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FIC: A Million By Tuesday [7/?]
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![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.
Can also be read on AO3
*
Douglas' phone buzzed with a text.
No need to pick me up Ill meet you at the restaurant XOXO
Douglas gave his tie a final adjustment and looked in the mirror. Not bad; one wouldn't be able to tell at a single glance that he was in the most desperate straits of his life. He needed a haircut, though; always au courant with his personal grooming, he'd nonetheless neglected, in an effort to curb spending, his monthly appointment at the barber's, a visit that encompassed a scalp massage, haircut, manicure, and shave. Funny how rapidly and alarmingly those little luxuries added up.
He went downstairs and into the kitchen, opening the cellar door quietly to check on Martin without alerting him to the fact that he was headed out. He'd let him up to use the loo an hour before, so Martin wouldn't need it for another few hours, and he'd make Martin something to eat when he came back from dinner. He listened closely and heard the nearly imperceptible sound of a turning page just above the low murmuring of the radio. He closed the door and locked it, then double-checked the cooker. He didn't want to leave the basement door unlocked, but if there were a fire or some other emergency…no. Martin would be fine, and Douglas wouldn't be gone for more than three hours. Shaking his head, he scooped up his keys and depressingly thin wallet and left the house.
He paused in the act of climbing into his car, then went back into the house and silently unlocked the basement door.
Sophie was already seated when he entered L'Abate; head down, studying the menu, she didn't see him come in. He stood still for a moment, heedless of the friendly and welcoming maître d', and watched her. She was so beautiful that his chest actually ached. Her sleek, shining brown hair was tucked behind her ears, and she had only a little of the baby roundness of her childhood – the planes of her face were more angular than the last time he'd seen her, and her expression was sweetly serious as she inspected the menu. Douglas' heart clenched painfully.
As if she'd sensed his scrutiny, Sophie looked up and instantly her face was wreathed in smiles. "Daddy!" She rose as Douglas forced himself forward, and embraced him. She smelled of some perfume a bit too sophisticated for a girl of seventeen, something like Calèche or Chanel – probably she'd nicked it from Annabel's dressing table.
He hugged her tightly, then held her away. "Let me look at you. Is this one of yours?" He nodded at her dress, a full-skirted cream-coloured silk with a skirt just short enough to be flirtatious. Sophie was an aspiring fashion designer and was heading to Central Saint Martins in September. She'd be the only fashion designer whose dad was on the lam.
"You like it?" She gave a little twirl.
"Gorgeous, darling." He escorted her back to her chair and seated himself. "You've been looking over the menu, I see. Anything in particular?"
"Branzino, I think. Yum yum. You're looking marvellous, Daddy. I love the long hair."
"Unemployment agrees with me." Douglas managed a smile. "Now, let's see. What shall we start with?"
Sophie, always a cheery and gregarious girl, was full of chatter, talking volubly about the events both trivial and momentous that made up her busy life, scarcely giving Douglas a chance to get a word in edgewise, but it was just as well; while he listened to her and made the appropriate enthusiastic responses, on another level he was drinking in every gesture, every nuance of her lovely face, every rising and falling note in her voice, and storing it up to remember for the rest of his life. On a third level, he was already missing her, and bitterly lamenting the turn his life had taken. He wanted to clasp her close and simply cuddle her for an hour, but he couldn't betray himself. He couldn't bear to see her disappointment. Desultorily, he picked at his filet, hardly tasting it.
"Enough about me, I've been nattering forever." Sophie took a sip of her wine. "What's happening with you, Daddy?"
Well, darling, you know I was sacked, but what you don't know is that I abducted the husband of the man who sacked me, and I'm going to flee the country tomorrow. Other than that, nothing much. "Oh, the usual. Thinking about working, but enjoying leisure a bit too much to really bother looking."
"Well, if anyone deserves a rest, it's you." She gave him a sudden arch look. "Seeing anyone?"
"Not at the moment. You?"
"Don't try to distract me, Daddy. It's been ages since you've properly dated anyone. Don't you think it's time you settled down with some nice woman?" She sipped delicately at her wine. "Or man?"
Douglas choked mid-swallow and managed somehow not to disgrace himself. He took a fortifying drink. "Sorry?"
"Oh, come on, Daddy. I am side-eyeing you so hard right now."
"What on earth is that supposed to mean?"
"I know you're bi. It's not a big deal."
Heat crept up Douglas' neck and into his cheeks. "And just how do you know that, may I ask?"
"I remember when you and Mummy were still together, that guy Mummy brought home, and you all –" Sophie made a fluttering gesture with her hand. "And then you had that big fight."
Douglas' mouth dropped open. How had she known about the handsome one-night-stand that Annabel had towed home almost ten years ago, the only other Sky God Annabel had deemed worthy of a three-way. And how nonchalantly he'd strolled out afterward, leaving Douglas and Annabel utterly spent and sorry they'd ever even contemplated the experience, which had laid bare too many flaws in their own relationship and led to innumerable mutual infidelities before they'd finally agreed to split up. "How in God's name –"
"I eavesdropped a lot." She popped a fingerling potato in her mouth. "Anyhow, the point is that it doesn't matter whether you're with a man or a woman. You shouldn't be alone, Daddy – you've got so much to give."
Shame suffused Douglas' heart. "That's a lovely thing to say, darling."
"Well, it's true. Haven't you met anyone during your…hiatus, or whatever?"
Quite suddenly, Douglas got a weird and unexpected flash of Martin Crieff's face, and he nearly blurted his name out before biting his lip hard enough to hurt. Why, yes, Sophie – that fellow I kidnapped, the one I was telling you about earlier? He's the most interesting person I've met this year, and I know you're probably going to say that any cowed, frightened victim is going to be at least a little interesting, but this one's different! He's braver than I thought he'd be and he was scrappy enough to almost get away before he collapsed for some reason – I didn't think people fainted from fear, but I guess I was wrong! At any rate, he likes flying and he's sort of nice-looking if a bit on the weedy side, and he seems altogether too decent to be with a bastard like Gordon Shappey. Do you think I should ask him on a date? Oh, wait, not possible. I'll be on the run after tomorrow.
"What's the matter, Dad?"
Douglas gazed at his daughter in abject despair. After tomorrow Sophie would know Martin's name; the kidnapping would be all over the news, and his poor darling girl would have to cope with the humiliation of having a father guilty of an indictable offence.
"Daddy?"
"Sorry, darling." Douglas stretched his mouth into an approximation of a smile. "Woolgathering. No, I haven't really met anyone. I've been living a bachelor's life."
"Well, I suppose I'll have to set you up with someone. Oh! Did I tell you who came into the shop last week? You're never going to believe it. I was lining up a row of handbags and shoes, emerald-green patent leather, glorious stuff –"
Douglas tried to focus on what Sophie was telling him, smiling and nodding in the right places, but he found himself thinking about Martin Crieff. What if he went back to the house and freed Martin, drove him home, begged him not to say a word about his kidnapper's identity? Douglas would head north, Leeds or Manchester or York, someplace with a thriving population, and hang out his shingle as a flying instructor, or find a job in air traffic control, anything to make a living. He could live frugally, modestly, even humbly, but the prospect of never seeing Sophie again was unbearable.
Impossible. If their roles were reversed, Douglas would have been furious at the insult to his dignity and the rough treatment he'd received. He'd be on the phone to the papers and television stations in no time flat. Martin would get lots of positive attention for helping to bring a criminal to justice, and Douglas, much as he'd have liked to, couldn't blame Martin for that.
"Bugger it – I've got to go!" Sophie drank the last of her wine and stood, tossing her napkin beside her plate and looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "Promised I'd meet Christoph and Parvati at Imbibe."
"Oh, but – the profiteroles here are legendary. Can't you stay a bit longer?" Douglas pleaded.
"Can't, Daddy. I'll stop by on Thursday, how's that?" She bent and kissed him on the cheek.
Douglas rose to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over, and embraced her tightly. My sweet baby. He'd greeted her birth with purest joy; she'd made his life wonderful in more ways than he could possibly enumerate, and she was a lovely, kind, and thoughtful girl, an astounding feat considering her parents, both monsters of selfishness. He wanted to keen and cry for his loss. "I love you, darling."
"I love you too, Daddy." She pulled away, and he let go reluctantly, not wanting her to think anything was amiss. "I'll see you Thursday. 'Bye!"
Aching, Douglas watched her go.
*
"Douglas, are you all right?"
Hastily, Douglas turned away and swiped viciously at his blurred eyes. He cleared his throat, turned back to Martin, and frowned. "Certainly I'm all right."
"You seem terribly upset."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm fine." Douglas rose to his feet, leaden-limbed. "Do you want something to eat?"
"Well, yes, I was coming to see if I could get a snack. If you don't mind."
Douglas took off his jacket, donned an apron, and rummaged in the refrigerator, pulling out the chicken he'd cooked on Saturday night, a container of his homemade tomato sauce, and a block of Parmesan cheese. He found pasta and set some water on the range to boil, then concentrated on chopping up some chicken. Martin sat quietly, apparently content to watch him. "There's some wine in the fridge. You might pour me a glass as well."
"Oh. All right." Martin got the wine, found glasses, and poured. "Shall I…um…grate the cheese?"
"Yes, that would be helpful, thank you. In there." Douglas pointed to the drawer where the grater was kept.
Now and then, in between steaming some veggies in the microwave and deftly shaking the pan where chicken was searing in a bit of olive oil, Douglas glanced at Martin as he grated the cheese with meticulous concentration. He'd yanked up the sleeves of his thin jumper, throwing the paleness of his arms and hands into relief. He had long, slender fingers, a bit clumsy in somewhat amusing contrast to their graceful and capable appearance, and his wrists and arms were finely modelled. Douglas eyed him reflectively. He was handsome in an odd sort of way, he supposed, with bright sea-coloured eyes and that corkscrewed ginger hair, but it was his animation that was really attractive, an endearing kind of lively, sparkling focus; watching him working so diligently, it was actually easy to see what Gordon had perceived in him and found enticing.
Martin seemed to sense Douglas' attention and looked up, wide-eyed. "Something wrong?"
Douglas shook his head. "No, nothing." He served up a plate of pasta and the chicken and vegetables, poured on the sauce, and set the plate in front of Martin. "Bon appetit."
"You're not eating?"
"I've eaten already." Douglas took off his apron and sat at the table, toying with the stem of his wineglass.
Martin darted a shy look Douglas' way, then dove into the meal, eating with voracious appetite. "This is delicious," he mumbled through a mouthful of food.
"Glad to hear it." Douglas refilled Martin's glass.
"Thank you. Er –" Martin took a drink. "Why are you all dressed up?"
Any number of acid-tinged retorts came to mind, but Douglas didn't have the energy to spar. "I had dinner with my daughter this evening."
"I didn't realise you'd gone out."
"Yes, I'd hoped for that. Did you enjoy your reading?"
"Oh, yes. You know, I'd always assumed that a wet/dry thermometer would carry on showing temperature and dewpoint when the temperature fell below zero, but after today, I'm wondering if the ice on the wet bulb sublimates and therefore continues to cool it more than the dry bulb. But then I suppose it would take a lot of heat to get ice to sublimate. Have you ever experienced that?" Martin dug enthusiastically into his pasta.
Douglas blinked. "Sorry?"
Martin frowned ponderously, then took another bite of pasta. He chewed, swallowed, and drank some wine. "You were saying good-bye to her."
"Yes."
Another little heap of pasta and chicken disappeared into Martin's mouth. "Well –"
"Look, I know it's entirely my fault, all right? I really don't need to hear it."
"Well, it is," Martin muttered, then stared down at his rapidly emptying plate. "I'm sorry to hear it, though."
"Yes. I suppose my contingency planning was rather lacking. This hasn't quite gone the way I'd anticipated."
"It's good practise for the next kidnap," Martin said. Douglas gave him a sharp look, and Martin went on, "A-although I'm hardly one to give advice, since I've failed the CPL three times."
It was the first jest Martin had made, and it was weak, but Douglas appreciated the effort. He chuckled. "At least you can take the CPL as many times as you like. I'm not certain my nerves are quite up to kidnapping another three or four people."
Martin's smile dwindled. "I don't know if there will be a next time."
"Martin, I told you I wasn't going to hurt you."
"No, I don't mean that. I-I mean that I haven't got the money for another test."
Douglas raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"I know what you're thinking," Martin said. "Gordon's rich and he could pay for a dozen more tests, but after the third failure, he…he more or less made it clear that he wasn't going to pay for me to fail again. But he doesn't want me to work, so I don't see how I'm meant to pay for the tests and medical stuff myself. And I understand that, really. It's wasteful to pour so much money into the effort and never have it pay off in a meaningful way."
"But he won't let you fail under your own steam, either," Douglas said, musing that even taking the test five times a year was a minor blip in the face of Gordon's enormous discretionary expenditures.
"I think he's a bit embarrassed by it," Martin went on. "You see, he's got friends who fly for pleasure, and I reckon it would be humiliating if word got out that I kept attempting to get the CPL and failing."
Douglas said nothing. He could well imagine that Gordon would be embarrassed by a partner who proved to be unsuccessful at anything. "I don't suppose determination counts for much with him."
"No. No, he's, er, result-oriented. But like I said, I understand."
"You want to fly, do you?"
An expression of utter yearning came over Martin's face. "It's all I've ever wanted," he replied softly.
"Then why are you letting Gordon stand in your way?"
Martin's mouth opened, then snapped shut. Vivid spots of colour stood out on his cheeks. "You wouldn't understand," he said, and pushed his plate away. "That was delicious. Thank you. I'd better go back downstairs."
Douglas thought about offering Martin the guest bedroom, then sighed. Better to keep things as they were. By this time tomorrow evening he'd be long gone, and Martin would be back with Gordon.
After Martin had retreated downstairs, Douglas tidied up and snapped off the kitchen light.
He left the cellar door unlocked again. After all, what was one more stupid risk in a weekend full of them?
*
Douglas felt himself sweating through the smooth cotton of his shirt and onto the silk lining of his jacket. It wasn't hot at all; in fact the tube station seemed unusually chilly, but his nerves, always reliably steady, seemed to be collapsing. He supposed he was owed a bit of nervous tension; this was his first kidnapping.
Still, everything seemed to be in order. He'd left Martin back at the house, tied up and gagged once more, but not painfully. Once was he was safely in Lisbon – he'd decided Lisbon was a good initial way station to wherever he ultimately planned to go – he'd use the cheap phone he'd bought for this whole caper and alert Gordon as to Martin's whereabouts. Martin's eyes, as he'd endured another session of bondage that was hardly titillating, had been faintly reproachful, but he hadn't complained and had actually wished Douglas good luck before Douglas had slipped the gag back into his mouth. Douglas had been most unexpectedly touched. What an utterly bizarre situation this had become.
He'd driven his car to a local garage, paid for twenty-four hours, and left the keys beneath the floor mat, where an acquaintance, a man of mildly criminal disposition, would pick it up and sell it for cash, then wire half the money to Douglas, wherever he happened to be. He'd gone to the bank and drawn all but ten pounds out of his account. All that was left was collecting the money from Gordon using the young homeless lady he'd engaged as an intermediary for a fairly reasonable sum, and then taking a taxi to Fitton airfield, where Herc Shipwright, for a less reasonable sum, would fly him to Lisbon along with a charter group already booked for a Portuguese holiday.
So far, everything was going to plan, except Gordon hadn't turned up yet.
On the positive side of things, there didn't seem to be any police officers or detectives in the tube station either. Douglas watched carefully from behind his newspaper, but no-one seemed to be lingering suspiciously, or doubling back. The young lady glanced casually at him and held up her polystyrene cup to a passing businessman, who skirted her dramatically, an expression of palpable disgust on his handsome, empty face.
A train roared up, grinding to a halt, and disgorged scores of busy commuters, all moving at speed, none of whom resembled Gordon in the least. The temperature in the station, not to mention the mingled effluvia of more than a hundred people crammed into a small space, rose a few degrees as the departing passengers jostled against the arriving passengers and created momentary gridlock.
Douglas consulted his watch. Five thirty-nine; Gordon was ten minutes late. Douglas disappeared behind his newspaper again, hoping the young woman was reliable and remembered the face that Douglas had shown her, a Google images result of Gordon with a fairly typical scowl on his miserable countenance. But he'd signal her, if need be; they'd arranged a sort of code wherein Douglas would fold his newspaper if he spotted Gordon and his Sainsbury's carrier bags, and she would spring into action.
Five forty-four.
Five fifty-three.
The damp patches beneath Douglas' armpits grew profoundly damper.
Eight minutes after six.
More trains came and went; more packs of aromatic humanity arrived and departed.
At half six, the girl shuffled over to the bench where Douglas sat sweating behind his newspaper and seated herself. She spoke into her cup. "I don't think he's coming, bruv."
"Give it a bit," Douglas murmured. "I'll throw in an extra ten quid."
"Right, off I go." She got up again and waltzed back to her spot.
Another half hour passed.
Douglas consulted his watch again. Seven fourteen. What on God's green earth? Surely Gordon hadn't misinterpreted the information? He waited another sixteen minutes, just to be certain, then heaved himself up from the bench, picked up his small valise containing the few clothes and sundry items he'd allowed himself for travelling, and walked toward the young lady. He drew a twenty-pound note from his billfold and gave it to her. "I suppose he's not coming after all. Thanks all the same."
"Not bothered, bruv. Maybe next time, right?" She took the money with one quick sleight-of-hand gesture and a solemn wink, and melted into the crowd.
Puzzled and furious, Douglas walked slowly up the stairs, still looking here and there for Gordon's hard visage. He went back to the garage, retrieved his car, and made his way back to his house.
It was dark when he arrived, and all the lights were off. He let himself in, turning on lights as he walked, and went to the cellar door. When he opened it, Martin must have seen the light filtering from the kitchen, because Douglas heard excited, muffled shouting.
Sorry, Martin, just me.
Douglas turned the cellar light on and made his way down the stairs. Martin's cries halted abruptly as he caught sight of Douglas, and his brow furrowed in evident anxiety and confusion. He stared at Douglas and held still as Douglas moved behind him and untied the gag.
Martin licked his lips. "Why are you – I didn't think you were coming back."
Douglas tossed the gag aside and sank onto the bed. "He didn't show."
"Oh, for goodness' sake, that's not funny. Don't you think I –" Martin broke off and inspected Douglas closely. "You are joking, aren't you? Tell me you're joking."
Douglas met Martin's gaze evenly. "I'm not joking."
"But…but…." Martin shook his head. "I don't understand."
"Neither do I." Douglas retrieved his phone from his pocket. "We're going to find out what happened." Swiftly, he punched in Gordon's mobile number and set the phone to speaker. "Stay quiet," he cautioned.
The phone rang twice, and then Gordon's voice replied, deep and crisp. "Gordon Shappey."
Douglas pitched his own voice as low as it would possibly go. "Shappey. You missed our little rendezvous. Did you forget?"
There was a silence – a long one. Then Gordon finally replied. "No, I didn't forget."
"Then why didn't you show? Your little boy-toy's quite worried."
Another silence stretched out. "I'm not paying the ransom."
Douglas' mouth dropped open, and only ferocious control kept him from blurting "What?" in his normal voice. He met Martin's eyes for a moment; Martin looked utterly stunned. "You'd better fucking explain, Shappey."
"Right. Two things, both brief," Gordon said. "One: I haven't got that kind of cash. Two: I don't negotiate with terrorists. That's all. It's fairly simple."
"Gordon!" Martin cried brokenly. "Gordon, I –" He bit his lip as Douglas tried to hush him with a gesture. "Gordon, it's Martin. Please, I'm – I thought…." He took a rapid, stuttering breath and seemed unable to continue.
Gordon didn't reply.
"Shappey," Douglas barked. "Shappey!" He glanced down at the readout.
Gordon had terminated the call.
*
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
*
Douglas' phone buzzed with a text.
No need to pick me up Ill meet you at the restaurant XOXO
Douglas gave his tie a final adjustment and looked in the mirror. Not bad; one wouldn't be able to tell at a single glance that he was in the most desperate straits of his life. He needed a haircut, though; always au courant with his personal grooming, he'd nonetheless neglected, in an effort to curb spending, his monthly appointment at the barber's, a visit that encompassed a scalp massage, haircut, manicure, and shave. Funny how rapidly and alarmingly those little luxuries added up.
He went downstairs and into the kitchen, opening the cellar door quietly to check on Martin without alerting him to the fact that he was headed out. He'd let him up to use the loo an hour before, so Martin wouldn't need it for another few hours, and he'd make Martin something to eat when he came back from dinner. He listened closely and heard the nearly imperceptible sound of a turning page just above the low murmuring of the radio. He closed the door and locked it, then double-checked the cooker. He didn't want to leave the basement door unlocked, but if there were a fire or some other emergency…no. Martin would be fine, and Douglas wouldn't be gone for more than three hours. Shaking his head, he scooped up his keys and depressingly thin wallet and left the house.
He paused in the act of climbing into his car, then went back into the house and silently unlocked the basement door.
Sophie was already seated when he entered L'Abate; head down, studying the menu, she didn't see him come in. He stood still for a moment, heedless of the friendly and welcoming maître d', and watched her. She was so beautiful that his chest actually ached. Her sleek, shining brown hair was tucked behind her ears, and she had only a little of the baby roundness of her childhood – the planes of her face were more angular than the last time he'd seen her, and her expression was sweetly serious as she inspected the menu. Douglas' heart clenched painfully.
As if she'd sensed his scrutiny, Sophie looked up and instantly her face was wreathed in smiles. "Daddy!" She rose as Douglas forced himself forward, and embraced him. She smelled of some perfume a bit too sophisticated for a girl of seventeen, something like Calèche or Chanel – probably she'd nicked it from Annabel's dressing table.
He hugged her tightly, then held her away. "Let me look at you. Is this one of yours?" He nodded at her dress, a full-skirted cream-coloured silk with a skirt just short enough to be flirtatious. Sophie was an aspiring fashion designer and was heading to Central Saint Martins in September. She'd be the only fashion designer whose dad was on the lam.
"You like it?" She gave a little twirl.
"Gorgeous, darling." He escorted her back to her chair and seated himself. "You've been looking over the menu, I see. Anything in particular?"
"Branzino, I think. Yum yum. You're looking marvellous, Daddy. I love the long hair."
"Unemployment agrees with me." Douglas managed a smile. "Now, let's see. What shall we start with?"
Sophie, always a cheery and gregarious girl, was full of chatter, talking volubly about the events both trivial and momentous that made up her busy life, scarcely giving Douglas a chance to get a word in edgewise, but it was just as well; while he listened to her and made the appropriate enthusiastic responses, on another level he was drinking in every gesture, every nuance of her lovely face, every rising and falling note in her voice, and storing it up to remember for the rest of his life. On a third level, he was already missing her, and bitterly lamenting the turn his life had taken. He wanted to clasp her close and simply cuddle her for an hour, but he couldn't betray himself. He couldn't bear to see her disappointment. Desultorily, he picked at his filet, hardly tasting it.
"Enough about me, I've been nattering forever." Sophie took a sip of her wine. "What's happening with you, Daddy?"
Well, darling, you know I was sacked, but what you don't know is that I abducted the husband of the man who sacked me, and I'm going to flee the country tomorrow. Other than that, nothing much. "Oh, the usual. Thinking about working, but enjoying leisure a bit too much to really bother looking."
"Well, if anyone deserves a rest, it's you." She gave him a sudden arch look. "Seeing anyone?"
"Not at the moment. You?"
"Don't try to distract me, Daddy. It's been ages since you've properly dated anyone. Don't you think it's time you settled down with some nice woman?" She sipped delicately at her wine. "Or man?"
Douglas choked mid-swallow and managed somehow not to disgrace himself. He took a fortifying drink. "Sorry?"
"Oh, come on, Daddy. I am side-eyeing you so hard right now."
"What on earth is that supposed to mean?"
"I know you're bi. It's not a big deal."
Heat crept up Douglas' neck and into his cheeks. "And just how do you know that, may I ask?"
"I remember when you and Mummy were still together, that guy Mummy brought home, and you all –" Sophie made a fluttering gesture with her hand. "And then you had that big fight."
Douglas' mouth dropped open. How had she known about the handsome one-night-stand that Annabel had towed home almost ten years ago, the only other Sky God Annabel had deemed worthy of a three-way. And how nonchalantly he'd strolled out afterward, leaving Douglas and Annabel utterly spent and sorry they'd ever even contemplated the experience, which had laid bare too many flaws in their own relationship and led to innumerable mutual infidelities before they'd finally agreed to split up. "How in God's name –"
"I eavesdropped a lot." She popped a fingerling potato in her mouth. "Anyhow, the point is that it doesn't matter whether you're with a man or a woman. You shouldn't be alone, Daddy – you've got so much to give."
Shame suffused Douglas' heart. "That's a lovely thing to say, darling."
"Well, it's true. Haven't you met anyone during your…hiatus, or whatever?"
Quite suddenly, Douglas got a weird and unexpected flash of Martin Crieff's face, and he nearly blurted his name out before biting his lip hard enough to hurt. Why, yes, Sophie – that fellow I kidnapped, the one I was telling you about earlier? He's the most interesting person I've met this year, and I know you're probably going to say that any cowed, frightened victim is going to be at least a little interesting, but this one's different! He's braver than I thought he'd be and he was scrappy enough to almost get away before he collapsed for some reason – I didn't think people fainted from fear, but I guess I was wrong! At any rate, he likes flying and he's sort of nice-looking if a bit on the weedy side, and he seems altogether too decent to be with a bastard like Gordon Shappey. Do you think I should ask him on a date? Oh, wait, not possible. I'll be on the run after tomorrow.
"What's the matter, Dad?"
Douglas gazed at his daughter in abject despair. After tomorrow Sophie would know Martin's name; the kidnapping would be all over the news, and his poor darling girl would have to cope with the humiliation of having a father guilty of an indictable offence.
"Daddy?"
"Sorry, darling." Douglas stretched his mouth into an approximation of a smile. "Woolgathering. No, I haven't really met anyone. I've been living a bachelor's life."
"Well, I suppose I'll have to set you up with someone. Oh! Did I tell you who came into the shop last week? You're never going to believe it. I was lining up a row of handbags and shoes, emerald-green patent leather, glorious stuff –"
Douglas tried to focus on what Sophie was telling him, smiling and nodding in the right places, but he found himself thinking about Martin Crieff. What if he went back to the house and freed Martin, drove him home, begged him not to say a word about his kidnapper's identity? Douglas would head north, Leeds or Manchester or York, someplace with a thriving population, and hang out his shingle as a flying instructor, or find a job in air traffic control, anything to make a living. He could live frugally, modestly, even humbly, but the prospect of never seeing Sophie again was unbearable.
Impossible. If their roles were reversed, Douglas would have been furious at the insult to his dignity and the rough treatment he'd received. He'd be on the phone to the papers and television stations in no time flat. Martin would get lots of positive attention for helping to bring a criminal to justice, and Douglas, much as he'd have liked to, couldn't blame Martin for that.
"Bugger it – I've got to go!" Sophie drank the last of her wine and stood, tossing her napkin beside her plate and looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "Promised I'd meet Christoph and Parvati at Imbibe."
"Oh, but – the profiteroles here are legendary. Can't you stay a bit longer?" Douglas pleaded.
"Can't, Daddy. I'll stop by on Thursday, how's that?" She bent and kissed him on the cheek.
Douglas rose to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over, and embraced her tightly. My sweet baby. He'd greeted her birth with purest joy; she'd made his life wonderful in more ways than he could possibly enumerate, and she was a lovely, kind, and thoughtful girl, an astounding feat considering her parents, both monsters of selfishness. He wanted to keen and cry for his loss. "I love you, darling."
"I love you too, Daddy." She pulled away, and he let go reluctantly, not wanting her to think anything was amiss. "I'll see you Thursday. 'Bye!"
Aching, Douglas watched her go.
*
"Douglas, are you all right?"
Hastily, Douglas turned away and swiped viciously at his blurred eyes. He cleared his throat, turned back to Martin, and frowned. "Certainly I'm all right."
"You seem terribly upset."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm fine." Douglas rose to his feet, leaden-limbed. "Do you want something to eat?"
"Well, yes, I was coming to see if I could get a snack. If you don't mind."
Douglas took off his jacket, donned an apron, and rummaged in the refrigerator, pulling out the chicken he'd cooked on Saturday night, a container of his homemade tomato sauce, and a block of Parmesan cheese. He found pasta and set some water on the range to boil, then concentrated on chopping up some chicken. Martin sat quietly, apparently content to watch him. "There's some wine in the fridge. You might pour me a glass as well."
"Oh. All right." Martin got the wine, found glasses, and poured. "Shall I…um…grate the cheese?"
"Yes, that would be helpful, thank you. In there." Douglas pointed to the drawer where the grater was kept.
Now and then, in between steaming some veggies in the microwave and deftly shaking the pan where chicken was searing in a bit of olive oil, Douglas glanced at Martin as he grated the cheese with meticulous concentration. He'd yanked up the sleeves of his thin jumper, throwing the paleness of his arms and hands into relief. He had long, slender fingers, a bit clumsy in somewhat amusing contrast to their graceful and capable appearance, and his wrists and arms were finely modelled. Douglas eyed him reflectively. He was handsome in an odd sort of way, he supposed, with bright sea-coloured eyes and that corkscrewed ginger hair, but it was his animation that was really attractive, an endearing kind of lively, sparkling focus; watching him working so diligently, it was actually easy to see what Gordon had perceived in him and found enticing.
Martin seemed to sense Douglas' attention and looked up, wide-eyed. "Something wrong?"
Douglas shook his head. "No, nothing." He served up a plate of pasta and the chicken and vegetables, poured on the sauce, and set the plate in front of Martin. "Bon appetit."
"You're not eating?"
"I've eaten already." Douglas took off his apron and sat at the table, toying with the stem of his wineglass.
Martin darted a shy look Douglas' way, then dove into the meal, eating with voracious appetite. "This is delicious," he mumbled through a mouthful of food.
"Glad to hear it." Douglas refilled Martin's glass.
"Thank you. Er –" Martin took a drink. "Why are you all dressed up?"
Any number of acid-tinged retorts came to mind, but Douglas didn't have the energy to spar. "I had dinner with my daughter this evening."
"I didn't realise you'd gone out."
"Yes, I'd hoped for that. Did you enjoy your reading?"
"Oh, yes. You know, I'd always assumed that a wet/dry thermometer would carry on showing temperature and dewpoint when the temperature fell below zero, but after today, I'm wondering if the ice on the wet bulb sublimates and therefore continues to cool it more than the dry bulb. But then I suppose it would take a lot of heat to get ice to sublimate. Have you ever experienced that?" Martin dug enthusiastically into his pasta.
Douglas blinked. "Sorry?"
Martin frowned ponderously, then took another bite of pasta. He chewed, swallowed, and drank some wine. "You were saying good-bye to her."
"Yes."
Another little heap of pasta and chicken disappeared into Martin's mouth. "Well –"
"Look, I know it's entirely my fault, all right? I really don't need to hear it."
"Well, it is," Martin muttered, then stared down at his rapidly emptying plate. "I'm sorry to hear it, though."
"Yes. I suppose my contingency planning was rather lacking. This hasn't quite gone the way I'd anticipated."
"It's good practise for the next kidnap," Martin said. Douglas gave him a sharp look, and Martin went on, "A-although I'm hardly one to give advice, since I've failed the CPL three times."
It was the first jest Martin had made, and it was weak, but Douglas appreciated the effort. He chuckled. "At least you can take the CPL as many times as you like. I'm not certain my nerves are quite up to kidnapping another three or four people."
Martin's smile dwindled. "I don't know if there will be a next time."
"Martin, I told you I wasn't going to hurt you."
"No, I don't mean that. I-I mean that I haven't got the money for another test."
Douglas raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"I know what you're thinking," Martin said. "Gordon's rich and he could pay for a dozen more tests, but after the third failure, he…he more or less made it clear that he wasn't going to pay for me to fail again. But he doesn't want me to work, so I don't see how I'm meant to pay for the tests and medical stuff myself. And I understand that, really. It's wasteful to pour so much money into the effort and never have it pay off in a meaningful way."
"But he won't let you fail under your own steam, either," Douglas said, musing that even taking the test five times a year was a minor blip in the face of Gordon's enormous discretionary expenditures.
"I think he's a bit embarrassed by it," Martin went on. "You see, he's got friends who fly for pleasure, and I reckon it would be humiliating if word got out that I kept attempting to get the CPL and failing."
Douglas said nothing. He could well imagine that Gordon would be embarrassed by a partner who proved to be unsuccessful at anything. "I don't suppose determination counts for much with him."
"No. No, he's, er, result-oriented. But like I said, I understand."
"You want to fly, do you?"
An expression of utter yearning came over Martin's face. "It's all I've ever wanted," he replied softly.
"Then why are you letting Gordon stand in your way?"
Martin's mouth opened, then snapped shut. Vivid spots of colour stood out on his cheeks. "You wouldn't understand," he said, and pushed his plate away. "That was delicious. Thank you. I'd better go back downstairs."
Douglas thought about offering Martin the guest bedroom, then sighed. Better to keep things as they were. By this time tomorrow evening he'd be long gone, and Martin would be back with Gordon.
After Martin had retreated downstairs, Douglas tidied up and snapped off the kitchen light.
He left the cellar door unlocked again. After all, what was one more stupid risk in a weekend full of them?
*
Douglas felt himself sweating through the smooth cotton of his shirt and onto the silk lining of his jacket. It wasn't hot at all; in fact the tube station seemed unusually chilly, but his nerves, always reliably steady, seemed to be collapsing. He supposed he was owed a bit of nervous tension; this was his first kidnapping.
Still, everything seemed to be in order. He'd left Martin back at the house, tied up and gagged once more, but not painfully. Once was he was safely in Lisbon – he'd decided Lisbon was a good initial way station to wherever he ultimately planned to go – he'd use the cheap phone he'd bought for this whole caper and alert Gordon as to Martin's whereabouts. Martin's eyes, as he'd endured another session of bondage that was hardly titillating, had been faintly reproachful, but he hadn't complained and had actually wished Douglas good luck before Douglas had slipped the gag back into his mouth. Douglas had been most unexpectedly touched. What an utterly bizarre situation this had become.
He'd driven his car to a local garage, paid for twenty-four hours, and left the keys beneath the floor mat, where an acquaintance, a man of mildly criminal disposition, would pick it up and sell it for cash, then wire half the money to Douglas, wherever he happened to be. He'd gone to the bank and drawn all but ten pounds out of his account. All that was left was collecting the money from Gordon using the young homeless lady he'd engaged as an intermediary for a fairly reasonable sum, and then taking a taxi to Fitton airfield, where Herc Shipwright, for a less reasonable sum, would fly him to Lisbon along with a charter group already booked for a Portuguese holiday.
So far, everything was going to plan, except Gordon hadn't turned up yet.
On the positive side of things, there didn't seem to be any police officers or detectives in the tube station either. Douglas watched carefully from behind his newspaper, but no-one seemed to be lingering suspiciously, or doubling back. The young lady glanced casually at him and held up her polystyrene cup to a passing businessman, who skirted her dramatically, an expression of palpable disgust on his handsome, empty face.
A train roared up, grinding to a halt, and disgorged scores of busy commuters, all moving at speed, none of whom resembled Gordon in the least. The temperature in the station, not to mention the mingled effluvia of more than a hundred people crammed into a small space, rose a few degrees as the departing passengers jostled against the arriving passengers and created momentary gridlock.
Douglas consulted his watch. Five thirty-nine; Gordon was ten minutes late. Douglas disappeared behind his newspaper again, hoping the young woman was reliable and remembered the face that Douglas had shown her, a Google images result of Gordon with a fairly typical scowl on his miserable countenance. But he'd signal her, if need be; they'd arranged a sort of code wherein Douglas would fold his newspaper if he spotted Gordon and his Sainsbury's carrier bags, and she would spring into action.
Five forty-four.
Five fifty-three.
The damp patches beneath Douglas' armpits grew profoundly damper.
Eight minutes after six.
More trains came and went; more packs of aromatic humanity arrived and departed.
At half six, the girl shuffled over to the bench where Douglas sat sweating behind his newspaper and seated herself. She spoke into her cup. "I don't think he's coming, bruv."
"Give it a bit," Douglas murmured. "I'll throw in an extra ten quid."
"Right, off I go." She got up again and waltzed back to her spot.
Another half hour passed.
Douglas consulted his watch again. Seven fourteen. What on God's green earth? Surely Gordon hadn't misinterpreted the information? He waited another sixteen minutes, just to be certain, then heaved himself up from the bench, picked up his small valise containing the few clothes and sundry items he'd allowed himself for travelling, and walked toward the young lady. He drew a twenty-pound note from his billfold and gave it to her. "I suppose he's not coming after all. Thanks all the same."
"Not bothered, bruv. Maybe next time, right?" She took the money with one quick sleight-of-hand gesture and a solemn wink, and melted into the crowd.
Puzzled and furious, Douglas walked slowly up the stairs, still looking here and there for Gordon's hard visage. He went back to the garage, retrieved his car, and made his way back to his house.
It was dark when he arrived, and all the lights were off. He let himself in, turning on lights as he walked, and went to the cellar door. When he opened it, Martin must have seen the light filtering from the kitchen, because Douglas heard excited, muffled shouting.
Sorry, Martin, just me.
Douglas turned the cellar light on and made his way down the stairs. Martin's cries halted abruptly as he caught sight of Douglas, and his brow furrowed in evident anxiety and confusion. He stared at Douglas and held still as Douglas moved behind him and untied the gag.
Martin licked his lips. "Why are you – I didn't think you were coming back."
Douglas tossed the gag aside and sank onto the bed. "He didn't show."
"Oh, for goodness' sake, that's not funny. Don't you think I –" Martin broke off and inspected Douglas closely. "You are joking, aren't you? Tell me you're joking."
Douglas met Martin's gaze evenly. "I'm not joking."
"But…but…." Martin shook his head. "I don't understand."
"Neither do I." Douglas retrieved his phone from his pocket. "We're going to find out what happened." Swiftly, he punched in Gordon's mobile number and set the phone to speaker. "Stay quiet," he cautioned.
The phone rang twice, and then Gordon's voice replied, deep and crisp. "Gordon Shappey."
Douglas pitched his own voice as low as it would possibly go. "Shappey. You missed our little rendezvous. Did you forget?"
There was a silence – a long one. Then Gordon finally replied. "No, I didn't forget."
"Then why didn't you show? Your little boy-toy's quite worried."
Another silence stretched out. "I'm not paying the ransom."
Douglas' mouth dropped open, and only ferocious control kept him from blurting "What?" in his normal voice. He met Martin's eyes for a moment; Martin looked utterly stunned. "You'd better fucking explain, Shappey."
"Right. Two things, both brief," Gordon said. "One: I haven't got that kind of cash. Two: I don't negotiate with terrorists. That's all. It's fairly simple."
"Gordon!" Martin cried brokenly. "Gordon, I –" He bit his lip as Douglas tried to hush him with a gesture. "Gordon, it's Martin. Please, I'm – I thought…." He took a rapid, stuttering breath and seemed unable to continue.
Gordon didn't reply.
"Shappey," Douglas barked. "Shappey!" He glanced down at the readout.
Gordon had terminated the call.
*
TBC....
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I am really worried about Douglas. To go from not touching alcohol "in more than twenty years" (Chapter 3) to wine in the fridge, casual "pour me ones" and "fortifying drinks" with dinner... added in to how many levels he's upset and tying himself up emotionally... He's unravelling and it's painful to see. I sort of don't know whether to hug him or give him a slap to wake him up. I trust *you* though.
I love how you've written Douglas's thoughts and emotions during the "final" dinner with his daughter, all the storing up of memories and the continuing revelations about Martin and everything happening at all sorts of levls al at once. So many thoughts and so many feelings. :D
And then Martin - oh, Martin! - all indignant and worried about Douglas and prideful and... Just the way they naturally slip into being *friends* and then remember the real situation. So... complex and complicated and emotionally *real* and true. And Martin being so "understanding" about Gordon, poor sod. :( I really want to give him a cuddle.
And as a Londoner (once upon a time, anyway) the busyness and the people and the air and smells of a tube station... seething humanity and sweaty suits. (add in some idiot with a dog - or a bicycle - and train rage and service on the Northern Line generally being complete crap.. And of course, of double course, Douglas's reaction to the no-show is less fear of police and discovery and more the need to go back to Martin and release him from his bonds.
And oh! Poor Martin.
No reassurance. No promise of police or retribution. Not a word from Gordon.
Gordon might as well have said, "You can have him. He's more trouble than he's worth." It's delightful to have a villain you can *hate*.
I am SO EAGER for the next installment I cannot even TELL you. This is DELICIOUS. It's a warm chocolate and hazelnut brownie. It's a glass of perfectly (and not over-) chilled Pouilly Fusee or Saint Veran. It's a cup of Italian coffee. It's anything where "just the one" is SO fantastic you want - need - another one. And you have to make it last and savour it, but it's also so gorgeous you want to just TASTE AND TASTE AGAIN :D Scrummy.
No pressure though. I do know a bit of what your RL looks like atm - look after *you* and settle into work and stuff. (I'm always - letting a writer know I want more, is, I think, good - but I do worry when people have a lot of RL stuff that maybe the incorrigable Oliver Twists of readers are a bit... disheartening. You know?)
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You know, you're the only one who noticed Douglas drinking, or at least pointed it out. I didn't want to point big fingers to it, but I did want to show a sort of disintegration slipping in under the door, as it were, beneath the more obvious sorrow of seeing his daughter for the last time. But perhaps Martin can provide a little comfort before it all falls apart, and perhaps Douglas can help poor soul-shattered Martin out too. We shall see!
I used to go to New York a lot, so I know the smell of a subway station - in the summer, OH DEAR GOD. All I have to do is think about it and my olfactory nerves are immediately back there.
And I'm absolutely and completely delighted that you're enjoying it and it's a treat for you! What a sweet thing to say. And as long as I can live RL and write too, I'm happy, so it's all good. Thank you for this amazing feedback, it made me so tickled with joy I just want to roll around in it and swath myself in it. :D
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How you did it was very subtle, but he'd have to have *bought* the wine to have it in the fridge and then he drank with dinner and again at home... We tend to so ignore social drinking and think "drink problem" means starting at 7am or sitting alone with a bottle of whatever, when it can be so much more insidious than that. But maybe also, it's people reading in installments and forgetting that line in chapter 3?
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Douglas' "final, dinner" with his daughter was so very poignant and his thoughts beautifully written.
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Oh, I'm glad you felt that was a poignant scene - thank you, that's so kind!