FIC: A Million By Tuesday [9/?]
Sep. 25th, 2013 06:29 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
*
It was still fairly early in the morning and he hadn't had the best night's sleep, so it was perhaps not inexcusable for Douglas to gape stupidly at the paper as if he expected it would start talking and explaining things to him, not that he needed anyone to explain exactly how he'd meticulously and thoroughly ruined his own life. And it was perhaps not inexcusable that Douglas, a man so blessed by the gods of fortune that he'd never even received so much as a speeding ticket, was utterly felled when bad luck, self-imposed to be sure, happened to him.
So he staggered to a chair and sat, leaving Martin holding the paper and reading the story in a murmur. He'd collect himself in a minute. Just a minute.
Martin sat at the table. "'Shappey reported that Crieff never returned from a trip to purchase wine from Doonan's Newsagent and Off-Licence on Grantham Street, an habitual errand for the couple. Police speculate that Crieff's abductors had been stalking him for weeks in order to establish a pattern and make the kidnap more efficient.'" Martin looked up at Douglas.
Douglas shook his head and lifted a hand. Not entirely untrue.
"'Days later, Shappey received a call from a private mobile demanding ten million pounds in ransom.'" Martin paused. "Ten million? You asked for one million."
The haze in Douglas' head was beginning to clear. "That's right. Perhaps it's a typographical error. Or bad reportage. It wasn't days later that I called, it was the same night. Journalism is a disgrace nowadays."
Martin frowned. "Maybe." He went back to the story. "'Despite his pleas for Crieff's safe return and his assurances that he would pay the ransom, the abductors threatened to kill their victim if Shappey failed to raise the money in the time specified or contacted the police. Shappey's efforts to obtain the full amount by the deadline were unsuccessful, and in desperation he phoned the police.'"
For lack of anything better to do, Douglas got up and stirred the porridge. "So. Bad reportage or Gordon's given an ever so slightly different account of things to make himself look better."
"I'm sure that's not the case." Martin's face glowed, and optimism shone in his eyes. "He…I was wrong about him last night. I thought that he wouldn't…that he didn't want me back."
The hope in Martin's face was so earnest and fragile Douglas didn't possess the executioner's heart it would have taken to deliver a scathing retort, but he couldn't help thinking blackly just the same: When has Gordon Shappey ever acted in anyone's interest but his own? The essential facts hadn't changed – Gordon had been asked (not very nicely, true) for a million pounds, an entirely reasonable sum knowing Gordon, and had flatly refused to pay, using the old chestnut of not negotiating with terrorists, as if the ghost of Maggie Thatcher were standing behind him in big hair and sensible shoes, prodding him with one persistent and bony finger.
Martin kept reading, but Douglas no longer heard him. Quite suddenly (talking of iron), the reality of Douglas' situation descended upon him like an anvil dropped from a ten-storey building. The police were investigating now. He let the spoon drop into the pot with a clatter. Porridge splashed upward, dotting the range top.
The noise stopped Martin mid-sentence. "What is it?"
"I've got to get out of here." Douglas began looking round the kitchen. "I've got to go."
"Now?"
"Yes, now." Douglas headed for the stairs and took them two at a time, adrenaline thundering through his system. He went into the bedroom and grabbed the suitcase he'd packed the day before and threw it on his bed. He'd packed for Ibiza. Summer in Ibiza…maybe Tangier was a better idea. People seemed to disappear more successfully in Tangier. The milieu was decidedly less formal, at least in the circles in which he planned to move; he wouldn't need the grey pinstripe, but the blue summer-weight…and a couple of blazers, the tan silk suit, that would breathe nicely, the lighter cotton shirts, brighter ties…the tuxedo? No, he didn't expect to be attending a lot of parties…socks, underpants –
"Douglas."
Startled, Douglas looked up. Martin hovered in the doorway uncertainly, looking a bit ridiculous in Douglas' grey dressing gown. The green silk dressing gown, he'd take that. Pyjamas? Would he need pyjamas in Tangier?
"I don't think you ought to go right now."
Douglas dropped a handful of ties onto his bed. He could be at the airport in an hour. Drive safely, that was key. It wouldn't be the thing to get stopped for speeding whilst attempting to flee the country. "Martin," he said with as much patience as he could muster, which admittedly wasn't much. "The police are now involved."
"What if I promised not to say anything? It's not as if they can force me to talk. I don't think the police waterboard kidnap victims. O-of course I'm not a hundred percent certain, but last time I checked, anyway." Martin gave a wan smile.
Wearily, Douglas sat on the bed. The adrenaline was draining, leaving him heavy and slow. "You're very generous and in all seriousness I'm truly touched, but I'm afraid you haven't thought things through. Not that I have either, believe me. But once a crime is reported, the police are busy not only trying to rescue the victim, but to catch the criminal and bring him to justice." Douglas' mouth twisted. "So he doesn't do it again, you see."
"Yes, but…well, you wouldn't, would you?"
"Certainly not, but that's hardly the point." Douglas gave Martin a real smile. "Honestly, you were so noisy and slippery during the actual kidnap that I considered giving it up then and there. Thank goodness I was persistent, eh?"
Martin chuckled and bit his lip. "You did frighten me."
"Yes, apparently. I've never seen anyone faint from fear before."
"It wasn't fear!" Martin crossed his arms, scowling. "I've got a-an inner ear dysfunction."
Douglas lifted a brow. "Come again?"
Martin explained. "It's only when I get dizzy, and you were spinning me around. It's physiological, not emotional," he concluded.
"Can you fly with a condition like that?"
"Oh, yes. Believe me, I've checked. But getting back to the point – I wouldn't say anything, Douglas. Especially since you haven't actually got the ransom money."
"But they'll still want to apprehend me, Martin. Don't you see? Dear God, they've probably got forensics teams crawling all over the crime scene. Tyre prints, the bottle you dropped…." Douglas put his head in his hands and groaned.
Martin took one tentative step into the bedroom, then another. He wrung his hands for a moment, then crouched beside the bed and put a hand on Douglas' knee, gazing up at him earnestly. "All the more reason not to go, don't you think? If they are looking for you, they might be watching the motorways, the airfields, every possible means of escape. It'll seem more suspicious if they catch you driving to the airport with a suitcase."
Douglas looked down at Martin's hand, gentle and warm on his knee, then into Martin's eyes, still gleaming with optimism, but with what Douglas fancied was compassion. Compassion for his kidnapper. Poor bugger. And yet, Douglas felt a surprising surge of respect for Martin's level-headedness. "I suppose you're right," he said at last, and looked down at Martin's hand again.
Shyly, Martin withdrew the hand, to Douglas' faint disappointment. "Sorry. I-I think you should just go about your business, and act as though everything's perfectly normal. A dozen cars probably drove through that alleyway since Saturday night. You can arrange to take me somewhere that's not remotely connected with you, and I'll tell the police I was blindfolded the entire time and never saw your face. 'Til then, try not to panic." Martin smiled ruefully. "I should take my own advice once in a while. I should have trusted Gordon."
Douglas managed not to comment on that last. "Am I to understand that you find my company less than horrifying?" he inquired.
Twin spots of pink appeared on Martin's cheeks, and he stared down at the floor as if gems were embedded in its surface. "I told you, it wasn't the worst."
Unexpected warmth blossomed in Douglas' chest. "That dressing gown's far too large for you."
"I'll shower and change."
"Hm. Meantime, I'll work out a plan. How would you like to do some CPL revising while we wait for cover of darkness?"
A broad grin, awkward and endearing, spread across Martin's mouth. "I'd love that."
"You take first bath, and I'll get breakfast ready, and we'll hit the books."
He wasn't entirely soothed. And he didn't trust Gordon's motives, whatever they might have been. And it wasn't that he didn't want to flee, for he most decidedly did want to flee.
But a few more hours in Martin's company surely wouldn't hurt.
*
He was doing his level best, but despite Martin's eagerness and really rather engaging if somewhat nervous and twitchy personality, Douglas couldn't keep his mind on revising. He kept envisioning a squadron of police cars roaring up to the house and breaking in wearing riot gear, then tear-gassing him and dragging him away in handcuffs. He glanced at Martin's face, and it was even brighter and happier than when he realised Gordon had alerted the police. A little arrow of chagrin lodged itself in Douglas' heart, and he wondered ruefully just when it had become crucial to keep from disappointing Martin Crieff.
Gamely, he soldiered on. "Of what value is the Weather Depiction Chart to the pilot?"
Martin nodded, brimming with confidence. "The Weather Depiction Chart aids in determining general weather conditions on which to base flight planning."
"Correct."
"Ask me something hard," Martin said with a grin.
"All right. Let's see…here's a multiple choice question. First, have a look at this chart." Douglas slid a transparency across the table. "Now, determine the pressure altitude at an airport that is 1386 feet MSL with an altimeter setting of 29.97. Is the answer: A) 1341 feet MSL, B) 1562 feet MSL, or C) 1451 feet MSL?"
"The answer is A – 1341 feet MSL."
Douglas stared at Martin in bemusement. "Martin, that's twenty for twenty. Every single question. You appear to be a walking, talking OED of flight protocol. How on earth could you have possibly failed the CPL?"
Martin heaved a sigh and drummed his fingers on the transparency. "Well, that's the problem. I'm in top form when it comes to practise quizzing, but when the actual test rolls round, I freeze up. It's happened all three times – I was completely prepared, I knew the answers backward and forward. Then I actually got into the testing room and the answers just evaporated. Vanished completely, as if I'd never done a single moment of revising. I just sat there, sweating and staring at the exam, jotting an answer here and there, but mostly staring. It's ridiculous, I know it's ridiculous, but there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it." He shook his head unhappily.
Douglas was at a loss. He'd never had a problem with testing and had no idea how to solve Martin's dilemma. "I expect that must be frustrating."
"Frustrating isn't the word. Maddening is more like it. Three times it's happened now, and God only knows how many thousands of pounds down the drain. Gordon was absolutely livid the last time it happened. Not that I blame him. It's awful to see all that money spent and ultimately wasted."
Martin had made a pot of tea, and Douglas poured the last of it out, dividing it between them. "Look, I don't mean to pry, but surely you're not incapable of – that is, couldn't you get a job? Pay for the test yourself?"
It took Martin a few moments to answer. He let his gaze slide away from Douglas' and stirred milk into his tea, chopping at the sugar with his spoon. A blush crawled up his neck and stained his cheeks bright pink. "Gordon doesn't like me to…he'd rather I didn't work." He chopped harder. "He explained it to me. He said it didn't look quite right, that it would seem as if he wasn't willing to support me."
Douglas lifted a brow. "And is that what you want? To be supported?"
"You don't understand," Martin protested. "He's a very public figure, and I…well, I'm not all that impressive, I know that. I didn't go to posh schools or anything, and before I met Gordon I was doing removals to make ends meet. What sort of job could I get that wouldn't make Gordon look a bit foolish?"
"I rather think it matters more how you feel than how Gordon looks."
Martin scowled. "You don't understand," he repeated.
"I think I do. Gordon won't let you work a job he perceives to be beneath him, and you let him walk all over you." Douglas found himself getting angry. "Just like he does with everyone. Even me, and I don't consider myself to be the doormat sort."
"Implying that I am."
Aren't you? Douglas almost snapped back. But then he caught a glimpse of Martin's face, utterly woebegone, and the downcast slump of his shoulders. There you go again, he berated himself. Kick the man when he's down. As if he doesn't know what a snake Gordon is. "I'm sorry, Martin," he said gently. "I didn't mean to imply that."
"I don't care," Martin muttered. He sniffled, then wiped his nose with the paper napkin and stuffed it in his pocket. "It was silly, you know. I'd spend all day reading or watching documentaries – on aeroplanes and flying, mostly." He smiled self-consciously. "And sometimes I'd try to chat with the cook or the cleaning ladies, but I could tell they just wanted me out of their hair so they could get on with their work. Then Gordon would come home and want to know what I'd done with my day, and if I answered honestly, he'd get annoyed. Once I asked him why he was so impatient with me if he didn't want me working, and he –" The blush grew deeper. "Doesn't matter. Anyhow, eventually he stopped asking."
Douglas watched Martin carefully, and fleeting memories of Gordon and Martin fluttered through some subconscious filter in his head like the pages of a child's picture-book. Gordon's disdainful attitude, treating Martin like a piece of cumbersome baggage. The young men when Martin wasn't around. The dark glasses Martin, never the personification of cool, had sometimes worn on cloudy days or in the evening. Little pieces of conversation, long-past and recent, began to fit themselves together, threading around Martin's defenses of Gordon's behaviour, his reactions to Gordon's treachery, the look on his face. "For someone who's supposed to cherish his partner, he's not very kind to you, Martin."
"You don't know him very well, that's all."
"I've known him for fifteen years, and I've got eyes in my head," Douglas replied, more tartly than he'd intended. He sighed; he couldn't seem to put a foot right where Martin was concerned sometimes.
"He's just…temperamental, that's all. You don't know him the way I do."
Averting his eyes, Douglas began tidying the pile of study materials and glancing at Martin surreptitiously at intervals. Martin sat unmoving, staring into the middle distance, toying with his teaspoon. Douglas slid the last transparency into its folder. "Why didn't you leave him?"
Martin shook his head, tight-lipped.
"I'm not blaming you. I'm just curious."
"I couldn't," Martin said in a near-whisper. "I didn't have the money. Still don't. And I don't have any friends who'd…and my family, they'd just laugh at me. And he…he'd come after me, I mean find me. He can't be alone. He's…he's more insecure than you'd think."
Very insecure, if trampling and brutalizing you is the most effective way to get you to stay with him. "You could have called the police, social services. They'd have helped you. You could have received maintenance."
"He doesn't beat me." Martin's eyes darted to one side. "As for the rest, it's n-not anything you could prove."
Pity and anger surged in Douglas' middle and collided, and he spoke before he had a chance to quash the impulse. "Why don't you come with me?" Oh, dear GOD. Have you completely gone round the bloody twist, Richardson?
Martin gaped. "Sorry?"
Douglas stared back in dismay, then shrugged mentally. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Come with me. I'll help you get set up, or you could just stay with me until you found a job and somewhere to live. You don't have to depend on Gordon, Martin. Not anymore."
Martin opened his mouth, then closed it. His brow furrowed, and a little crinkle appeared at the top of his nose. "I…I think that's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever offered to do for me."
Embarrassed, Douglas cleared his throat. "I know it's a bit sudden. After all, we hardly know each other." That got a smile from Martin. "It was sincerely meant, though. For what it's worth," he added softly.
"You're probably not going to believe this, but it's worth a lot," Martin said. "I…I can't, though. Gordon loves me, he really does. And I love him."
Why don't I believe you? Maybe because you don't sound entirely convinced of either sentiment. He tried one more time. "Martin, just think about this. He waited until after the missed ransom drop to report the kidnap to the police. If he'd reported it before, we'd have heard about it. Why would he wait? Doesn't speak very well of him, does it?"
"He was trying to get the cash together."
"Martin, he's worth millions. Come on."
Martin shook his head stubbornly. "I can't believe he'd be so cold."
"You don't want to, though I cannot for the life of me fathom why."
"Look, Douglas. I know you hate him. I know he cheated you out of your pension, and I know that's terrible. And maybe he hasn't been perfect, but he's trying his best to get me back. That must mean something, mustn't it?" Martin's voice was pleading. "I understand that you despise him, but please…please don't try to make me despise him too. I can't. He's my husband."
Douglas was more disappointed than he'd been for a long, long time, and he almost laughed. Whilst researching kidnapping on the internet (he had to take his laptop along as well), he'd run across the term 'Lima Syndrome' which was the counterpart of Stockholm Syndrome – but in Lima Syndrome it was the kidnapper who developed an attachment to the captive. Well, he wouldn't be Douglas Richardson if he wasn't the epicentre of the universe. He laid his hands flat on the table. "Very well. I shan't say another word against him. But I have to leave – I've got to get out now, while I still have time."
Martin nodded slowly. "Okay." He smiled at Douglas. "Thank you, Douglas. For the offer. I know you meant well."
The disappointment swelled. "I've got a couple of steaks in the freezer. Shall we have a send-off dinner? For both of us."
"All right." Martin got up and went to the freezer. "I'll start thawing them if you like."
"Thank you." Tempting fate by delaying your departure, aren't you? Douglas watched Martin sorting through frozen food, and all at once it hit him.
Oh, you stupid, stupid, stupid man. You're falling for him.
He groaned, but so quietly that Martin couldn't hear him.
*
The steaks were tender and succulent, kissed with salt and pepper and dabbed with the faintest whisper of beurre blanc. The sautéed green beans amandine were crisp and bright, the mashed potatoes creamy perfection. There hadn't been time to produce much in the way of pudding, but Douglas had managed a quick custard that melted on the tongue and, paired with espresso, ended things nicely.
More impressive than the meal preparation, Douglas had managed to make it through dinner without too many speculative glances at Martin. None of this beyond-ridiculous affair was in the least familiar to Douglas, so he was flying blind, so to speak, but even so, the way in which it had all happened! Douglas' usual modus operandi was physical attraction, almost always instant and mutual, followed by some witty banter – not always necessary on the other person's part, but invariable with Douglas, then a meal, or coffee, then a satisfying romp at someone's house, or a hotel. It was a comfortable routine, though Douglas wouldn't have minded changing it up now and then. This was far more change than he'd bargained for. Lima Syndrome indeed. You horse's arse.
Well, there was nothing for it now. Douglas was practically out the door, and Martin would soon be reunited with his horrible, abusive husband. Odd, wasn't it, that Douglas felt the impulse to rescue Martin. But you couldn't rescue someone you'd abducted. It didn't work that way.
There had been one, perhaps two other missed opportunities in Douglas' life. This would be an uneven three, that was all. He smiled at Martin as Martin scraped the inside of his custard cup. "Sweet tooth?"
"God, yes," Martin mumbled, then swallowed and licked his lips. "Delicious."
Douglas felt a small inappropriate stirring at the sight of Martin's tongue touching his lips. "I'm flattered," he said drily.
"Everything was fantastic, really," Martin said. He got up, stifling a yawn. "I'll help you with the dishes."
"All right." Douglas stayed in his seat – necessary, for the next few moments. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind turning the television on. Background noise."
"Okay." Martin went into the study and switched on the television, turning the sound up from a dull murmur to the loud babbling of some mindless comedy.
Martin came back in and began clearing plates, but it was a few moments before Douglas felt steady enough to stand. He filled the sink and began scrubbing; Martin had found a towel and stood ready to dry, quiet as the telly blared noisy adverts for Hiscox, Pedigree dog yummies, Jaguar, and Stowford Press. Then a brief silence before the news theme, and the voice of a newsreader, the same slightly breathless hurrah-there's-been-a-disaster voice they all used.
"Startling development today in the case of the abduction of Martin Crieff."
Douglas and Martin stared at each other for a moment, then raced into the study. The telly was showing a picture of Martin's face with the word CONSPIRACY? plastered over it in huge red letters.
"Could Gordon Shappey have engineered the abduction and murder of his own husband? That's the question many people are asking themselves tonight after surprising revelations." The newsreader, a pretty brunette with lots of teeth, seemed to beckon to the camera. "David Carstairs reports."
The camera switched to a tall handsome fellow with wavy hair standing outside Gordon's house, just off the property. "Melinda, I'm standing outside the home of Gordon Shappey, the prominent Fitton entrepreneur who claims his partner Martin Crieff was abducted by a person or persons demanding ten million pounds in ransom money."
Another word stressor, Douglas noted as Carstairs repeated the details of the kidnap.
"But this afternoon, reporters discovered a discrepancy in Shappey's account when, in an attempt to gain insight into the case, they spoke to Shappey's son, Arthur Shappey."
"Insight?" Douglas murmured. Arthur was a sweet fellow, but not the brightest of bulbs. Martin glanced at Douglas uneasily.
The video switched to Arthur, standing in the doorway of his mother's house, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His mouth was moving, but no sound was emerging as Carstairs was still jabbering away. Finally, the audio feed switched to Arthur. "What really surprised me was that night my dad said that Martin had gone out with friends. Which was confusing, because he said they'd picked Martin up, and I don't think Martin would get in a strange car. With strangers." The audio cut out, and there were a few brief seconds of Arthur nattering on silently until the video returned to wavy-haired Carstairs.
"This discrepancy in Shappey's story has generated a great deal of controversy and speculation. Why would Shappey deliberately misinform his own son? Is Gordon Shappey concealing some dark and possibly violent secret behind the doors of his palatial home? We've attempted to contact Mr. Shappey, but he's either not home, or refusing to come to the door. We'll bring you more news as events warrant. Melinda?"
"Thank you, David." Melinda gleamed at the camera. "Tonight we're talking with our crime expert, Rob Cranford, who offers us unique insight into the criminal mind. Rob, what are the implications of the discrepancy in Mr. Shappey's account?"
Douglas didn't hear Rob Cranford's reply; he turned to Martin and was about to speak to him – to say what, God only knew – but Martin pivoted on his heel and left the room without a word.
*
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
*
It was still fairly early in the morning and he hadn't had the best night's sleep, so it was perhaps not inexcusable for Douglas to gape stupidly at the paper as if he expected it would start talking and explaining things to him, not that he needed anyone to explain exactly how he'd meticulously and thoroughly ruined his own life. And it was perhaps not inexcusable that Douglas, a man so blessed by the gods of fortune that he'd never even received so much as a speeding ticket, was utterly felled when bad luck, self-imposed to be sure, happened to him.
So he staggered to a chair and sat, leaving Martin holding the paper and reading the story in a murmur. He'd collect himself in a minute. Just a minute.
Martin sat at the table. "'Shappey reported that Crieff never returned from a trip to purchase wine from Doonan's Newsagent and Off-Licence on Grantham Street, an habitual errand for the couple. Police speculate that Crieff's abductors had been stalking him for weeks in order to establish a pattern and make the kidnap more efficient.'" Martin looked up at Douglas.
Douglas shook his head and lifted a hand. Not entirely untrue.
"'Days later, Shappey received a call from a private mobile demanding ten million pounds in ransom.'" Martin paused. "Ten million? You asked for one million."
The haze in Douglas' head was beginning to clear. "That's right. Perhaps it's a typographical error. Or bad reportage. It wasn't days later that I called, it was the same night. Journalism is a disgrace nowadays."
Martin frowned. "Maybe." He went back to the story. "'Despite his pleas for Crieff's safe return and his assurances that he would pay the ransom, the abductors threatened to kill their victim if Shappey failed to raise the money in the time specified or contacted the police. Shappey's efforts to obtain the full amount by the deadline were unsuccessful, and in desperation he phoned the police.'"
For lack of anything better to do, Douglas got up and stirred the porridge. "So. Bad reportage or Gordon's given an ever so slightly different account of things to make himself look better."
"I'm sure that's not the case." Martin's face glowed, and optimism shone in his eyes. "He…I was wrong about him last night. I thought that he wouldn't…that he didn't want me back."
The hope in Martin's face was so earnest and fragile Douglas didn't possess the executioner's heart it would have taken to deliver a scathing retort, but he couldn't help thinking blackly just the same: When has Gordon Shappey ever acted in anyone's interest but his own? The essential facts hadn't changed – Gordon had been asked (not very nicely, true) for a million pounds, an entirely reasonable sum knowing Gordon, and had flatly refused to pay, using the old chestnut of not negotiating with terrorists, as if the ghost of Maggie Thatcher were standing behind him in big hair and sensible shoes, prodding him with one persistent and bony finger.
Martin kept reading, but Douglas no longer heard him. Quite suddenly (talking of iron), the reality of Douglas' situation descended upon him like an anvil dropped from a ten-storey building. The police were investigating now. He let the spoon drop into the pot with a clatter. Porridge splashed upward, dotting the range top.
The noise stopped Martin mid-sentence. "What is it?"
"I've got to get out of here." Douglas began looking round the kitchen. "I've got to go."
"Now?"
"Yes, now." Douglas headed for the stairs and took them two at a time, adrenaline thundering through his system. He went into the bedroom and grabbed the suitcase he'd packed the day before and threw it on his bed. He'd packed for Ibiza. Summer in Ibiza…maybe Tangier was a better idea. People seemed to disappear more successfully in Tangier. The milieu was decidedly less formal, at least in the circles in which he planned to move; he wouldn't need the grey pinstripe, but the blue summer-weight…and a couple of blazers, the tan silk suit, that would breathe nicely, the lighter cotton shirts, brighter ties…the tuxedo? No, he didn't expect to be attending a lot of parties…socks, underpants –
"Douglas."
Startled, Douglas looked up. Martin hovered in the doorway uncertainly, looking a bit ridiculous in Douglas' grey dressing gown. The green silk dressing gown, he'd take that. Pyjamas? Would he need pyjamas in Tangier?
"I don't think you ought to go right now."
Douglas dropped a handful of ties onto his bed. He could be at the airport in an hour. Drive safely, that was key. It wouldn't be the thing to get stopped for speeding whilst attempting to flee the country. "Martin," he said with as much patience as he could muster, which admittedly wasn't much. "The police are now involved."
"What if I promised not to say anything? It's not as if they can force me to talk. I don't think the police waterboard kidnap victims. O-of course I'm not a hundred percent certain, but last time I checked, anyway." Martin gave a wan smile.
Wearily, Douglas sat on the bed. The adrenaline was draining, leaving him heavy and slow. "You're very generous and in all seriousness I'm truly touched, but I'm afraid you haven't thought things through. Not that I have either, believe me. But once a crime is reported, the police are busy not only trying to rescue the victim, but to catch the criminal and bring him to justice." Douglas' mouth twisted. "So he doesn't do it again, you see."
"Yes, but…well, you wouldn't, would you?"
"Certainly not, but that's hardly the point." Douglas gave Martin a real smile. "Honestly, you were so noisy and slippery during the actual kidnap that I considered giving it up then and there. Thank goodness I was persistent, eh?"
Martin chuckled and bit his lip. "You did frighten me."
"Yes, apparently. I've never seen anyone faint from fear before."
"It wasn't fear!" Martin crossed his arms, scowling. "I've got a-an inner ear dysfunction."
Douglas lifted a brow. "Come again?"
Martin explained. "It's only when I get dizzy, and you were spinning me around. It's physiological, not emotional," he concluded.
"Can you fly with a condition like that?"
"Oh, yes. Believe me, I've checked. But getting back to the point – I wouldn't say anything, Douglas. Especially since you haven't actually got the ransom money."
"But they'll still want to apprehend me, Martin. Don't you see? Dear God, they've probably got forensics teams crawling all over the crime scene. Tyre prints, the bottle you dropped…." Douglas put his head in his hands and groaned.
Martin took one tentative step into the bedroom, then another. He wrung his hands for a moment, then crouched beside the bed and put a hand on Douglas' knee, gazing up at him earnestly. "All the more reason not to go, don't you think? If they are looking for you, they might be watching the motorways, the airfields, every possible means of escape. It'll seem more suspicious if they catch you driving to the airport with a suitcase."
Douglas looked down at Martin's hand, gentle and warm on his knee, then into Martin's eyes, still gleaming with optimism, but with what Douglas fancied was compassion. Compassion for his kidnapper. Poor bugger. And yet, Douglas felt a surprising surge of respect for Martin's level-headedness. "I suppose you're right," he said at last, and looked down at Martin's hand again.
Shyly, Martin withdrew the hand, to Douglas' faint disappointment. "Sorry. I-I think you should just go about your business, and act as though everything's perfectly normal. A dozen cars probably drove through that alleyway since Saturday night. You can arrange to take me somewhere that's not remotely connected with you, and I'll tell the police I was blindfolded the entire time and never saw your face. 'Til then, try not to panic." Martin smiled ruefully. "I should take my own advice once in a while. I should have trusted Gordon."
Douglas managed not to comment on that last. "Am I to understand that you find my company less than horrifying?" he inquired.
Twin spots of pink appeared on Martin's cheeks, and he stared down at the floor as if gems were embedded in its surface. "I told you, it wasn't the worst."
Unexpected warmth blossomed in Douglas' chest. "That dressing gown's far too large for you."
"I'll shower and change."
"Hm. Meantime, I'll work out a plan. How would you like to do some CPL revising while we wait for cover of darkness?"
A broad grin, awkward and endearing, spread across Martin's mouth. "I'd love that."
"You take first bath, and I'll get breakfast ready, and we'll hit the books."
He wasn't entirely soothed. And he didn't trust Gordon's motives, whatever they might have been. And it wasn't that he didn't want to flee, for he most decidedly did want to flee.
But a few more hours in Martin's company surely wouldn't hurt.
*
He was doing his level best, but despite Martin's eagerness and really rather engaging if somewhat nervous and twitchy personality, Douglas couldn't keep his mind on revising. He kept envisioning a squadron of police cars roaring up to the house and breaking in wearing riot gear, then tear-gassing him and dragging him away in handcuffs. He glanced at Martin's face, and it was even brighter and happier than when he realised Gordon had alerted the police. A little arrow of chagrin lodged itself in Douglas' heart, and he wondered ruefully just when it had become crucial to keep from disappointing Martin Crieff.
Gamely, he soldiered on. "Of what value is the Weather Depiction Chart to the pilot?"
Martin nodded, brimming with confidence. "The Weather Depiction Chart aids in determining general weather conditions on which to base flight planning."
"Correct."
"Ask me something hard," Martin said with a grin.
"All right. Let's see…here's a multiple choice question. First, have a look at this chart." Douglas slid a transparency across the table. "Now, determine the pressure altitude at an airport that is 1386 feet MSL with an altimeter setting of 29.97. Is the answer: A) 1341 feet MSL, B) 1562 feet MSL, or C) 1451 feet MSL?"
"The answer is A – 1341 feet MSL."
Douglas stared at Martin in bemusement. "Martin, that's twenty for twenty. Every single question. You appear to be a walking, talking OED of flight protocol. How on earth could you have possibly failed the CPL?"
Martin heaved a sigh and drummed his fingers on the transparency. "Well, that's the problem. I'm in top form when it comes to practise quizzing, but when the actual test rolls round, I freeze up. It's happened all three times – I was completely prepared, I knew the answers backward and forward. Then I actually got into the testing room and the answers just evaporated. Vanished completely, as if I'd never done a single moment of revising. I just sat there, sweating and staring at the exam, jotting an answer here and there, but mostly staring. It's ridiculous, I know it's ridiculous, but there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it." He shook his head unhappily.
Douglas was at a loss. He'd never had a problem with testing and had no idea how to solve Martin's dilemma. "I expect that must be frustrating."
"Frustrating isn't the word. Maddening is more like it. Three times it's happened now, and God only knows how many thousands of pounds down the drain. Gordon was absolutely livid the last time it happened. Not that I blame him. It's awful to see all that money spent and ultimately wasted."
Martin had made a pot of tea, and Douglas poured the last of it out, dividing it between them. "Look, I don't mean to pry, but surely you're not incapable of – that is, couldn't you get a job? Pay for the test yourself?"
It took Martin a few moments to answer. He let his gaze slide away from Douglas' and stirred milk into his tea, chopping at the sugar with his spoon. A blush crawled up his neck and stained his cheeks bright pink. "Gordon doesn't like me to…he'd rather I didn't work." He chopped harder. "He explained it to me. He said it didn't look quite right, that it would seem as if he wasn't willing to support me."
Douglas lifted a brow. "And is that what you want? To be supported?"
"You don't understand," Martin protested. "He's a very public figure, and I…well, I'm not all that impressive, I know that. I didn't go to posh schools or anything, and before I met Gordon I was doing removals to make ends meet. What sort of job could I get that wouldn't make Gordon look a bit foolish?"
"I rather think it matters more how you feel than how Gordon looks."
Martin scowled. "You don't understand," he repeated.
"I think I do. Gordon won't let you work a job he perceives to be beneath him, and you let him walk all over you." Douglas found himself getting angry. "Just like he does with everyone. Even me, and I don't consider myself to be the doormat sort."
"Implying that I am."
Aren't you? Douglas almost snapped back. But then he caught a glimpse of Martin's face, utterly woebegone, and the downcast slump of his shoulders. There you go again, he berated himself. Kick the man when he's down. As if he doesn't know what a snake Gordon is. "I'm sorry, Martin," he said gently. "I didn't mean to imply that."
"I don't care," Martin muttered. He sniffled, then wiped his nose with the paper napkin and stuffed it in his pocket. "It was silly, you know. I'd spend all day reading or watching documentaries – on aeroplanes and flying, mostly." He smiled self-consciously. "And sometimes I'd try to chat with the cook or the cleaning ladies, but I could tell they just wanted me out of their hair so they could get on with their work. Then Gordon would come home and want to know what I'd done with my day, and if I answered honestly, he'd get annoyed. Once I asked him why he was so impatient with me if he didn't want me working, and he –" The blush grew deeper. "Doesn't matter. Anyhow, eventually he stopped asking."
Douglas watched Martin carefully, and fleeting memories of Gordon and Martin fluttered through some subconscious filter in his head like the pages of a child's picture-book. Gordon's disdainful attitude, treating Martin like a piece of cumbersome baggage. The young men when Martin wasn't around. The dark glasses Martin, never the personification of cool, had sometimes worn on cloudy days or in the evening. Little pieces of conversation, long-past and recent, began to fit themselves together, threading around Martin's defenses of Gordon's behaviour, his reactions to Gordon's treachery, the look on his face. "For someone who's supposed to cherish his partner, he's not very kind to you, Martin."
"You don't know him very well, that's all."
"I've known him for fifteen years, and I've got eyes in my head," Douglas replied, more tartly than he'd intended. He sighed; he couldn't seem to put a foot right where Martin was concerned sometimes.
"He's just…temperamental, that's all. You don't know him the way I do."
Averting his eyes, Douglas began tidying the pile of study materials and glancing at Martin surreptitiously at intervals. Martin sat unmoving, staring into the middle distance, toying with his teaspoon. Douglas slid the last transparency into its folder. "Why didn't you leave him?"
Martin shook his head, tight-lipped.
"I'm not blaming you. I'm just curious."
"I couldn't," Martin said in a near-whisper. "I didn't have the money. Still don't. And I don't have any friends who'd…and my family, they'd just laugh at me. And he…he'd come after me, I mean find me. He can't be alone. He's…he's more insecure than you'd think."
Very insecure, if trampling and brutalizing you is the most effective way to get you to stay with him. "You could have called the police, social services. They'd have helped you. You could have received maintenance."
"He doesn't beat me." Martin's eyes darted to one side. "As for the rest, it's n-not anything you could prove."
Pity and anger surged in Douglas' middle and collided, and he spoke before he had a chance to quash the impulse. "Why don't you come with me?" Oh, dear GOD. Have you completely gone round the bloody twist, Richardson?
Martin gaped. "Sorry?"
Douglas stared back in dismay, then shrugged mentally. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Come with me. I'll help you get set up, or you could just stay with me until you found a job and somewhere to live. You don't have to depend on Gordon, Martin. Not anymore."
Martin opened his mouth, then closed it. His brow furrowed, and a little crinkle appeared at the top of his nose. "I…I think that's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever offered to do for me."
Embarrassed, Douglas cleared his throat. "I know it's a bit sudden. After all, we hardly know each other." That got a smile from Martin. "It was sincerely meant, though. For what it's worth," he added softly.
"You're probably not going to believe this, but it's worth a lot," Martin said. "I…I can't, though. Gordon loves me, he really does. And I love him."
Why don't I believe you? Maybe because you don't sound entirely convinced of either sentiment. He tried one more time. "Martin, just think about this. He waited until after the missed ransom drop to report the kidnap to the police. If he'd reported it before, we'd have heard about it. Why would he wait? Doesn't speak very well of him, does it?"
"He was trying to get the cash together."
"Martin, he's worth millions. Come on."
Martin shook his head stubbornly. "I can't believe he'd be so cold."
"You don't want to, though I cannot for the life of me fathom why."
"Look, Douglas. I know you hate him. I know he cheated you out of your pension, and I know that's terrible. And maybe he hasn't been perfect, but he's trying his best to get me back. That must mean something, mustn't it?" Martin's voice was pleading. "I understand that you despise him, but please…please don't try to make me despise him too. I can't. He's my husband."
Douglas was more disappointed than he'd been for a long, long time, and he almost laughed. Whilst researching kidnapping on the internet (he had to take his laptop along as well), he'd run across the term 'Lima Syndrome' which was the counterpart of Stockholm Syndrome – but in Lima Syndrome it was the kidnapper who developed an attachment to the captive. Well, he wouldn't be Douglas Richardson if he wasn't the epicentre of the universe. He laid his hands flat on the table. "Very well. I shan't say another word against him. But I have to leave – I've got to get out now, while I still have time."
Martin nodded slowly. "Okay." He smiled at Douglas. "Thank you, Douglas. For the offer. I know you meant well."
The disappointment swelled. "I've got a couple of steaks in the freezer. Shall we have a send-off dinner? For both of us."
"All right." Martin got up and went to the freezer. "I'll start thawing them if you like."
"Thank you." Tempting fate by delaying your departure, aren't you? Douglas watched Martin sorting through frozen food, and all at once it hit him.
Oh, you stupid, stupid, stupid man. You're falling for him.
He groaned, but so quietly that Martin couldn't hear him.
*
The steaks were tender and succulent, kissed with salt and pepper and dabbed with the faintest whisper of beurre blanc. The sautéed green beans amandine were crisp and bright, the mashed potatoes creamy perfection. There hadn't been time to produce much in the way of pudding, but Douglas had managed a quick custard that melted on the tongue and, paired with espresso, ended things nicely.
More impressive than the meal preparation, Douglas had managed to make it through dinner without too many speculative glances at Martin. None of this beyond-ridiculous affair was in the least familiar to Douglas, so he was flying blind, so to speak, but even so, the way in which it had all happened! Douglas' usual modus operandi was physical attraction, almost always instant and mutual, followed by some witty banter – not always necessary on the other person's part, but invariable with Douglas, then a meal, or coffee, then a satisfying romp at someone's house, or a hotel. It was a comfortable routine, though Douglas wouldn't have minded changing it up now and then. This was far more change than he'd bargained for. Lima Syndrome indeed. You horse's arse.
Well, there was nothing for it now. Douglas was practically out the door, and Martin would soon be reunited with his horrible, abusive husband. Odd, wasn't it, that Douglas felt the impulse to rescue Martin. But you couldn't rescue someone you'd abducted. It didn't work that way.
There had been one, perhaps two other missed opportunities in Douglas' life. This would be an uneven three, that was all. He smiled at Martin as Martin scraped the inside of his custard cup. "Sweet tooth?"
"God, yes," Martin mumbled, then swallowed and licked his lips. "Delicious."
Douglas felt a small inappropriate stirring at the sight of Martin's tongue touching his lips. "I'm flattered," he said drily.
"Everything was fantastic, really," Martin said. He got up, stifling a yawn. "I'll help you with the dishes."
"All right." Douglas stayed in his seat – necessary, for the next few moments. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind turning the television on. Background noise."
"Okay." Martin went into the study and switched on the television, turning the sound up from a dull murmur to the loud babbling of some mindless comedy.
Martin came back in and began clearing plates, but it was a few moments before Douglas felt steady enough to stand. He filled the sink and began scrubbing; Martin had found a towel and stood ready to dry, quiet as the telly blared noisy adverts for Hiscox, Pedigree dog yummies, Jaguar, and Stowford Press. Then a brief silence before the news theme, and the voice of a newsreader, the same slightly breathless hurrah-there's-been-a-disaster voice they all used.
"Startling development today in the case of the abduction of Martin Crieff."
Douglas and Martin stared at each other for a moment, then raced into the study. The telly was showing a picture of Martin's face with the word CONSPIRACY? plastered over it in huge red letters.
"Could Gordon Shappey have engineered the abduction and murder of his own husband? That's the question many people are asking themselves tonight after surprising revelations." The newsreader, a pretty brunette with lots of teeth, seemed to beckon to the camera. "David Carstairs reports."
The camera switched to a tall handsome fellow with wavy hair standing outside Gordon's house, just off the property. "Melinda, I'm standing outside the home of Gordon Shappey, the prominent Fitton entrepreneur who claims his partner Martin Crieff was abducted by a person or persons demanding ten million pounds in ransom money."
Another word stressor, Douglas noted as Carstairs repeated the details of the kidnap.
"But this afternoon, reporters discovered a discrepancy in Shappey's account when, in an attempt to gain insight into the case, they spoke to Shappey's son, Arthur Shappey."
"Insight?" Douglas murmured. Arthur was a sweet fellow, but not the brightest of bulbs. Martin glanced at Douglas uneasily.
The video switched to Arthur, standing in the doorway of his mother's house, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His mouth was moving, but no sound was emerging as Carstairs was still jabbering away. Finally, the audio feed switched to Arthur. "What really surprised me was that night my dad said that Martin had gone out with friends. Which was confusing, because he said they'd picked Martin up, and I don't think Martin would get in a strange car. With strangers." The audio cut out, and there were a few brief seconds of Arthur nattering on silently until the video returned to wavy-haired Carstairs.
"This discrepancy in Shappey's story has generated a great deal of controversy and speculation. Why would Shappey deliberately misinform his own son? Is Gordon Shappey concealing some dark and possibly violent secret behind the doors of his palatial home? We've attempted to contact Mr. Shappey, but he's either not home, or refusing to come to the door. We'll bring you more news as events warrant. Melinda?"
"Thank you, David." Melinda gleamed at the camera. "Tonight we're talking with our crime expert, Rob Cranford, who offers us unique insight into the criminal mind. Rob, what are the implications of the discrepancy in Mr. Shappey's account?"
Douglas didn't hear Rob Cranford's reply; he turned to Martin and was about to speak to him – to say what, God only knew – but Martin pivoted on his heel and left the room without a word.
*
TBC....
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Date: 2013-09-26 10:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-27 01:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-26 12:37 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-09-26 05:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-27 01:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-26 08:58 pm (UTC)That is all.
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Date: 2013-09-27 01:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-26 09:42 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-09-27 03:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-27 03:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-27 05:05 am (UTC)Golly-gosh and goody-gumdrops though. This fic, splix, THIS FIC.
Panicky Douglas-in-a-flap and Level-Headed-Martin maybe my new Best. Thing. EVER.
Martin, darling, when your kidnaper is nicer to you than your husband, you are doing something wrong. You are, at the moment, showing an ARTHURISH tendency to believe the best of Gordon. Wake up, now, there's the lad. :)
And EEEEEEEEEE is the best way to render the noise I made as Douglas started to get a little self-insight and wake up himself. And OOOOOOOOOH their interaction.
And OH! Arthur's INSIGHT. He isn't actually *dim* you know, Douglas. He just... thinks in a different way. (Arthur is a DARLING.)
You write everyone so well and IC an their VOICES and I adore your story-telling and pacing... but most of all I love that even on an installment plan I'm instantly so into the fic that I'm talking to the CHARACTERS rather than to you. <3 If that makes sense. I know part of Suspension of Disbelief and all that is Willing-ness and we wouldn't be reading fan-fic if we didn't *want* to give writers that engagement and committment and acceptance of their world and their rendiition of the can characters - but it's also the skill of the writer to make all that easy, to pull you in and give you a reward for your committment and to be consistent. Especially when publishing in installments, to not make you have to read the last bit to be able to engage, you know? And to make you just... want the trip to last longer and YAMMER for the next bit like a host of Oliver Twists wanting MORE.
ALL the love. Seriously. This fic is just - well, I've said it before, so I'll say it again. Good Italian coffee and 85% cocoa dark chocolate. And I'll add, my favourite silk-knit sweater into the bargain. But as well as being a real TREAT, it is also being wrapped in the throw off the back of the sofa, with a Mozart opera on the stereo.
(BTW I also have a great fondness for your CLOTHES details. I am not a clothes/fashion hound by any means, but I know what I like and I like details and I like looking and I adore *costume* - I went to the Fashion Museum (http://www.museumofcostume.co.uk/) in Bath last week, BTW - and just <3. All the <3s )
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Date: 2013-09-29 07:51 am (UTC)Martin definitely needs to look alive, poor guy, but I think he will come around. Maybe soon. :) Douglas is a quicker study in this regard but because of the weirdness of this scenario, not quite trusting of his own instincts. And Arthur - I just love the guy. He might not be conventionally intelligent, but he's got heart, God love him.
Oh, so glad you like the clothing detail! It's lots of fun to write. That museum looks GLORIOUS! I'd love to prowl around in there.
Thank you again for reading and taking the time to leave such wonderful feedback, I really appreciate it. :D