleep despite the jittery sensation in his limbs and chest. Far too much caffeine. He stifled a yawn and drove grimly.
After five minutes of silence, Martin sat up. “Where are you going? This isn’t the way to my flat.”
“No, it isn’t. I’m taking you to Fitton Hospital.”
“No!” Martin’s body gave a convulsive jerk, as if he were trying to escape the safety belt. “No, Douglas. I just want to go home.”
“Martin, you’re injured. I can tell by the way you walked that they broke a rib, and you’ve no doubt other injuries that need attention. We’re going to Fitton Hospital.”
“No. Stop the car.”
“What on earth –“
“Stop the car!” Martin reached out and grasped the wheel.
“For God’s sake –“ Douglas grabbed Martin’s hand reflexively and gasped. “Martin, your –“
Martin snatched his hand away and turned back toward the window. “Leave me alone.”
Douglas pulled over and switched on his hazard lights. “Martin, let me see your hand again.”
“No.”
“Martin.”
With a furious exhalation of breath, Martin thrust his right hand at Douglas. Douglas took it gently, pushed up the sleeve of Martin’s anorak, and examined the angry welts and raw red circles against the pale skin of his wrist. “You have to have this looked at.”
“If you don’t turn around and take me back to my flat, I’m going to jump out of the car and walk.”
“You can’t just ignore this.” Your fault, Douglas Richardson. Your fault this happened to him. “It’s going to get infected if it’s not properly looked after.”
Martin extracted his hand from Douglas’ grasp and folded his arms tightly together. “And what do I tell them, Douglas? What do I say when they ask what happened to me?”
“You can tell them you were…attacked. Robbed.”
“Oh, right. They’ll believe that.” Martin’s voice oozed scorn. “They’re not complete half-wits, you know. They’ll be able to tell how old my injuries are, and they’ll want to know why I didn’t come immediately. Then they’ll want to involve the police. And maybe you weren’t attending when Eddy Groves was talking, or maybe you didn’t take him seriously, because God knows you never take anything seriously, but I did. I’m not talking to the police. Now are you going to take me home, or should I walk?”
There were few times in his life when Douglas was paralysed by indecision, and this was one of those times. On one hand, Martin obviously needed medical attention. His face, his rib (or ribs; Eddy and his thugs had clearly given him the beating of a lifetime) and those ugly marks on his wrist (and presumably on the other) – all were awful-looking, and the last thing Martin needed was an infection on top of his injuries; on the other hand, he was right about the police. Martin was certain to crumble under direct questioning, and if he told the police, there would be inquiries. Eddy and his boys might be arrested, and Douglas had no doubt that Eddy would make good on his promise. Too, if he were entirely honest with himself, he had no desire to be arrested for smuggling either.
Douglas Richardson, you are a low, cowardly, craven, white-livered sod.
Correction. He was a low, cowardly, craven, white-livered sod who was going to spend his life out of prison. He turned off his hazards, then swung the car round and drove back to Martin’s flat in silence and a shame so great that it permeated every fibre of his body with a low red throbbing. Beside him, Martin was wordless, curled up on the seat like a child.
Every light save the attic was on in the house Martin shared with the Fitton Ag students. A few people loitered outside, chattering and giggling and drinking beer, and the deep thump of dance music came from the open windows. Douglas glanced at Martin. “I can take you to my house, if you like. It’s quiet there.”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“Martin.” Douglas laid a restraining hand on Martin’s arm. Martin looked at him, and Douglas’ heart contracted with guilt. He looked so…wounded. “Martin, I’m sorry. If I could take it back, I swear, I’d never….” He shook his head. “I’d understand completely if you told Carolyn. I’m so sorry.”
“Yes. I expect you are.” Martin’s voice shook.
Impulsively, Douglas reached into his pocket and pulled out the bundle of cash Eddy had stuffed inside. “Here. I don’t want this. It’s –“ Tainted, he wanted to say, but didn’t. “You should have it.”
It was the wrong thing to say entirely. Martin’s faltering stoic expression collapsed. His eyes clouded over, and he drew a deep, shuddering breath. “No,” he whispered, then opened the car door and slid out slowly. He closed it firmly and headed for the stairs.
Douglas watched as Martin ascended the steps slowly, nodding to the students outside. Someone held out a beer, but Martin shook his head and went inside. Thankfully for Martin, the outdoor light was extinguished, so he was spared any concerned inquiries.
Go in after him, Douglas admonished himself sternly. It’s your bloody fault he looks and feels so wretched – the least you can do is help to patch him up if he won’t go to hospital. Christ knows he won’t look after himself properly.
He feared a rebuff, though. Cool, poised, charismatic Douglas Richardson, the very embodiment of unconquerable confidence and aplomb, was afraid that Martin Crieff would cut him. And Martin would be right to do so. Quite right indeed.
I’ll speak to him in a few days, when we’re back at work. Apologise and hope he doesn’t tell Carolyn. But if he did, Douglas would accept it. Even if it meant Carolyn sacking him.
He drove away, toward home. On the way he called his vehicle recovery service and arranged for them to pick up Martin’s van in Luton and tow it to a garage. Douglas would pay all expenses. It was the least he could do.
The very least.
*
Five days later, Martin’s van wasn’t in the car park, though Douglas knew it had been repaired and driven to Martin’s house, and Martin was always punctual – indeed, early, boyishly eager to get into the sky. With not a little trepidation Douglas made his way into the office. Carolyn was there, a thundercloud on her brow. “Douglas. A word.” She pointed to a vacant chair.
The jig, as they say, was up. “Certainly, Carolyn.” Douglas seated himself smoothly and arranged a pleasant expression on his face. His heart thudded dolefully in his chest.
“First of all, Mr. Broughton cancelled for today. He, as well as nearly his entire hunting party, has come down with some sort of tummy distress and thought it would be best, fortunately for all of us, not to decorate the cabin with vomit. But that’s not what I want to speak to you about. I had a little chat with Martin this morning.”
“Yes?”
“Would you care to tell me exactly what is going on?”
Ugh. “I can’t think what you mean.”
“He came in looking as though he’d tangled with a leopard, Douglas, and announced that he was taking a leave of absence. Announced, mind you, not asked.”
Douglas felt the blood drain from his face. Relief, or more worry? He couldn’t tell. “Is that so?”
“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know something about it. What on earth happened to him?”
“What did he say happened to him?” Douglas hedged.
“He said that he was attacked and robbed, but you know Martin – he couldn’t lie if his life depended on it.”
Douglas winced.
“He’s almost as bad as Arthur, and heaven knows Arthur’s the worst liar on the face of God’s green earth,” Carolyn went on. “When I asked him if you knew, he squirmed for what seemed an interminable amount of time, and then muttered something about you possibly being aware of things. So I’m asking you – what really happened to him?”
Douglas could well imagine that basilisk stare intimidating Martin. How he’d have coped with the pointed inquiries of hospital staff, Douglas had no idea. “He told me he was robbed as well. Did he look dreadful?”
“Of course he looked dreadful,” Carolyn snapped. “Ghastly yellow-green bruises all over his face, and he walked as if his body hurt. I asked him if he’d been to hospital and he simply dodged the question. Terribly annoying. But why a leave of absence? Surely it won’t take him that long to heal.”
“Surely not,” Douglas murmured. If Martin was taking a leave of absence from flying, his greatest and dearest love, then things were quite bad indeed. But he hadn’t told Carolyn about the smuggling. Martin had protected him.
The guilt surged again, and Douglas covered his eyes with his hands.
“Douglas, what in God’s name are you doing? Pay attention, please. I’ve got to find a relief pilot as soon as possible. Cheap.”
“Did he say what he planned to do whilst on leave, Carolyn?”
Carolyn blinked. “No. Do you suppose that I asked him for a detailed itinerary?”
“Hardly. Did he say how long he would be gone?”
“Two weeks. Now may we concentrate on the matter at hand?”
“Get Herc.” Douglas rose to his feet. “Go snatch someone from EasyJet. Steal someone from the work experience queue. Really, Carolyn, if anyone can work it out, you can.” He closed the door on her indignation and strode to his car.
*
