FIC: A Million By Tuesday [3/?]
Jul. 24th, 2013 04:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: A Million By Tuesday
Author: Alex
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Martin/Douglas; Martin/Gordon Shappey
Disclaimer: Cabin Pressure is property of John Finnemore and the BBC.
Summary: From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. AU: Gordon Shappey's disgruntled ex-employee, Douglas Richardson, seeks revenge by kidnapping Gordon's trophy husband, Martin.
Warnings: Domestic violence, dubious consent.
Notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.
Can also be read on AO3
*
"Ten years with Air England, fifteen years flying Gordon Shappey about. Consistency. I like that, Douglas. I like that very much indeed." Andrew Warbury grinned and drummed a little syncopated tattoo on the desk with his fingers.
Douglas offered Andrew Warbury his most winning smile in return. Warbury was in his mid-forties, one of those terribly successful dot-com fellows who'd managed to stay afloat in an economic downturn, and handsome in a ruddy-faced, tousled, Barbour-Labrador-and-Hunter-Wellies-at-the-weekend-cottage sort of way. He also threw extra words and emphasis into his speech with distressing regularity: It's really awfully nice to meet you. I've often got crucifying early meetings in any given week. I like that very much indeed. All the word-stressing was giving Douglas a dreadfully punishing headache. "I'm not keen on flitting about from job to job. I much prefer steady, solid work. I suppose that makes me a bit old-fashioned."
Warbury dialled his smile even brighter, displaying a great many capped teeth. "Sometimes old-fashioned is precisely the way to go. My dad always told me so. Incidentally, my other two pilots are brash, mad young fellows, so I think that having an old lion like you about will keep them on their toes."
Old lion? Douglas' smile stayed nailed in place. "I find that mixing energetic youth with seasoned experience makes for a rather vigorous brew." Douglas offered another smile. Warbury grinned inanely and so often Douglas felt obliged to reply in kind. His face was beginning to ache. Miserable little sod. Still, he wouldn't have to chat with him much; thank God for a door to the flight deck.
"Doesn't it just!" Warbury laughed. "Of course, I don't need to tell you that discretion is a must in my world. I'm always popping round to unusual places for business on short notice, and naturally I require that the fellows who fly my jet are willing, loyal, and…er, discreet. Can't have the competition stealing secrets!"
Translation: I buy a great many drugs from shadowy underworld types in seedy locations, so you've got to keep your mouth shut about it. Gordon, during his coke-fuelled years, had said almost exactly the same thing. Now Warbury's bright eyes and restless manner began to make sense. Well, as long as Douglas didn't get arrested, he didn't care where Warbury flew for his nose candy. "Certainly," Douglas replied warmly, doing a little word-stressing of his own. "I understand completely."
Warbury displayed his teeth again. "Fantastic! I think we're on the same page here. Well, Douglas, I –" His mobile chirruped, and he picked it up and glanced at it. "Oh, Christ. My secretary. Sorry, assistant. Heaven forbid I call her my secretary. Look, I've got to speak to her for a moment – she only texts me in emergencies. Would you mind waiting here just a moment? Can I have one of the girls bring you some coffee, a mineral water perhaps?"
"Oh, I'm perfectly fine, thanks. No trouble at all. Take your time."
"Terrific. I'll be back as soon as I possibly can." Warbury dropped Douglas' CV on the leather top of his desk and strode out.
Douglas leant back in his chair and regarded the paintings lining the walls with complacence. It was, as they said, in the bag, and Douglas felt entitled to relax a bit and congratulate himself on reaching into the great pie of unemployment and pulling out such a perfectly ripe plum as this position. As one of three pilots to Andrew J. Warbury, dot-com billionaire and erstwhile Sloane Ranger, he'd find himself flying to the most glamorous of locales, since Warbury, a tabloid darling according to the internet articles he'd scrutinised, played as hard as he worked: polo matches in Argentina, skiing in Gstaad, tennis in Melbourne, nightclubbing in Manhattan. And collected some truly intriguing art, as well; Douglas examined the paintings from his chair and recognised a Chagall, a Kandinsky, a Johns, and a Hockney, as well as some small, luscious little pieces by painters whose work he didn't recognise. Did Warbury have an art advisor, as Gordon had, or did he pick the stuff himself? Douglas suspected the former, but no matter. What mattered was that he was solvent again. Or would be, soon enough.
The door opened, and Warbury came back in. He sat at his desk and gave Douglas a brief, icy glance, then began playing with his mobile. "I'm afraid there's been a bit of a hitch."
Douglas frowned. "Sorry?"
"A hitch. I'm afraid I won't be able to engage you." Warbury kept his eyes fixed on his phone. "Sorry."
A sudden and searing heat travelled up and down Douglas' spine. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"I think you probably do," Warbury replied coldly, and met Douglas' gaze for a second before dropping his eyes again. "I pride myself on my integrity, Mr. Richardson. If there's nothing else…." He thrust his chin in the direction of the door.
He didn't understand. Unless –
Ah.
Douglas got to his feet. "You had a word with Mr. Shappey. Is that it?"
"Yes. People do check references, you know. It isn't just a pleasant formality." Warbury's complexion was even more crimson than his ordinary country-weekend pink. "I can't hire a pilot who's unreliable."
"Is that what he said? That I'm unreliable?"
"Yes. And prone to occasional bouts with the bottle as well. Not precisely attributes I want in a pilot, Mr. Richardson. And my company does business with Gordon. You probably should have researched that before applying." His voice was clipped and curt, embarrassed; he'd all but offered Douglas the job then withdrawn it, and now he blamed Douglas for his discomfiture. "You can see yourself out."
Somehow Douglas felt the usual "thanks for the opportunity to chat" nonsense wasn't in order. "Very well. Shappey's quite the bully, isn't he? Pity that no-one stands up to him."
"Seems you did. Didn't do you much good." Warbury scooped up Douglas' CV and held it out, his eyes still fixed on his mobile. "You can take this."
"Oh, no. Do keep it. Cut it in fourths and use the pieces as straws." Integrity, my arse. You could probably stick a finger through the hole in your septum.
Warbury blinked in confusion.
Douglas suppressed a sigh as he walked out. It was pointless attempting to fight with an unarmed opponent.
No, actually – that was wrong. Warbury had been armed. He'd neatly lopped off Douglas' head with a single piece of information.
Unreliable. And a drunk. Douglas hadn't touched alcohol in more than twenty years, but he'd made the utterly stupid, colossal error of confiding a few snippets of his past to his former employer, a man who knew less about integrity than even Warbury the dot-com cokehead.
Douglas had been a bit prideful, true. That didn't make Gordon any less of a horse's arse. He'd always been an angry, vindictive man – he'd boasted of annihilating his enemies to Douglas any number of times, and Douglas had always nodded and had a witty accolade to hand. Douglas had never expected Gordon's anger to turn his way, though.
It can't last. Gordon's rage always finds a new target.
Douglas thumbed his car remote and gave one rueful glance backward at Warbury's tall, narrow home-cum-office. Such a plum.
It would have been nice. But never mind. Other fish in the sea.
He hoped, at least.
*
"Yes. Yes, I see. Well, thank you all the same. Good afternoon."
Five weeks after his unceremonious departure from employment, Douglas realised that not only had he been sacked, was rapidly running out of walking-around money (he'd passed on three intriguing films to save cash), obliged to shop for groceries carefully (not horrible yet; Douglas prided himself on making fantastic paupiettes de porc out of the sorriest sow's ear) and had some absolutely horrifying bills coming due (the mortgage, council tax, payment on the Lexus), it was now distressingly clear that Gordon, no doubt seething at the blow to his ego, had literally closed every door in town to him.
He'd tried his fellow sky gods first, but the two leads he'd found (Two! Ten years ago, he'd had headhunters begging him to join this or that private firm) had proved fruitless. There had been twelve positions of steadily decreasing desirability listed on Aviation Job Search and Pilot Jobs Network, and he'd applied for all of them. Three times he'd made it as far as an interview, and once had actually been told he'd had the job, but a phone call had come two days later rescinding the offer. Since then, his mobile had been ominously silent, his email inbox empty, his hopes dwindling.
Ordinarily he'd have chalked such a thought up to incipient paranoia – times were tough, he wasn't, he admitted to himself, a spring chicken any longer, and the economy was one carelessly placed domino from utter collapse – but the two rejection letters he'd received had mentioned Gordon's negative reference, and the phone call had implied it. It beggared belief that the range of Gordon's influence extended so far, but apparently, there wasn't a business in Fitton or the greater London area that didn't involve him in some way.
Douglas had rarely experienced the sensation of impotent anger, but he was exploring it thoroughly now. His qualifications were nearly impeccable, his talents unsurpassed even if he wasn't twenty-five any longer, and he was close to losing everything. He couldn't move to another country; his shared custody agreement with Annabel wouldn't allow for Sophie to stay with him. Oh, God, child maintenance and spousal support! That was due soon as well. Sophie would be eighteen in a year, not long, but how on earth could he meet his obligations without a job?
He might have done, he reflected, if Gordon Shappey hadn't taken away his pension. He'd been a complete idiot not to have seen that tricky clause buried in the boilerplate.
Revulsion, humiliation, and hatred set Douglas' stomach roiling. He'd been played for a fool. Gordon Shappey probably hadn't had the first notion of creating a pension for him. Disgusting as that was, Douglas might have accepted it, in time. But Gordon hadn't been content with stripping him of his future – he'd set out to strip Douglas of a livelihood altogether.
He'd sort it out somehow. He was endlessly resourceful.
Sighing, he slumped into a kitchen chair and opened the newspaper, paging through it restlessly, conscious that the only items he read assiduously nowadays were the job adverts. Global news (son of prominent Brazilian businessman abducted, family desperate), local news (taxes to be raised again), finance (never good news), editorial (David Cameron is a nincompoop – no, David Cameron is a genius), social –
A familiar face in a photograph in the social column caught his eye. Two familiar faces, one dour, one smiling.
Gordon Shappey and his partner Martin Crieff enjoy a Pimm's Cup and nibblies at Epsom Downs.
Pimm's Cup and nibblies at Epsom Downs. Douglas' stomach clenched more tightly as he stared at the photo. Gordon was still living the high life. So much for belt-tightening. He scrutinised Gordon's scowl, the tight grip on the arm of his cheerfully grinning partner. Bloody tight-fisted bastard. And the boyfriend – no, civil partner, Douglas remembered; he'd flown them to Majorca where they'd taken formal vows – the civil partner, Martin, was smiling as if he hadn't a care in the world. Well, why should he? He didn't work, Douglas knew, and he trotted around wearing expensive clothes and a watch that looked as if it cost the earth.
Must be lovely to be a kept man.
The day grew dark as Douglas stared at the photograph of the author of his downfall and the grinning trophy husband at his side. Venom settled in Douglas' heart, fertile soil for the seed that was planted as Douglas slowly, thoughtfully turned back to the front page.
Covarrubias Scion Abducted; Family Pleads For Safe Return.
Douglas set the paper down and gazed out at his garden, pretty and fragrant in the dusk.
His conscience, an irritating cricket, piped up. Mad idea. Not to mention illegal. You don't hate Gordon that much. Abandon it now.
He did hate Gordon, though. Gordon had ruined him, with malice and gleeful deliberation.
Once more, he paged through the newspaper until he came to the photograph in the social column. Gordon's hand clutched at Martin's arm. Tight. Possessive. The love of Gordon's life.
How much, Douglas wondered, was Martin worth to Gordon?
*
The postal carrier, a stern woman with the manners of a Victorian governess, gave Douglas a small, pitying smile as she proffered his mail. "Hard to believe these times, Mr. Richardson. Difficult for all of us. Still, we're all in it together. Easier to tighten one's belt when everyone else is doing it as well."
Douglas resisted the urge to snatch the mail from the woman's hand and smack her with a rolled-up catalogue. Instead, he wiped his mucky hands on his jeans and took the mail. "That's certainly true." He flipped through the envelopes with deceptive idleness.
Urgent Notice. Past Due. Please Open Immediately.
"Planting flowers?"
"No, just burying a body." Douglas smiled pleasantly at the sudden expression of horror on the woman's face.
"If that was intended to amuse, Mr. Richardson, I must say it fell somewhat short of the mark."
Douglas considered an acid retort about having room for one more corpse in the hole. "Sorry, that was a bit much. I'm terribly sorry, sometimes my sense of humour is a bit dark. In fact, I'm planting vegetables. Tomatoes, cucumbers, aubergines."
The governess thawed slightly. "Isn't that lovely? It's a bit late for planting though, you know."
"Yes, I know. Still, hope springs eternal."
"Quite right. Well, I'll leave you to it."
"Thank you." Douglas waved cheerfully and went back into the house, dumping the post on the hall table. He trudged into the kitchen and paused at the basement door.
Built in 1929, Douglas' house was equipped with a small cellar, originally intended for wine storage by an optimistic and upwardly mobile homeowner. His dreams had perished in the Great Slump, unfortunately, and the damp cellar had never held so much as a single bottle of plonk. It served now as a repository for junk and the detritus of Douglas' first two marriages, neither of his wives having harboured any inclination to haul furniture with them upon departure. There was probably a lesson in that somewhere.
He went down the creaking stairs and gazed gloomily at the setup he'd been constructing. There was a bed, a chair, a small chest of drawers that could double as a table, and a lamp that gave off inadequate light. There was also a quantity of rope, two rolls of gaffer tape, a few clean cotton tea towels, a cotton drawstring sack that had once contained one of Annabel's expensive handbags, a face flannel, and some bath towels (not the good ones). He didn't know what else was required, but the items he'd gathered seemed to be enough for the moment. He'd never planned a kidnapping before.
Oh, Christ. It looked so creepy. Inhuman almost, like a set from Silence of the Lambs or some such horror picture.
Don't be ridiculous, replied the coldly pragmatic and faintly desperate voice that had supplanted his conscience. It's necessary. Were you planning to install him in the guest room?
Tonight. It had to be tonight. In a week, his car would be repossessed if he didn't make a payment, and he needed transportation. He couldn't falter or prevaricate now. It was now or never.
*
Sweat beaded Douglas' forehead and formed moist patches under his arms as he sat parked in a dingy alleyway, waiting with increasing agitation.
He'd staked out (stalked was probably a better term, but no point in bandying semantics) Gordon's house for a few weeks, grateful that his Lexus was luxurious enough to look commonplace in Gordon's section of town. He'd watched Martin Crieff's habits as best he could, trying to determine if Martin had a routine outside the house. Happily, he did – the young man took walks in the evening, always alone. Sometimes he went to the shops and purchased wine, strolling back at a snail's pace. He rarely smiled, the way he had in the society-news photograph anyhow. Trouble in Paradise, perhaps, which might make Gordon all the more appreciative once he realised Martin was in danger.
The last of his conscience had been jettisoned, and now Douglas was simply nervous. What if it didn't go off the way he'd planned? Martin was slight, and Douglas was strong, but still…no, it would work. It had to. And if Mr. Crieff wound up a bit bruised in the process, then that was his own fault.
There! There he was, hands in the pockets of his light jacket, head down. His turnaround point was just up the street by the off-licence. Douglas got out of the car, moved to the mouth of the alley, and watched Martin disappear into the shop. He re-emerged with a paper parcel in one hand and started back down the street.
This is it. No turning back now. Douglas wiped the sweat from his face and pulled on a knitted balaclava, yanking it down to conceal his face. Though there wasn't a street lamp nearby, he kept to the shadows nevertheless and waited for the sound of Martin's approaching footsteps.
There he is. Go. Go! Douglas took a step back and coughed. "Excuse me. Sorry, have you got a mobile phone? Mine's dead and so's my bloody car."
Martin stopped. "Sorry, your car? I didn't –" He moved close to the mouth of the alleyway. "Did you say –"
Douglas sprang forward and grabbed Martin's wrist, then yanked him into the shadow. Martin let out a startled cry and dropped the parcel. Glass shattered and red wine splashed onto the pavement. Douglas held his jackknife to Martin's throat. "Shut up. Shut your fucking mouth," he growled, roughening and deepening his voice so Martin wouldn't recognise it, unlikely as that probably was. "I'll slit your throat from ear to ear."
Martin emitted a tiny squeaking noise, more suited to a small rodent than a grown man. "I – I don't have any money. Well, s-seven quid, but that's all. Please don't kill me. You can have it. And my phone, whatever you want. Please…please."
The young man's voice trembled, and Douglas felt sorry for him for a moment. But then his resolve hardened. He shoved Martin up against the car, slipped the knife into his pocket, and felt in his other pocket for the gaffer tape. "Cooperate and I won't kill you. If you make a sound, you're dead." He found the tape and ripped off a long piece.
"What are you doing? Please, just take the money."
"Shut up." Douglas seized Martin's arms and pulled them behind his back, crossing his wrists.
"What are you – stop, stop!" Amazingly, Martin began to struggle, kicking out at Douglas. He lunged backward, and the top of his head connected with Douglas' nose. Hard.
"Ow!" Douglas reached out and caught the back of Martin's jacket, dragging him backward. "You little –"
"Help me! Help me, somebody!" Martin, his hands awkwardly taped together, squirmed as Douglas caught him round the waist and pulled him toward the car. "Hellllp!"
"Oh, for God's sake, shut up!" Douglas couldn't reach into his pocket for more tape and hold the thrashing young man in his arms at the same time. He covered Martin's mouth with one hand and yelped as he felt teeth closing onto his flesh. Why didn't they just bang some bin lids together and shoot off a few cannonballs while they were at it? They'd probably roused half of Fitton already. And those determined teeth were starting to draw blood. Grimly keeping his hand over Martin's mouth, Douglas moved in a tight circle, trying to knock the young man off his feet and keep hold of him at the same time. Martin stumbled as Douglas whirled them round and round, a two-man human cyclone, and suddenly, abruptly, and inexplicably, slumped to the ground in an untidy heap.
Douglas stood still for a few seconds. Was he bluffing? He pulled the knife again, darting a worried glance toward the mouth of the alleyway. Astounding that no-one had heard them. He held the point of the knife against Martin's throat, but the young man didn't move. He'd passed out. Bizarre.
Still, it was an unexpected bit of luck. Douglas opened the boot of the Lexus, then dragged Martin's unresisting body to it and dumped it inside. Carefully, he re-taped Martin's hands, bound his ankles together, put two pieces of tape over his mouth, and pulled the cotton drawstring sack over his head. He gazed at him for a moment, then slammed the boot closed and pulled off the balaclava. He jumped into the car and ruefully examined his hand. Tooth marks and a bit of broken skin. Gingerly, he touched his nose – not broken, at least – and then started the car.
He'd done it. For better or worse.
tbc....
Author: Alex
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Martin/Douglas; Martin/Gordon Shappey
Disclaimer: Cabin Pressure is property of John Finnemore and the BBC.
Summary: From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. AU: Gordon Shappey's disgruntled ex-employee, Douglas Richardson, seeks revenge by kidnapping Gordon's trophy husband, Martin.
Warnings: Domestic violence, dubious consent.
Notes: Thanks to
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.Can also be read on AO3
*
"Ten years with Air England, fifteen years flying Gordon Shappey about. Consistency. I like that, Douglas. I like that very much indeed." Andrew Warbury grinned and drummed a little syncopated tattoo on the desk with his fingers.
Douglas offered Andrew Warbury his most winning smile in return. Warbury was in his mid-forties, one of those terribly successful dot-com fellows who'd managed to stay afloat in an economic downturn, and handsome in a ruddy-faced, tousled, Barbour-Labrador-and-Hunter-Wellies-at-the-weekend-cottage sort of way. He also threw extra words and emphasis into his speech with distressing regularity: It's really awfully nice to meet you. I've often got crucifying early meetings in any given week. I like that very much indeed. All the word-stressing was giving Douglas a dreadfully punishing headache. "I'm not keen on flitting about from job to job. I much prefer steady, solid work. I suppose that makes me a bit old-fashioned."
Warbury dialled his smile even brighter, displaying a great many capped teeth. "Sometimes old-fashioned is precisely the way to go. My dad always told me so. Incidentally, my other two pilots are brash, mad young fellows, so I think that having an old lion like you about will keep them on their toes."
Old lion? Douglas' smile stayed nailed in place. "I find that mixing energetic youth with seasoned experience makes for a rather vigorous brew." Douglas offered another smile. Warbury grinned inanely and so often Douglas felt obliged to reply in kind. His face was beginning to ache. Miserable little sod. Still, he wouldn't have to chat with him much; thank God for a door to the flight deck.
"Doesn't it just!" Warbury laughed. "Of course, I don't need to tell you that discretion is a must in my world. I'm always popping round to unusual places for business on short notice, and naturally I require that the fellows who fly my jet are willing, loyal, and…er, discreet. Can't have the competition stealing secrets!"
Translation: I buy a great many drugs from shadowy underworld types in seedy locations, so you've got to keep your mouth shut about it. Gordon, during his coke-fuelled years, had said almost exactly the same thing. Now Warbury's bright eyes and restless manner began to make sense. Well, as long as Douglas didn't get arrested, he didn't care where Warbury flew for his nose candy. "Certainly," Douglas replied warmly, doing a little word-stressing of his own. "I understand completely."
Warbury displayed his teeth again. "Fantastic! I think we're on the same page here. Well, Douglas, I –" His mobile chirruped, and he picked it up and glanced at it. "Oh, Christ. My secretary. Sorry, assistant. Heaven forbid I call her my secretary. Look, I've got to speak to her for a moment – she only texts me in emergencies. Would you mind waiting here just a moment? Can I have one of the girls bring you some coffee, a mineral water perhaps?"
"Oh, I'm perfectly fine, thanks. No trouble at all. Take your time."
"Terrific. I'll be back as soon as I possibly can." Warbury dropped Douglas' CV on the leather top of his desk and strode out.
Douglas leant back in his chair and regarded the paintings lining the walls with complacence. It was, as they said, in the bag, and Douglas felt entitled to relax a bit and congratulate himself on reaching into the great pie of unemployment and pulling out such a perfectly ripe plum as this position. As one of three pilots to Andrew J. Warbury, dot-com billionaire and erstwhile Sloane Ranger, he'd find himself flying to the most glamorous of locales, since Warbury, a tabloid darling according to the internet articles he'd scrutinised, played as hard as he worked: polo matches in Argentina, skiing in Gstaad, tennis in Melbourne, nightclubbing in Manhattan. And collected some truly intriguing art, as well; Douglas examined the paintings from his chair and recognised a Chagall, a Kandinsky, a Johns, and a Hockney, as well as some small, luscious little pieces by painters whose work he didn't recognise. Did Warbury have an art advisor, as Gordon had, or did he pick the stuff himself? Douglas suspected the former, but no matter. What mattered was that he was solvent again. Or would be, soon enough.
The door opened, and Warbury came back in. He sat at his desk and gave Douglas a brief, icy glance, then began playing with his mobile. "I'm afraid there's been a bit of a hitch."
Douglas frowned. "Sorry?"
"A hitch. I'm afraid I won't be able to engage you." Warbury kept his eyes fixed on his phone. "Sorry."
A sudden and searing heat travelled up and down Douglas' spine. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"I think you probably do," Warbury replied coldly, and met Douglas' gaze for a second before dropping his eyes again. "I pride myself on my integrity, Mr. Richardson. If there's nothing else…." He thrust his chin in the direction of the door.
He didn't understand. Unless –
Ah.
Douglas got to his feet. "You had a word with Mr. Shappey. Is that it?"
"Yes. People do check references, you know. It isn't just a pleasant formality." Warbury's complexion was even more crimson than his ordinary country-weekend pink. "I can't hire a pilot who's unreliable."
"Is that what he said? That I'm unreliable?"
"Yes. And prone to occasional bouts with the bottle as well. Not precisely attributes I want in a pilot, Mr. Richardson. And my company does business with Gordon. You probably should have researched that before applying." His voice was clipped and curt, embarrassed; he'd all but offered Douglas the job then withdrawn it, and now he blamed Douglas for his discomfiture. "You can see yourself out."
Somehow Douglas felt the usual "thanks for the opportunity to chat" nonsense wasn't in order. "Very well. Shappey's quite the bully, isn't he? Pity that no-one stands up to him."
"Seems you did. Didn't do you much good." Warbury scooped up Douglas' CV and held it out, his eyes still fixed on his mobile. "You can take this."
"Oh, no. Do keep it. Cut it in fourths and use the pieces as straws." Integrity, my arse. You could probably stick a finger through the hole in your septum.
Warbury blinked in confusion.
Douglas suppressed a sigh as he walked out. It was pointless attempting to fight with an unarmed opponent.
No, actually – that was wrong. Warbury had been armed. He'd neatly lopped off Douglas' head with a single piece of information.
Unreliable. And a drunk. Douglas hadn't touched alcohol in more than twenty years, but he'd made the utterly stupid, colossal error of confiding a few snippets of his past to his former employer, a man who knew less about integrity than even Warbury the dot-com cokehead.
Douglas had been a bit prideful, true. That didn't make Gordon any less of a horse's arse. He'd always been an angry, vindictive man – he'd boasted of annihilating his enemies to Douglas any number of times, and Douglas had always nodded and had a witty accolade to hand. Douglas had never expected Gordon's anger to turn his way, though.
It can't last. Gordon's rage always finds a new target.
Douglas thumbed his car remote and gave one rueful glance backward at Warbury's tall, narrow home-cum-office. Such a plum.
It would have been nice. But never mind. Other fish in the sea.
He hoped, at least.
*
"Yes. Yes, I see. Well, thank you all the same. Good afternoon."
Five weeks after his unceremonious departure from employment, Douglas realised that not only had he been sacked, was rapidly running out of walking-around money (he'd passed on three intriguing films to save cash), obliged to shop for groceries carefully (not horrible yet; Douglas prided himself on making fantastic paupiettes de porc out of the sorriest sow's ear) and had some absolutely horrifying bills coming due (the mortgage, council tax, payment on the Lexus), it was now distressingly clear that Gordon, no doubt seething at the blow to his ego, had literally closed every door in town to him.
He'd tried his fellow sky gods first, but the two leads he'd found (Two! Ten years ago, he'd had headhunters begging him to join this or that private firm) had proved fruitless. There had been twelve positions of steadily decreasing desirability listed on Aviation Job Search and Pilot Jobs Network, and he'd applied for all of them. Three times he'd made it as far as an interview, and once had actually been told he'd had the job, but a phone call had come two days later rescinding the offer. Since then, his mobile had been ominously silent, his email inbox empty, his hopes dwindling.
Ordinarily he'd have chalked such a thought up to incipient paranoia – times were tough, he wasn't, he admitted to himself, a spring chicken any longer, and the economy was one carelessly placed domino from utter collapse – but the two rejection letters he'd received had mentioned Gordon's negative reference, and the phone call had implied it. It beggared belief that the range of Gordon's influence extended so far, but apparently, there wasn't a business in Fitton or the greater London area that didn't involve him in some way.
Douglas had rarely experienced the sensation of impotent anger, but he was exploring it thoroughly now. His qualifications were nearly impeccable, his talents unsurpassed even if he wasn't twenty-five any longer, and he was close to losing everything. He couldn't move to another country; his shared custody agreement with Annabel wouldn't allow for Sophie to stay with him. Oh, God, child maintenance and spousal support! That was due soon as well. Sophie would be eighteen in a year, not long, but how on earth could he meet his obligations without a job?
He might have done, he reflected, if Gordon Shappey hadn't taken away his pension. He'd been a complete idiot not to have seen that tricky clause buried in the boilerplate.
Revulsion, humiliation, and hatred set Douglas' stomach roiling. He'd been played for a fool. Gordon Shappey probably hadn't had the first notion of creating a pension for him. Disgusting as that was, Douglas might have accepted it, in time. But Gordon hadn't been content with stripping him of his future – he'd set out to strip Douglas of a livelihood altogether.
He'd sort it out somehow. He was endlessly resourceful.
Sighing, he slumped into a kitchen chair and opened the newspaper, paging through it restlessly, conscious that the only items he read assiduously nowadays were the job adverts. Global news (son of prominent Brazilian businessman abducted, family desperate), local news (taxes to be raised again), finance (never good news), editorial (David Cameron is a nincompoop – no, David Cameron is a genius), social –
A familiar face in a photograph in the social column caught his eye. Two familiar faces, one dour, one smiling.
Gordon Shappey and his partner Martin Crieff enjoy a Pimm's Cup and nibblies at Epsom Downs.
Pimm's Cup and nibblies at Epsom Downs. Douglas' stomach clenched more tightly as he stared at the photo. Gordon was still living the high life. So much for belt-tightening. He scrutinised Gordon's scowl, the tight grip on the arm of his cheerfully grinning partner. Bloody tight-fisted bastard. And the boyfriend – no, civil partner, Douglas remembered; he'd flown them to Majorca where they'd taken formal vows – the civil partner, Martin, was smiling as if he hadn't a care in the world. Well, why should he? He didn't work, Douglas knew, and he trotted around wearing expensive clothes and a watch that looked as if it cost the earth.
Must be lovely to be a kept man.
The day grew dark as Douglas stared at the photograph of the author of his downfall and the grinning trophy husband at his side. Venom settled in Douglas' heart, fertile soil for the seed that was planted as Douglas slowly, thoughtfully turned back to the front page.
Covarrubias Scion Abducted; Family Pleads For Safe Return.
Douglas set the paper down and gazed out at his garden, pretty and fragrant in the dusk.
His conscience, an irritating cricket, piped up. Mad idea. Not to mention illegal. You don't hate Gordon that much. Abandon it now.
He did hate Gordon, though. Gordon had ruined him, with malice and gleeful deliberation.
Once more, he paged through the newspaper until he came to the photograph in the social column. Gordon's hand clutched at Martin's arm. Tight. Possessive. The love of Gordon's life.
How much, Douglas wondered, was Martin worth to Gordon?
*
The postal carrier, a stern woman with the manners of a Victorian governess, gave Douglas a small, pitying smile as she proffered his mail. "Hard to believe these times, Mr. Richardson. Difficult for all of us. Still, we're all in it together. Easier to tighten one's belt when everyone else is doing it as well."
Douglas resisted the urge to snatch the mail from the woman's hand and smack her with a rolled-up catalogue. Instead, he wiped his mucky hands on his jeans and took the mail. "That's certainly true." He flipped through the envelopes with deceptive idleness.
Urgent Notice. Past Due. Please Open Immediately.
"Planting flowers?"
"No, just burying a body." Douglas smiled pleasantly at the sudden expression of horror on the woman's face.
"If that was intended to amuse, Mr. Richardson, I must say it fell somewhat short of the mark."
Douglas considered an acid retort about having room for one more corpse in the hole. "Sorry, that was a bit much. I'm terribly sorry, sometimes my sense of humour is a bit dark. In fact, I'm planting vegetables. Tomatoes, cucumbers, aubergines."
The governess thawed slightly. "Isn't that lovely? It's a bit late for planting though, you know."
"Yes, I know. Still, hope springs eternal."
"Quite right. Well, I'll leave you to it."
"Thank you." Douglas waved cheerfully and went back into the house, dumping the post on the hall table. He trudged into the kitchen and paused at the basement door.
Built in 1929, Douglas' house was equipped with a small cellar, originally intended for wine storage by an optimistic and upwardly mobile homeowner. His dreams had perished in the Great Slump, unfortunately, and the damp cellar had never held so much as a single bottle of plonk. It served now as a repository for junk and the detritus of Douglas' first two marriages, neither of his wives having harboured any inclination to haul furniture with them upon departure. There was probably a lesson in that somewhere.
He went down the creaking stairs and gazed gloomily at the setup he'd been constructing. There was a bed, a chair, a small chest of drawers that could double as a table, and a lamp that gave off inadequate light. There was also a quantity of rope, two rolls of gaffer tape, a few clean cotton tea towels, a cotton drawstring sack that had once contained one of Annabel's expensive handbags, a face flannel, and some bath towels (not the good ones). He didn't know what else was required, but the items he'd gathered seemed to be enough for the moment. He'd never planned a kidnapping before.
Oh, Christ. It looked so creepy. Inhuman almost, like a set from Silence of the Lambs or some such horror picture.
Don't be ridiculous, replied the coldly pragmatic and faintly desperate voice that had supplanted his conscience. It's necessary. Were you planning to install him in the guest room?
Tonight. It had to be tonight. In a week, his car would be repossessed if he didn't make a payment, and he needed transportation. He couldn't falter or prevaricate now. It was now or never.
*
Sweat beaded Douglas' forehead and formed moist patches under his arms as he sat parked in a dingy alleyway, waiting with increasing agitation.
He'd staked out (stalked was probably a better term, but no point in bandying semantics) Gordon's house for a few weeks, grateful that his Lexus was luxurious enough to look commonplace in Gordon's section of town. He'd watched Martin Crieff's habits as best he could, trying to determine if Martin had a routine outside the house. Happily, he did – the young man took walks in the evening, always alone. Sometimes he went to the shops and purchased wine, strolling back at a snail's pace. He rarely smiled, the way he had in the society-news photograph anyhow. Trouble in Paradise, perhaps, which might make Gordon all the more appreciative once he realised Martin was in danger.
The last of his conscience had been jettisoned, and now Douglas was simply nervous. What if it didn't go off the way he'd planned? Martin was slight, and Douglas was strong, but still…no, it would work. It had to. And if Mr. Crieff wound up a bit bruised in the process, then that was his own fault.
There! There he was, hands in the pockets of his light jacket, head down. His turnaround point was just up the street by the off-licence. Douglas got out of the car, moved to the mouth of the alley, and watched Martin disappear into the shop. He re-emerged with a paper parcel in one hand and started back down the street.
This is it. No turning back now. Douglas wiped the sweat from his face and pulled on a knitted balaclava, yanking it down to conceal his face. Though there wasn't a street lamp nearby, he kept to the shadows nevertheless and waited for the sound of Martin's approaching footsteps.
There he is. Go. Go! Douglas took a step back and coughed. "Excuse me. Sorry, have you got a mobile phone? Mine's dead and so's my bloody car."
Martin stopped. "Sorry, your car? I didn't –" He moved close to the mouth of the alleyway. "Did you say –"
Douglas sprang forward and grabbed Martin's wrist, then yanked him into the shadow. Martin let out a startled cry and dropped the parcel. Glass shattered and red wine splashed onto the pavement. Douglas held his jackknife to Martin's throat. "Shut up. Shut your fucking mouth," he growled, roughening and deepening his voice so Martin wouldn't recognise it, unlikely as that probably was. "I'll slit your throat from ear to ear."
Martin emitted a tiny squeaking noise, more suited to a small rodent than a grown man. "I – I don't have any money. Well, s-seven quid, but that's all. Please don't kill me. You can have it. And my phone, whatever you want. Please…please."
The young man's voice trembled, and Douglas felt sorry for him for a moment. But then his resolve hardened. He shoved Martin up against the car, slipped the knife into his pocket, and felt in his other pocket for the gaffer tape. "Cooperate and I won't kill you. If you make a sound, you're dead." He found the tape and ripped off a long piece.
"What are you doing? Please, just take the money."
"Shut up." Douglas seized Martin's arms and pulled them behind his back, crossing his wrists.
"What are you – stop, stop!" Amazingly, Martin began to struggle, kicking out at Douglas. He lunged backward, and the top of his head connected with Douglas' nose. Hard.
"Ow!" Douglas reached out and caught the back of Martin's jacket, dragging him backward. "You little –"
"Help me! Help me, somebody!" Martin, his hands awkwardly taped together, squirmed as Douglas caught him round the waist and pulled him toward the car. "Hellllp!"
"Oh, for God's sake, shut up!" Douglas couldn't reach into his pocket for more tape and hold the thrashing young man in his arms at the same time. He covered Martin's mouth with one hand and yelped as he felt teeth closing onto his flesh. Why didn't they just bang some bin lids together and shoot off a few cannonballs while they were at it? They'd probably roused half of Fitton already. And those determined teeth were starting to draw blood. Grimly keeping his hand over Martin's mouth, Douglas moved in a tight circle, trying to knock the young man off his feet and keep hold of him at the same time. Martin stumbled as Douglas whirled them round and round, a two-man human cyclone, and suddenly, abruptly, and inexplicably, slumped to the ground in an untidy heap.
Douglas stood still for a few seconds. Was he bluffing? He pulled the knife again, darting a worried glance toward the mouth of the alleyway. Astounding that no-one had heard them. He held the point of the knife against Martin's throat, but the young man didn't move. He'd passed out. Bizarre.
Still, it was an unexpected bit of luck. Douglas opened the boot of the Lexus, then dragged Martin's unresisting body to it and dumped it inside. Carefully, he re-taped Martin's hands, bound his ankles together, put two pieces of tape over his mouth, and pulled the cotton drawstring sack over his head. He gazed at him for a moment, then slammed the boot closed and pulled off the balaclava. He jumped into the car and ruefully examined his hand. Tooth marks and a bit of broken skin. Gingerly, he touched his nose – not broken, at least – and then started the car.
He'd done it. For better or worse.
tbc....
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no subject
Date: 2013-08-17 05:25 pm (UTC)Gordon's a complete shit, no doubt about it... but what did Martin ever do to you?
ETA: LOVE that Martin resisted, fought, BIT him! You go Martin. Much as I adore people whumping the man, it's mainly because he doesn't go under against it. He took his CPL SEVEN times. How's that for determination? (Also have you seen the post on the Chatter Post that talks about what these things cost? Bloody HELL.) He took a briefcase to a UK school (it got chucked on the roof of the science block - and, going by the one guy in my year who had a briefcase, it was also put on top of bus shelters, in the girls' loos etc etc etc Yeah, nothing says "dork" in senior school quite like a briefcase instead of a rucksack. :( )
Martin is his own man and doesn't let others' "expectations" rule him. 'S why you have to adore him utterly IMHO.
no subject
Date: 2013-08-18 04:59 am (UTC)Yes! Martin is one of the world's fighters, to be sure. He is the very personification of resilience. I haven't seen the discussion on the chatter post, but I looked up the costs while I was researching for the fic and it's just HORRIFYING. You can kind of see why Martin just got the van and the multimeter. :-/ But he's very much his own man, and persistent, and I love it!
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Date: 2013-08-18 08:56 pm (UTC)How did Mr Man-with-a-van, lives-in-student-housing, baked-potato-for-a-treat ever afford that?! Maybe he's still paying off loans...
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Date: 2013-08-19 12:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-19 01:30 am (UTC)I mean, given his age, he, Simon and Caitin would probably have fallen in the "grants not fees" era of free university education, so it couldn't have been "instead" of a degree...
His brother works for the council, his sister's a traffic warden, his Dad was an electrician, who left only £5,000 to the kids he left money to (I sort of imagine that most of his income went on the rent or mortgage, somehow)... I don't see his family having a "spare", £30k, you know? Even if it was somewhat less, I wonder how much help his Dad could have given him.
He said that his Dad probably hadn't left him any cash because he'd "waste it" on becoming a pilot (which seems to suggest to me that his Dad saw £5k as a fairly significant lump sum, as opposed to a "treat yourself!" sum from a will) and that *he* (not the family) had spent thousands by then...
When my grandmother died (2000), she left me £1,000 and some of her jewellry. Same to my 2 brothers. £5k or a van and complete toolkit (allowing you to go into business for yourself) are only "meagre" depending on the value of the whole estate.
My first job in 1997, I earned £11k, working in Central London, financial services. My last job in 2007, I earned £27k (gross) working as a Tax Accountant in Docklands, London and my rent for a 2-bed flat was £850pcm, an hour's commute outside of work. I certainly didn't have £30k in savings by the time I was 30.
They probably did *help* but I personally don't think that most of the financing came from them, somehow. You know? All speculation, of course!