splix | FIC: A Million By Tuesday [4/?]

Title: 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

kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.

Can also be read on AO3

*

Martin awoke in darkness with an aching head. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, but it was still dark. He was curled up on his side, but the bed beneath him felt hard and scratchy. Something smelled odd, chemical. And more bewildering was a persistent impression of movement and a strange rushing noise.

What on earth?

He tried to lift his hand to his eyes and realised that he couldn't. He couldn't move either hand. Confused, he tried again and felt a sticky biting sensation at his wrists. He felt a similar constriction round his ankles, and –

Oh my God.

That man, the man in the alley! He'd pinned Martin's wrists, he'd – Martin felt something light covering his face and the same stickiness over his mouth. The man in the balaclava had kidnapped him. He'd tied Martin up and thrown him in the boot of the car he'd said was knackered, and the movement that Martin felt was the car, the smell was wax and rubber and petrol, and he was being transported – where?

God, no, no, no—

Martin tried to scream, but the howl he let out was muffled by both gaffer tape, whatever was resting over his face, and industrial carpeting. He rolled over, banging his knees against metal, and kicked frantically with both feet against the boot lid, yelling as loudly as he could, but nothing happened – the car kept moving, humming smoothly and at speed, and the driver didn't react at all. There had been only one man, hadn't there? He couldn't remember seeing anyone else. Oh God, where were they going? More importantly, what were they going to do to him?

The closed-up, chemical, stuffy smell of the boot filtered through the cloth over his face, and he sucked air in through his nostrils. Dizziness was making him hyperventilate, and he was going to suffocate if he didn't get more air. I don't want to die, not like this. Oh God, please, please get me out of here!

Another smothered wail escaped him. He heard the panic in his own voice, felt the rapid heaving of his chest and saw bright sparkles in the void opening before him. Calm down. Calm down!

Little by little, he forced himself to stop thrashing, to breathe regularly and steadily through his nose. His periods of blackout ordinarily lasted only a moment or two, so he couldn't have been trapped for very long. If this was going to be a long journey, he had to accustom himself to discomfort. You're not going to suffocate. There's some ventilation in the boot, otherwise you'd be dead already. Probably. He held perfectly still, and felt a faint tickle of moving air at the base of his throat, pushing against the collar of his shirt. There. There. Relax. You're not going to die. Not yet, anyhow.

Martin moaned softly. He hadn't an enemy in the world…but Gordon was rich, and powerful. And Gordon hadn't been totally unaware of the inherent danger in being a rich and powerful man. He'd actually taken one of those kidnap-avoidance/hostage-survival training things a year ago.

---Gordon, hadn't I better go with you?

---What on earth for? Gordon had frowned at him over the rim of his glass.

---Well…in case someone tries to…I don't know.

---Kidnap you? Martin, for God's sake. Who'd want to kidnap you?

Martin had turned away to hide the hurt. ---I don't know. Someone who thought I was worth something to you.

---Martin. Gordon had risen from his chair and walked to Martin and clasped him close. ---Pet, this thing's for chaps like me. It's going to be nothing but stuffy bankers and CEOs and CFOs and COOs and Christ knows what else. It's not for…look here, I'll take notes and teach you everything I learn. That way it'll be two seminars for the price of one. God knows it's exorbitant as it is. Hm? Hm? Come on, give me a smile. That's it.

After the course, which had lasted five days, Gordon had come home, seething. ---Thirty-five hundred pounds for a lot of rubbish.

---You must have learnt something useful, Gordon.

Gordon had glared. ---Useful? Oh, right. Want to know the vast scope of knowledge that thirty-five hundred pounds bought me? 'Resist, but if you do get kidnapped, cooperate.' There. That's the sum total of the wisdom I gleaned. Fuck's sake.

---Oh dear. That is a bit steep, but it does seem like sensible advice. I'm sorry you had to be away all that time just for that. I've missed you.

---Mm. Why don't you come upstairs with me and show me how much you've missed me?

So he hadn't learnt anything practical except for resist (and he had, though any thought of the seminar had been light-years from his thoughts – he'd simply panicked, that was all) and cooperate – and given that he was tied up in the boot of a car heading toward God only knew where, that seemed the only reasonable option at the moment. He probably should have tried to take in the make and model of the car, his abductor's build and voice, things like that, but Martin couldn't recall anything except a terrifying figure in a balaclava and his own fright and panic.

He'd dropped the bottle of wine he'd been carrying, he remembered suddenly. He didn't know what earthly good it would do, but the police were awfully good at forensics and whatnot – nowadays all it took to solve a crime was a tire print and a fingernail paring, if you believed the television programmes. And he hadn't been far from the off-licence when he'd been attacked, and no doubt the shopkeeper would remember him.

So what? The kidnapper's probably going to demand a ransom. It's not as if Gordon's not going to know what's happened.

Martin's nose itched, and tears pooled in his eyes. Not everybody survived kidnapping. A few weeks ago the papers had covered the abduction of the son of a rich Brazilian family; the ransom had been paid, but the young man had been discovered in a ditch, his throat cut. Martin had no reason to believe his kidnapper wouldn't be just as ruthless, no matter how docilely he behaved.

He screwed his eyes shut, and the tears escaped, trickling down his temples and disappearing into his sweat-soaked hair. He sniffled, afraid his nose would clog up and hamper his breathing. If this was a kidnap for ransom, the best Martin could possibly hope for was that Gordon would either pay up quickly, or get the police involved so they could rescue him. Until then, he'd be quiet and obedient and polite, the most accommodating victim in the history of abduction.

The car slowed, then stopped. Martin felt the weight of the vehicle shift, heard a pop, and let out a shivering breath as a breeze filtered into the car from the partially opened boot. He thought about trying to struggle out, but he wouldn't get anywhere with his ankles taped together. Trembling, he waited as he heard the slam of a door and the scrape of footsteps. Were they boots, or leather-soled shoes, or –

"Listen to me." The voice was a soft growl. There was a creaking as the man lifted the lid of the boot, and Martin whimpered as a hand grasped a handful of his jacket and dragged him upward. "I'm going to take you inside, and if you make so much as a single noise I'm going to cut your thumb off. Nod your head if you understand."

Martin couldn't still his trembling, but he nodded vigorously. The loss of his thumb would mean the end of his dreams, however deferred. Cooperate. He felt two strong arms encircling him, dragging him up and out of the boot. He swayed on feet that were numb and still taped together, and one arm caught him round the waist and held him still. The boot lid banged down, and he flinched and let out a small, startled cry.

"Shut up, I said." Something sharp and cold pressed against the hollow of Martin's throat. "I'm going to pick you up and carry you inside. If you wriggle, if you make me lose my balance – your thumb. Right?"

Martin gave another hearty nod, afraid a simple inclination of his head wouldn't be noticed under the hood or whatever covered him. He felt something press against his belly, then an arm encircled his thighs and he gasped as he was hoisted into the air, his head thumping against a broad back.

"Shh." The man carried Martin over what felt like cobble, from the unevenness, and then onto a patch of grass. Martin fought to stay conscious as his inner ear dysfunction threatened to send him into oblivion again. He heard the click of a key in a lock, and then a door swung open and the man went into the building.

Immediately Martin caught the scent of cooking. Delicious-smelling cooking, like roasted chicken with lemons and herbs, reminding him he'd only had beans on toast for tea because it was Jay's night off and Gordon had eaten the rest of the egg-and-bacon pie she'd made. His stomach growled noisily, and he thought he heard a soft snort of laughter from the kidnapper.

"We're going down a staircase. If you thrash about, I'll drop you and let you fall and break your neck."

Martin held perfectly still as the man descended a creaking flight of stairs, his arm firmly wrapped round Martin's thighs. He grunted as the man set him down, and gasped in fright when the man abruptly pushed him onto a hard chair. He held still as he felt the man trussing him to the chair with several lengths of rope.

The kidnapper straightened with a grunt and poked Martin in the shoulder. "I hope you don't need the loo, because you're going to be in this chair for a while."

He didn't. Thank God. Martin shook his head. He felt the man rifling through his pockets. "Your mobile didn't fall out – ah." He pulled the hood from Martin's head. "Welcome to what I'm sure we both hope are temporary accommodations."

Something tickled at the back of Martin's mind, but it dissolved as he blinked, trying to take in his prison. The only light was a white-ruffled lamp sitting on a night table, also white and painted with flowers. Next to it was an iron single bed, covered with a brightly printed quilt – pink, with smiling, winged, doll-like figures and the words "Sky Dancers" emblazoned across it in a curly script. The bed itself was enamelled white, with artificial flowers twined round some of the bars. Beyond that seemed to be cartons of books and what looked like toys, and furniture pushed haphazardly against the walls. It was difficult to make anything out clearly – the fluffy lamp gave off poor light. It was damp and smelled a bit musty – a basement, he realised. They'd gone from ground level downwards, so it had to be a basement.

Excellent deduction, Inspector Crieff. Which leads you to conclude what, exactly? That you are in a basement. Helpful.

Well, that wasn't all…the kidnapper had told him to stay quiet, which meant he was somewhere that he might be heard if he were to fuss loudly enough. And…the furniture and bedding was clearly feminine, so that meant….

What? When you apply that rusting grey matter to the problem, you realise that you're probably in a housing estate and this lunatic who's kidnapped you has girls' furnishings. Maybe they belonged to the last victim he murdered.

That made absolutely no sense.

"Now you listen to me." The kidnapper's raspy voice behind him jolted Martin back to reality. "You're going to call your sweetheart, and you're going to read what I tell you to read. If you scream when I take that tape off, you lose a thumb. You keep screaming when I'm forced to silence you, or you bite me again, you lose both thumbs. Understand me?"

Martin nodded, and the kidnapper stepped in front of him, holding Martin's mobile. Still wearing the balaclava and black clothing, he looked incredibly scary and ruthless. He reached down and ripped the tape from Martin's mouth.

"Aagh!" Pain seared his lips, chin, and cheeks. He bit his lower lip to quiet himself and felt a raw stab of discomfort. The tape had torn his skin raw. "Sorry," he whispered.

"Good Lord." The kidnapper examined the sticky side of the tape. "I don't think you'll need to shave for a few days." He shook his head.

Martin frowned. There…wasn't there something familiar about the man's voice? He couldn't place it, and asking him if they were acquainted probably wasn't one of the world's most brilliant ideas, so he kept his mouth shut about it. "Gordon's number is in my contact list."

"I know –" The kidnapper looked at him oddly for a moment. Martin only saw a brief flash of dark eyes, but his own eyes, pale as they were, would probably look dark in this dim light. "Yes. Right." He thumbed through Martin's phone and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolding it. "Right. Once he answers the phone, you're going to tell him to listen carefully, that you've been kidnapped and that you've been instructed to read this list of demands." The kidnapper set the unfolded sheet of paper on Martin's lap. "You will not deviate from the list. If you deviate from the list, you lose both thumbs and the index finger of your choice. Got it, pretty boy?"

Martin swallowed and nodded. "It's, um, it's a bit hard to read." His lips stung, and he winced. "The – the light, it's a bit dim."

The kidnapper sighed. "Right." He set the mobile in Martin's lap and dragged the chair closer to the table. "The cord doesn't stretch any further."

"That's much better."

"Good." The kidnapper picked up the phone. "Remember – you tell him to listen, tell him you've been kidnapped, and then read the instructions. I'm setting it to speaker-phone."

Martin nodded. The kidnapper plugged in the number and held the mobile up. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Please, please, pick up, Gordon. Sometimes Gordon ignored Martin's calls.

The phone clicked, and Martin's body all but wilted in relief. "Where the fuck are you? Have you any idea what time it is?"

"I – no, I –"

"Get your arse home. Now." The phone clicked, and Martin heard dead air. He licked his lips and flinched from the pain.

The kidnapper prodded his shoulder, apparently not hearing the click. "Get on with it!"

Martin felt tears rising again and pressed his lips together. The pain cleared his head a bit. He slowly moved his head away from the phone and looked up at the terrifying anonymity of his captor. "He…er…I'm afraid he hung up on me."

"What?" The kidnapper stared at the phone's readout.

"Yes. Um, he's a bit impatient, and I'd been gone awhile –"

"Oh, for Christ's sweet sake." The kidnapper plugged in the numbers again. "You get his attention. Cry or something." He held the phone close to Martin's mouth.

This time the phone was picked up on the second ring. "I'm not going to fucking tell you again!"

Click.

Martin felt tears forming again, without the accompaniment of his captor's prodding. Timidly, he lifted his eyes.

The man looked at the phone. "You're joking."

Martin shook his head. The tears blurred his vision, then slid down his cheeks. He sniffled. "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry about? I can't believe –" The kidnapper threw up his hands and thumped to the bed. He examined Martin for a moment, and Martin slid his gaze away and studied the note on his lap, written in heavy but exceptionally neat block printing. "Right," the man said. "We're just going to send him a little message, and then I think he'll call you." He got up and took a roll of gaffer tape from a tall chest of drawers, and strode back to Martin. He leaned close, then looked down at the tape. "That's going to take more skin off." He sighed heavily and went back to the chest, rummaging through it, and came back with two tea towels. Sitting on the bed, he knotted them together and held them up speculatively. "That'll have to do. You've been here five bloody minutes and you're already more trouble than you're worth."

"Well, I didn't ask to be kidnapped!" As soon as the words were out of Martin's mouth, he wanted to clap his hand over his lips, and would have done if he hadn't been tied up.

The kidnapper stared at him and then rose to his feet slowly. He moved toward Martin one menacing step at a time. "What?"

"N-nothing. Please, I'm sorry."

"You'd bloody better be sorry." The man stepped behind him and pushed the knot into Martin's mouth, then tied the ends together at the back of his neck. The knot pressed Martin's tongue down and the tea towels cut into the corners of his mouth, but he didn't dare protest. He watched the man move round the chair and examine the phone again.

The kidnapper grunted, then held the mobile up. "Bring your chin up a bit. There. Try to look frightened."

That was no problem, Martin thought, and felt another tear roll down his cheek as the camera flashed.

*

Gordon stomped angrily to the kitchen and helped himself to a generous serving of the curry chicken and basmati rice that Jay had readied the night before. He left the dish out instead of replacing it in the warming oven – Martin could reheat his in the micro, or eat it cold, he didn't bloody care. He got a Chatsworth Gold from the fridge and went back to his chair, half-watching Hugh Jackman run through Patrick Stewart's fancy house like a chicken without a head as he ate and sorted through some papers. He scarcely tasted his food, and felt it hardening in his chest as he read page after page of bad news.

He'd never been one to take financial advice from anyone, especially the thick-headed doomsayers he worked with, but as the pile of papers in front of him thickened, he thought for a fleeting second that he probably should have listened to them now and again. He'd invested and speculated for so many years with such enormous success it didn't seem possible that everything might come to a crashing halt. Margin payments were due, and they were gigantic, beyond reason, and he didn't have the cash on hand. He could sell off part of the art collection and the house in Norfolk – Christ, no! A few more manoeuvres and everything would be golden again.

His phone chirruped again – message from Martin. Well, Martin could whistle for all Gordon cared. Maybe it was time to insist that he work again, though not at that bloody removals job. Maybe at a men's shop instead, something nice, a tailor's or a tiemaker's. Then Martin could take over the household expenses – God knew he'd been sponging long enough. Certainly Gordon wasn't going to throw a single penny more away on Martin's half-baked attempts to become a pilot. Martin had failed his CPL three times, and Gordon had put his foot down. Six hundred pounds just for the test, plus plane hire, plus landing fees, plus Christ knew what else – it had been an indulgence the first two times, and since the third time had been anything but a charm, that was it. Fucking waste of money.

It still left his immediate problem unsolved, however. He needed nearly two million pounds by Thursday, and unless he could provide Shappey Ltd.'s creditors with some collateral, he was sunk.

The phone chirruped once more. Another fucking message. Gordon snatched up the phone, ready to fling it across the room, and his eye fell on the readout.

Photo Message (1)

Jesus Christ - of all times for Martin to send him a dirty picture. And odd – Martin never did it unless Gordon insisted. Strange. His mood improved slightly, though, and he clicked on the message. What the fuck is all this, then?

The picture was a bit hazy, taken in low light. Gordon put his glasses on and squinted at it. What the –

Martin was sitting on a chair – no, tied to a chair. There was a gag in his mouth, and he looked wide-eyed into the camera.

Sex snap? But Martin was dressed. He couldn't have been….

Ridiculous. Gordon hit Martin's speed-dial and waited as the phone rang. It couldn't be what it appeared to be.

A voice answered. "Yeah?"

"Right, Martin, what the fuck –" Gordon stopped. "Who the fuck is this?"

"Nice of you to call back."

"I said, who the fuck is this? Where's Martin?"

"Did you get my little message?"

A chill settled in Gordon's stomach. "Yeah. I got it."

"Good. Now I want you to listen carefully. I'm going to put your boyfriend on the phone."

Gordon waited, and heard a low murmur. Then another voice, tremulous and tearful. "Gordon?"

"Martin, this had better not be a god-damned joke."

"No, it-it's no joke. I've, um, I've been kidnapped. He wants me to read something to you."

Gordon paused. "So read it."

Martin sniffled. God, Gordon hated when he did that. Sounded like a five-year-old. "'You are to bring one million pounds in small, unmarked, and non-sequential notes to Warren Street Station on Tuesday at 5:30 pm. You will place the cash in a doubled Sainsbury's bag and wait at the northern line northbound platform. The money will be taken from you. You will proceed to Euston Station, and Martin will be released to you there. If –'" Martin sniffled again. "'If you fail to comply with these instructions, he will be killed. If you involve the police or private detectives, he will be killed. If you endeavour to apprehend the person who takes the money, he will be killed. Do you understand?'"

Martin finished speaking, but Gordon could hear him trying to suppress sobs. He was gulping and making funny noises. Gordon himself felt eerily calm.

"He – he wants to know if you understand the instructions, Gordon," Martin continued shakily. "He wants you to repeat them."

"A million by Tuesday. Northern line, northbound platform, Warren Street. Sainsbury's bag." Gordon repeated the instructions through lips that felt a trifle numb.

A mutter sounded over the phone. "He wants to know if you understand that any deviation from those instructions could, um, could –"

"Will," the growling voice said faintly.

"Um, will result in my immediate – what?" There was a pause. "Im – immediate and painful death."

"I see."

"I suppose I'll see you on Tuesday, then. Gor—" The connection was cut, and Gordon was left alone with the mobile flashing the length of the call.

Gordon chewed the side of his tongue thoughtfully, his habit whilst deep in thought. He took a slow swallow of beer, and a now-lukewarm bite of chicken curry.

He sat thinking for a very long time.

*

The kidnapper stared down at Martin. "You had better pray that he follows my demands to the letter."

"I'm sure he will." Martin stared at his knees. There seemed to be nothing else to say. Gordon had been shocked nearly into silence – would he indeed remember everything? "Maybe you should text him those instructions. Just in case."

"I'm quite sure his memory is up to the task," the kidnapper replied curtly. He switched off the phone and pocketed it. "Do you need the loo before I leave for the night?"

Martin blushed. "Um…yes, please."

Going to the loo involved a long and tedious process of untying and untaping, except for his hands, and the replacement of the hood over his head. The kidnapper guided him up the stairs, the knife digging into Martin's side, and down a short corridor to the loo. Through the woven sack, Martin saw a light click on, and a hard hand pushed him forward until his shins hit something hard.

"Right. There it is. You leave the hood on, and sit down. I don't want you pissing all over my floor."

With hands that trembled, Martin unfastened his trousers and sat. When he was done, he stood and re-fastened, and heard the toilet flush. The brutal hands pushed him forward and grasped his wrist, forcing his fingers against something smooth.

"There's the soap." There was a squeak, then the sound of running water. "Wash up."

Obediently, Martin washed his hands and then let his captor guide him back down the corridor and carefully down the stairs. The sack was pulled off his head, and the kidnapper pointed to the bed with the knife, a wicked-looking jackknife. "Lie down."

Cooperate. This will all be over in a few days if you don't do anything phenomenally stupid. Martin lay on the single bed, and the kidnapper grasped his right hand, yanking it toward the furthest iron bar. He bound Martin's wrist to the bar quickly and efficiently, and moved round the bed to the opposite side, where he similarly bound Martin's left wrist. When he leant close, Martin caught the mingled scents of sweat and some nice cologne.

"Look."

Martin couldn't quite meet the kidnapper's eyes – it was too disconcerting, with the balaclava covering everything else – so he stared at the man's forehead. The man stared down at him, silent for a long moment. Martin waited.

"Look," the man said, as if he'd been interrupted. "I know this is…this can be an ordeal, or it can be relatively pleasant. That's up to you. Don't make a fuss, don't try any heroics, and you'll be all right."

Martin fancied he heard some measure of kindness in the man's voice, and he began to well up again. He screwed his eyes shut and nodded. "Okay."

"I'm going to gag you again."

"Not the tape, please –"

"No." The man retrieved the knotted tea towels and pushed the gag back into Martin's mouth, tying it securely behind his head. "That mightn't be comfortable, but you'll just have to endure it."

Martin frowned – not at the man's words, nor his tone, but at the timbre of his voice. He was roughening it deliberately, but underneath – there was something familiar about it. Did they know each other? Was it some sort of personal vendetta, acquaintance against acquaintance? A business deal gone bad?

Oh, stop it. Those things only happen in films. Of course, most kidnappings did, too. It wasn't an everyday thing. At least not in Fitton.

"Pick yourself up a moment." The kidnapper pulled the Sky Dancers quilt from beneath Martin's body and settled it over him. "It's damp, but you're not going to freeze."

Surely he didn't expect a thank-you? No, he couldn't have, since Martin was gagged. Still, he nodded, and let out a sigh. It was only a single bed, and his arms weren't tightly stretched. He could spend the night in relative comfort, if not luxurious indulgence.

"Sleep tight," the man said, and went back up the staircase.

Martin sank back against the pillows with another sigh. He'd never sleep, he knew that much. Might as well resign myself to this for the next eight or so hours. He wished he'd thought to ask for some food, or at least water; he was hungry and thirsty, and the lovely aromas from the kitchen had wakened his cravings anew when he'd been taken to the loo.

Ten minutes later, meditating on the possibilities those fragrances had offered, he'd succumbed to an exhausted and dreamless sleep.

*

He awoke, blinking, and this time remembered exactly where he was. He tried to sit up, but the position in which he was bound wouldn't allow for it. His shoulders ached, and he tugged at the rope half-heartedly.

His right hand fell to the surface of the bed.

Martin stared for a moment in utter incomprehension. Slowly, he flexed the fingers of his hand and felt the blood tingling through his veins. He held his hand up, staring, unable to believe his luck. Quickly, he glanced around, looking for an upper window, but found none.

Right. Stairs. Once you untie yourself.

He picked at the knot on his left hand and marvelled as it unravelled easily. He sat up, groaning softly, and reached behind his head to unpick the knot of the gag. He pulled it out of his mouth, working his jaw to relieve the ache, and dropped the sodden thing on the pink girly quilt.

There was no way to tell the time without a window. Had he slept the night through? Didn't seem likely. Not a moment to lose. He pushed himself off the bed and went to the staircase. There were fourteen stairs to the door, and if it was locked, Martin would have to find something to pry it loose. He crept up the stairs, wincing at the squeak of the treads, and stopped at the top, praying that it wasn't barred. Cautiously, he reached out and turned the knob.

The door swung open silently, revealing a spotless kitchen, with morning light spilling through the window, and a door. A beautiful, beautiful door with an oblong window to what looked like a garden.

Yes, yes! Martin rejoiced silently. God, did I sleep the night through?

No matter. It was Sunday morning; Martin heard the sound of church bells, ringing as happily and as noisily as the joyful thumping of Martin's heart. He stepped onto the top tread.

Round the corner, yawning, wearing a brown silk dressing gown, came a man with dishevelled hair, rubbing at his eyes.

Martin froze as the man stopped dead.

"Jesus Christ!"

Martin's mouth opened, but he couldn't make a sound. He started in fright, his arms pinwheeling, and teetered backward.

Just before he began his fall down the steps, he realised he knew the man's face: it was Gordon's former pilot, Douglas Richardson.

TBC....