splix | FIC: A Million By Tuesday [10/?]

Title: A Million By Tuesday
Author: Alex
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Martin/Douglas; Martin/Gordon Shappey
Disclaimer: Cabin Pressure is property of John Finnemore and the BBC.
Summary: From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. AU: Gordon Shappey's disgruntled ex-employee, Douglas Richardson, seeks revenge by kidnapping Gordon's trophy husband, Martin.
Warnings: Domestic violence, dubious consent.
Notes: Thanks to

kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.

Can also be read on AO3

*

The clamour of television noise reverberated far too loudly in Martin's head. He propelled himself out of the lounge, through the narrow corridor, and into Douglas' kitchen. He opened the back door, and a cool breeze wafted over his skin, the first breeze he'd felt in nearly a week. Pulling in a deep breath, he sat abruptly on the squat stairs leading to the back garden.

Stupid. You're so stupid.

Douglas had been right after all. Gordon had waited until after the imposed ransom deadline to phone the police.

Deadline, funny word.

He'd waited for Douglas to kill Martin before phoning.

Martin put his head in his hands, blinking hot, dry eyes. Gordon hadn't engineered the kidnap, obviously, and Arthur's inadvertent, innocent (God bless him) revelation had certainly thrown some sort of spanner into Gordon's works. But why hadn't Gordon told Arthur the truth? He scarcely tolerated Arthur at the best of times and gave him short shrift almost constantly, but out-and-out lying was a bit odd. Was it because he didn't want to tell Arthur that his husband had been murdered? And did Gordon actually want Martin dead? God knew that their relationship hadn't been ideal, and certainly physical and mental domination was the norm in the Shappey-Crieff household, but dead - that was a whole different kettle of fish.

A curious numbness settled into his bones. Of all the times he'd wept during this grim series of events, he'd have thought that the realisation of Gordon's indifference to his fate, if not his outright malice, would have been the final straw and reduced him to tears, but he felt no urge to weep. Perhaps it would hit him harder at some point later on.

Dead. Either he wants me dead, or he doesn't care if I die. One or the other was certainly true, and there was no point any longer in entertaining fruitless hopes.

It wasn't an easy thing to accept. Might never be.

He sat on the steps, his arms wrapped round his knees, and breathed in the cooling dusk air and listened to the first timid chirping of nocturnal birds and insects. Further away, he heard the distinctive metallic rattle of an empty food tin and the delighted shrieking of a group of kids playing tin can tolly. Next door, reggae floated scratchily from an open window, along with the sound of a woman singing along, off-key but with obvious enjoyment. A faint fragrance of smoke and cooking meat drifted past his nose; someone was barbecuing steak. It smelled lovely, but probably it wasn't as good as Douglas' cooking.

Shadows lengthened and finally blended into the evening. Martin heard a man calling for Eleanor and Issie to come inside and wash their hands, for God's sake, didn't they know what time it was? Lights came on here and there, the smell of barbecue diminished, the kids went home, the insects got a bit louder, Bob Marley segued a little incongruously into New Order, and as Martin listened to the growing peace of evening, he perceived that he felt better. Not a lot better, just a bit, but still – how peculiar.

Getting chilly and lacking many other options, he got to his feet and went inside. Douglas was just finishing up, putting the little custard cups away, a flowered tea towel slung over his shoulder. He glanced at Martin, said nothing for a moment, then closed the cupboard door. "Are you all right?"

Good question. Was he? Martin assessed himself carefully, the way he would if he'd tripped and face-planted in a car park or something, checking for assorted aches and pains. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." He sat at the kitchen table. "I expect you thought I'd run off."

"I'm an overconfident kidnapper. I suspected you hadn't."

"I could have," Martin grumbled.

"That's true. In any case, I didn't think of it until about fifteen minutes had passed. That would have been enough time for you to go next door and phone the police." Douglas cleared his throat delicately. "Given the furor over your disappearance, I'm sure they'd have arrived in short order. Also, I saw you sitting on the steps." He hung the damp towel on a hook. "I could do with a cup of tea. You?"

"Yes, please."

Martin watched Douglas prepare the tea, a ritual that had always seemed to fill Gordon with irritation and impatience (the result of which was that he never drank tea unless Martin or the cook made it), but Douglas seemed to enjoy the process. He moved with a sort of careless grace, as if he were used to people watching him and didn't mind it at all. He'd moved the same way during his walk-throughs, when Martin had had the opportunity to observe him, wistfully and a little enviously. Was that natural, or was it an acquired demeanour?

Without being terribly obvious about it – he hoped – Martin scrutinised Douglas carefully. For the first time, he took in the particulars of Douglas' looks. Handsome, with thick hair and large, surprisingly limpid eyes. Eyebrows that arched in disbelief or wry humour. Strong, straight nose. Body stocky, and carried with authority, as if slimmer people were sadly lacking in substance. Large, capable hands. And his voice, of course – deep, silky, perfect elocution, putting the Wokingham accent Martin had so desperately tried to shed very much in the shade.

Unbidden, Martin's gaze wandered to the front of Douglas' trousers.

"Milk or lemon?"

"What?" Martin wrenched his gaze from its inappropriate target and met Douglas' eyes, then looked away, mortified. Had Douglas known where Martin – oh, for goodness' sake! "Sorry. Er – milk, please."

"Right." Douglas set a large pottery mug in front of Martin, along with the sugar bowl, and rummaged the milk out of the fridge. "Do you want a chocolate biscuit?"

"No, thanks. The tea's fine." Martin sipped carefully. "Mm. Good. Thank you, Douglas."

"Not at all." Douglas sat at the table, cradling his own mug. His face was a bit red, and he stared down into his tea as if it held vast and innumerable secrets. Occasionally he sipped, but he stayed silent. The only sound in the room was the intermittent clunk of pottery on polished wood, and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Martin took a deep breath. "Thank you."

"You already said that." Douglas' left eyebrow shot up.

"No, I mean – thank you for earlier. For being gentle with me. Oh, God. I mean…."

Douglas' brow rose higher. "Yes?"

"About Gordon. He doesn't want me back. That's what you were trying to tell me earlier, but I didn't twig." More that I wasn't listening, really. The way I haven't been listening to Carolyn, or to Arthur, or to anyone who knows what Gordon is really like. I'm such a fool.

"I'm sorry, Martin."

Martin snorted a little. "So am I." He covered his eyes with his hand.

"Martin –"

"Don't worry, I'm not about to collapse into tears," Martin said, determinedly lifting his mug and taking a gulp of tea. "I've done enough of that the past few days, God knows."

"You've certainly had cause," Douglas said, shifting a bit in his chair. "Martin, look. This is probably ill-timed and inappropriate, and I feel a bit naff for even giving voice to it, but I am genuinely sorry about all this. I've spent the last few days silently bemoaning the wreckage of my life without giving a proper thought about the fact that I was destroying your life as well. I hope you can forgive me someday. You didn't ask for any of this."

"No," Martin said with a sigh. "I didn't, but maybe it's all for the best."

"You don't have to say that to make me feel better, I assure you."

"It's not just that," Martin said. "He's a snake. I know that. I suppose I've always known, one way or another, but for whatever reason it seemed easier to ignore it. I mean, God knows how long I'd have gone on living with him and letting him t-treat me badly and excusing him over and over. I don't know if I can exactly thank you for the wake-up call, but I'm not sorry." He frowned and took another gulp of sweet milky tea. "No. No," he said, more firmly, bravado giving way to conviction. "I'm not sorry. And I'm not angry with you."

Douglas bowed his head briefly. "That's very generous of you, Martin. Thank you. What will you do now?"

"What will you do?" Martin countered. "Out of curiosity."

A silent moment passed as Douglas took a drink of tea and rotated the mug in his hands. "Having made my bed, I shall have to lie in it, lumps notwithstanding," he said at last. "Despite the current investigation into Gordon's affairs, the police will most likely be able to determine his innocence in short order. In this instance, at least. So: Spain, perhaps, or Morocco, or Tunisia. I find the climate agreeable and it shouldn't be too difficult to find a job. After that…." One shoulder lifted in a nonchalance that Martin, though he didn't know Douglas well, recognised as affectation. "Who knows? It's a wide world, and I consider myself resourceful. My daughter will get my house, I think, even if I'm considered a fugitive from justice. I might have time to look into that." He took another sip and set the mug down. "Your turn."

"I'll go home for a bit," Martin said, shaking his head when Douglas gave him a sceptical look. "Not for good or anything – just long enough to pack up my stuff. I've got some nice things, jewellery and watches and so on – I can pawn them, get a room somewhere, and find a job. And I'll keep studying for the CPL. If I scrimp and save, I can try taking it again in a year or so."

"Sounds as if you've thought this through."

"I haven't, actually," Martin said. "Funny, though, it feels right." As he spoke the words, he felt the truth of them; more, he felt the unusual pleasure and power of being the captain of his own fate. God, how long had it been since he'd made a decision for himself, that a fairly simple scheme seemed utterly momentous?

"You can keep the books, if you'd like," Douglas offered.

Martin smiled. "Thanks, I will, if you don't mind. I don't want to stay h – at Gordon's house any longer than absolutely necessary."

"Right. There it is." Douglas placed both palms flat on the table. "Now that both our lives have been neatly ordered, I suggest we get some sleep. We've both got busy days ahead of us. I've got to get my car to an acquaintance to sell, and you've got the rest of your life to plan." He smiled at Martin, but his eyes were somewhat wistful. "What do you say?"

Oddly, Martin felt a little wistful himself. Now that he wasn't tied up and terrified, and that he was planning a new direction in life (in itself a terrifying thing, but he wouldn't think about that now. And Gordon didn't want him back anyway) all this was beginning to seem less like a nightmare and more like an adventure. It was bloody bizarre, but he would miss Douglas after all this. Maybe Martin should suggest that they correspond? No, that would be too weird.

"Okay," Martin said. His reply felt inadequate, but he couldn't think what else to say. "Thanks again for the books." He moved toward the basement door.

"Martin," Douglas said, in that smooth, deep voice, "please use the guest room tonight. It's…it's too damp downstairs."

Martin rested his hand on the doorknob. "It's all right," he said softly. "I don't mind."

"It's much nicer. No damp. And…." Douglas coloured and cleared his throat. "I'm trusting you not to run away, a rather magnanimous gesture on my part, I think. You wouldn't let me down?"

Martin felt a smile, a genuine, happy smile stretch his mouth. Of course you're happy. You'll finally be rid of Gordon and in charge of your own life again. "No. I wouldn't dare."

*

The guest bedroom was nice: silvery-grey damask walls, pretty dark furniture, long billowy curtains the colour of ripe wheat. It smelled good and was neat as a pin. Douglas turned the bedclothes down and switched on the lamp that sat on the bedside table. "There's an alarm clock," Douglas said, gesturing to it, "or I can wake you. I should warn you the clock's a bit unreliable – can't imagine why I haven't binned it yet."

"You can wake me," Martin said. He set down the stack of books he'd been carrying under one arm and patted it. "I'm going to read a bit before bed."

"Very well," Douglas replied. "Eight o'clock? We'll have breakfast and then get things moving."

"All right." In jeans and a pale blue Oxford-cloth shirt, Douglas was less imposing than he was in his uniform, but still attractive. Odd; deciding to leave Gordon (not that the decision hadn't been pre-empted) had seemed to free Martin up to find other men attractive. Odder still that he hadn't noticed before – or perhaps he had noticed and simply hadn't permitted himself to recognise it. Gordon would have given him an earful for even mentioning that someone else was good-looking. "Thank you."

"Not at all." Douglas lingered beside the bed for a moment. "I'll say good night, then."

"Good night," Martin echoed, and watched Douglas walk to the door. "Douglas?"

Douglas halted and turned on his heel. "Yes?"

Martin scrambled to reply. He hadn't the least idea what he'd been about to say. "Er – sleep well."

A surprisingly gentle smile curved Douglas' mouth. "You too, Martin."

After Douglas left, Martin sank to the bed. He opened Flying Freestyle: An RAF Fast Jet Pilot's Story, but the words blurred together on the page. He couldn't focus to save his life.

You're unmoored, that's all. You've come to some unpleasant realisations and decided to make your own way in the world, and it's scary, and Douglas Richardson has gone from being your kidnapper to being a sympathetic ear, crazy as that sounds. It's a shock to the system.

He picked up the lapel of Douglas' robe, hanging on his scrawny body, and touched it to his nose, inhaling its scent.

*

A quick, sharp rap on the door woke Martin from a deep and dreamless slumber. As he opened his eyes, the door opened, and Douglas came in, clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, his hair dishevelled, and looking a bit frazzled. He glanced over his shoulder, then closed the door behind him.

"Martin, stay in bed for a bit, all right?" Douglas spoke softly, and with considerable urgency.

Adrenalin and confusion surged in Martin's veins. He sat up and tossed the bedclothes aside, forgetting he wore only his underpants. "Police?"

"What? No, no, it's Sophie. My daughter. She'd told me she was popping round today, but it totally slipped my mind in all the…." Douglas made a vague gesture with one hand. "Hullaballoo. Will you stay up here for a little while? Please?"

Martin nodded and rubbed sleep from one eye. "Of course." Suddenly conscious that he was mostly naked in front of Douglas, he slid back into bed and pulled up the sheet and duvet. Douglas seemed aware of it too; he averted his eyes and his cheeks were a bit pink, but that might have been anxiety. "Thanks for letting me stay in here," Martin said hastily. "You were right, it's nice."

"Good. I'm glad you slept well. That is, I hope you slept well." Douglas blinked and drew a short, huffing breath. "I'd better get back downstairs."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Martin offered. Douglas seemed unusually flustered. "She doesn't know anything. And…well, it's nice that you get to see her again."

"Yes," Douglas said reflectively. "Yes, that's true." He turned toward the door, glanced back at Martin, and went out.

Martin listened to Douglas' fading footfalls, then slipped on Douglas' dressing gown and went to the door. He put his ear against it, but heard only murmurs.

None of your business. Besides, people who eavesdrop always hear something they wish they hadn't.

He opened the door a crack.

"…breakfast, darling?"

"Oh, lovely. Eggs Benedict?"

"I'm too lazy to manage the sauce this morning. Would madam accept scrambled? An inadequate substitute, to be sure, but just as tasty, according to those in the know."

Sophie Richardson laughed, a vivid, sprightly chortling. "All right. Only if you've got bacon as well, though."

"Can do. Fetch the grapefruit juice from the fridge, would you?"

Martin opened the door, hoping it wouldn't creak – it didn't, thank goodness – and crept into the corridor, vaguely conscious that he needed to pee. Douglas and Sophie's voices carried quite easily, and Martin's curiosity outweighed his guilt by a generous measure.

"You're looking lovely, as usual," Douglas said.

"Oh, Daddy, you're sweet. Charity-shop dress, you know – I just modified it a little. I think it's as old as you are!"

"Oh, how flattering." Douglas sounded drily amused.

"You know what I mean. You're both holding up quite well, though, now that I think of it."

"The compliments just keep on coming, don't they? Make yourself useful, impertinent child, and get the butter out."

Father and daughter bantered a while as the delicious smells of bacon, eggs, and toast floated past Martin's nose, provoking his stomach into a rumble. He heard them sitting down to breakfast, and the clink of cutlery against porcelain, and their lively conversation, and couldn't help a small jab of envy, not at the parent-child relationship, which was nice – certainly nicer than Gordon's relationship with Arthur; where Gordon was dismissive and contemptuous, Douglas was engaged and encouraging – but at the easy camaraderie they shared, and the warmth in Douglas' voice as he spoke to his daughter, asked her questions. What made it slightly worse was that he had felt Douglas' attention and interest and even kindness, beyond the initial fright, obviously, but it was fated to be short-lived. It was nice while it lasted, though.

"Oh!" Sophie cried, with an accompanying clatter of flatware against plate. "I totally forgot, Daddy! Mr. Shappey's boyfriend! Can you believe?"

Martin froze and held his breath.

"Husband. Yes," Douglas replied gravely. "It's dreadful."

"Isn't it! Did you know him well?"

Douglas paused. "I can't say I know him well, but we did scrape acquaintance."

Martin smiled despite his trepidation.

"I only saw him a few times. I thought he was awfully stuck up. Cute, but stuck up."

Stuck up? Indignation burned in Martin's chest. I'm not stuck up! 'Cute' was nice, though.

"Martin Crieff?" Douglas said, disbelief evident in his voice. "Goodness gracious, wherever did you get that idea? Are we talking about the same person?"

"Do you remember Christmas Eve last year?"

"I remember your mother receiving that ostentatious fur coat from her then-gentleman friend and flaunting it at my drinks party, along with the gentleman friend. I use the term 'gentleman' loosely, of course. There were bits of fox fluff in the air for days afterward. Beyond that, I can't say that I found it particularly memorable."

"Your car broke down, and I had to drive you to Fitton Airfield so you could fly Gordon and his boyfriend – sorry, husband – to Paris."

"Oh, yes. Right."

"Well, I saw him – Martin, right? – at the airfield, in a really nice suit and sunnies, and it was snowing. So conceited. Who does that? Besides that, he hardly spoke a word to me. Rude."

Martin flushed. He remembered last Christmas Eve very well indeed. Gordon had blacked his eye because they'd been at a party the evening before, and Martin had had the temerity to talk to a fellow he'd briefly dated. He remembered Sophie saying hello to him, and he'd muttered a hello and scurried onto the plane, trying to avoid anyone sharp enough to notice the bruising.

Douglas was silent for a moment. "I understand that Martin gets terrible headaches," he said at last. "I imagine that would explain the dark glasses, and the short shrift. He's actually quite nice once one gets to know him. Not that I know him well, of course."

Torn between equal lashings of shame and gratitude, Martin leant against the wall, hugging himself a little. His face burned, and though no-one was watching him, he longed to sink into the floor and disappear.

"Oh. That makes sense, I suppose. Is he on medication?"

"I'm not certain. Probably so," Douglas returned.

"It would be awful if he had a headache right now, on top of being frightened and maybe abused and starved too. Poor thing." There was genuine sympathy in Sophie Richardson's voice; Martin found himself unexpectedly charmed. "I hope he's still alive. I know you said Mr. Shappey was a bit of a horse's arse, but it doesn't seem fair that his husband has to suffer for it."

"No, you're right," Douglas said. "It's not fair. Not fair at all."

"I don't suppose you have an angle on the whole thing. Nothing you could tell the police."

"I wish I did."

"Do you think Mr. Shappey arranged it himself? That's what everyone's saying now."

"I don't know," Douglas said. "It's always difficult to speculate about things like that. I didn't know them intimately, as a couple. Do you want more bacon, darling?"

"No, thanks. All right, one more rasher. I mean, who'd do that to someone? Even worse if Mr. Shappey was in on it. The least he could have done was get a divorce. He didn't have to try to have Martin killed. God."

"Tea?" Douglas asked brightly.

"Ooh, yes."

The topic of conversation drifted to more trivial things, but Martin didn't register much of it. He had a lingering pain in his midsection that he recognised as emotional distress from a dozen confrontations with Gordon, and his jaw ached, as if he'd been clenching his teeth. He relaxed his jaw and realised he had been clenching his teeth. When, he wondered, would he stop feeling awful about all this?

It didn't matter right now. He had to pee very badly; that mattered. He tiptoed into the loo, urinated, re-ordered his underwear, and flushed the toilet. It gurgled loudly as the water disappeared.

Oh, BLOODY HELL.

Martin clamped both hands over his mouth as if he'd let out a yell, and closed his eyes in horror. He pushed the half-ajar loo door open in time to hear Sophie's voice, simultaneously accusing and delighted. "You've got a guest!"

"No, it's the bloody toilet. Does that from time to time. Drives me round the bend."

"Oh, Daddy, come on. I wasn't born yesterday. Why didn't you invite her or him downstairs?"

Him?

"Really, darling, it's the plumbing. Go upstairs and take a look if you don't believe me." Douglas' voice was raised, and Martin took the cue. He dashed into the guest bedroom as quietly as he could, yanked up the bedclothes, and dropped to the floor, ready to wriggle underneath the bed if Sophie picked up Douglas' gauntlet.

"Oh, Daddy, I can be discreet too. I won't keep you, but you should have said something, really. Goodbye, whoever you are!" she called. "Hope we get to meet sometime!"

"Honestly, darling. I'll walk you out."

Their voices faded away, and Martin cradled his head in his hands and groaned. God, you're such an idiot. Douglas asks you to be quiet, and you proceed to make the loudest noise possible. Why didn't you just start tap-dancing on the bathroom tiles while you were at it? Stupid clot!

He sat on the bed and waited for Douglas to return. He heard the door open and close, and a tread on the staircase, but stayed put, too ashamed to meet Douglas in the hall. He saw a figure in his peripheral vision and timidly raised his eyes. "Douglas. Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I'm a complete idiot."

"Not at all, Martin. You were a model of silence, right up until the moment you flushed the toilet," Douglas said.

Martin groaned again. "I'm so, so sorry. I honestly didn't intend to do it, it was just a reflex."

"No harm done. In fact, I think my stock might have risen a few points." Douglas grinned wryly. "And it's not every day I have handsome half-naked men in my house."

Were full-body blushes physically possible? Martin thought perhaps they were. "I reckon she'd have been shocked," he ventured, probing delicately.

"Not as shocked as you might think."

"So you…you date men as well?"

Douglas shrugged. "Now and then, 'dating' being the operative word, and even that might be a bit on the generous side. I've never had a sustained relationship with another chap."

"Why not?" Martin asked.

"Who knows? Back in my youth, a hundred thousand years ago when dinosaurs roamed the earth and the phrase 'free love' was still bandied about, none of the people in my set, male or female, were particularly keen on long-term relationships. Then I met Sophie's mother, and between her and my other two wives there were some pleasant liaisons, but nothing I cared to prolong. You look surprised."

"I suppose I hadn't thought about you as bisexual. Gordon never mentioned a thing about it."

Douglas crossed his arms, looking rather magisterial. "Gordon, I'm pleased to say, was never privy to any of my romantic affairs."

"Probably for the best," Martin sighed. "Talking of which, I – thank you."

"What are you thanking me for?"

"I eavesdropped," Martin confessed. "I know I shouldn't have done, but I couldn't help it. I heard what you said about…the headaches."

Douglas looked discomfited. "Sophie didn't know, Martin. She's not the condemning sort."

"No, it's not that. I'd have thought the same thing, if someone had blown by me without speaking. No, I mean thanks for covering for me." Abruptly, Martin raked his fingers through his hair, tugging on a particularly stubborn corkscrew. "God. I've made you complicit in all the lying. But that's our relationship in a nutshell, I suppose. Gordon treats me like rubbish, I lie about it, and I make everyone around me so uncomfortable that they feel as if they've got to lie as well." He let out a bitter little chuckle.

"You don't have to do that any longer."

"No, I know. I know."

Silence stretched between them, but oddly, it didn't feel uncomfortable. Martin glanced up at Douglas and offered him a timid smile, and Douglas smiled back. I wish we'd known each other better. We might have been good friends. Even – oh, come off it.

"Why don't you have a shower and get dressed?" Douglas suggested. "I'll feed you up, then we've got to get going."

"Where are we going?"

"Well, I'm meeting my mate Alfie and Herc Shipwright at Fitton Airfield. Do you know Herc?"

"A little," Martin said. "He's wooing Carolyn."

"Unsuccessfully, by all accounts. Mrs. Knapp-Shappey is proving to be a rather tough nut to crack. As it were."

"Herc seems persistent, though."

"Yes. I've no doubt he'll manage eventually. He has charm and looks to spare," Douglas said, sounding slightly disdainful. "Small world, isn't it? At any rate, Alfie's taking my car, and Herc's flying me to Shannon, where I'll join up with a charter group headed for Spain. A bit roundabout, but the original plans got scrapped, if you'll recall."

Martin nodded. "And me?" he asked quietly.

Douglas sighed. "There's a block of flats near Fitton Agricultural College headed for demolition. They're in rather poor shape, but still structurally sound. I'll drop you there and you can…escape and make your way home from there."

"I see."

"Unless, of course, you'd like to come to Spain and then perhaps Tangier via Shannon."

Martin hesitated. "Are you serious?"

"Certainly," Douglas replied.

Spain. Tangier. Maybe the CPL exams would be cheaper there. He could get a job, maybe doing removals and handy work for English-speaking residents…he could learn the local language…and maybe Douglas wouldn't mind a flatmate for a while. He looked at Douglas' hands and suddenly imagined them roaming down his body. His cock stirred, and he shifted the bedclothes, embarrassed. God, one friendly offer and you're imagining him having his way with you! No wonder you fail so spectacularly at relationships. "I suppose I'd better just go home," Martin said. "Thanks, though."

If Douglas was disappointed, he didn't show it. Why on earth would he show it? "All right. We'd better get a move on, then. I was going to wash your clothes again, but it's probably better if we just let them go. The police might wonder about a kidnapper fastidious enough to do his victim's laundry."

"I reckon they might. Maybe I shouldn't shower, either."

"Oh, right. Good thinking." Douglas laughed. "You're getting quite good at this."

"About time," Martin said with a smile. His heart hurt, just a little.

*

Dressed in a lightweight grey suit with a pinstriped blue apron over it, Douglas cooked Martin breakfast, bacon and eggs and toast, the same as he'd fed his daughter. They chatted as Martin ate and Douglas drank tea, mostly about flying. Martin hung on every word as Douglas regaled him with amusing or thrilling anecdotes about the aeroplanes he'd flown, the places he'd been, the weather and technical peculiarities of airports around the world. He was sorry when Douglas began cleaning up, and reluctantly stood to help.

"Would you mind if we turned on the news?" Douglas asked, consulting his watch. "I suppose it would be good to know if the police have thrown up any road blocks in Fitton." Martin agreed, and Douglas turned on the television in the lounge. The first item was about a possible Al-Qaeda chemical weapons plot in Iran; the second was about the upcoming Supermoon. Douglas looked relieved. "Slow local news day, I take it."

They sat through a few adverts in silence, then the glossy, pretty news reader re-appeared on the screen. "Further developments in the abduction of Fitton's Martin Crieff." A picture of Gordon appeared beside her, with GUILTY? written in red across his face.

Martin and Douglas exchanged an uneasy glance.

"Investigation into the financial affairs of Crieff's partner Gordon Shappey indicate the possibility of malfeasance and criminal conspiracy. Crowley Hodge reports."

Martin sat next to Douglas, frozen, as the reporter on the television cheerfully nattered about Gordon's precarious financial manoeuvreing. Martin saw no reason for concern – Gordon's line of work was always precarious and erratic – high risk and high yield was his speciality. Gordon's money was secure, no matter how volatile his transactions. But then the reporter came back after a series of shots of London's trading floor, looking pleased with himself. "Most damning of all, however, is an anonymous tip we received that Shappey recently purchased kidnap insurance for Mr. Crieff only two days before Mr. Crieff was reported missing. In light of these allegations, Mr. Shappey made a brief statement to the press."

Gordon appeared onscreen, immaculate in suit and tie, but wan and pale and apparently exhausted. He cleared his throat and spoke as microphones crowded him and light from a dozen cameras flashed in his face. "This is a message for the person or persons who have abducted my husband, Martin Crieff." He swallowed. "There is no-one dearer to me than Martin. He has been my partner and support for years, and I cannot conceive of life without him. Please, I beg you not to harm him. You have threatened to murder him if the ransom is not paid. I implore you to show compassion. I will gladly pay what you demand. I ask that you telephone me. You have the number; the line is secure. Please do not hurt him." Gordon covered his eyes for a moment, then took his hands away. They shook slightly, but his eyes were dry. "I will make whatever arrangements are necessary to ensure his safety and facilitate your secure passage, wherever you wish to go. Please – telephone me. Assure me that my husband is well."

Numb once more, Martin watched the reporter and the news reader chat about the possibility of his death, of Gordon's complicity, about the scandal in the business community. As he watched, his thoughts whirled madly about. He's lying. He's only saying that because he's being accused of conspiracy and he's anxious to be exonerated. He doesn't mean a word of it.

But what if he did mean it? Oh, God.

The story ended, and Douglas got to his feet and snapped off the telly. He faced Martin, his eyes dancing. "Well, well."

"He's lying," Martin said, more to convince himself than to reassure Douglas. He stood, and started as Douglas grasped his shoulders.

"Do you see what this means?"

Martin frowned. "Not really."

"It means we've got him right where we want him. Perhaps we could ask for two million instead, Martin. And I'll give you half." Douglas sounded positively jubilant.

"You – you're going to go through with it?"

Douglas nodded, beaming. "Too bloody right I am. What do you think? Are you prepared to be a millionaire?"

Martin was glad for Douglas' steadying hands on his shoulders, because he felt dizzy. Oh, don't black out now! He grabbed at Douglas' sleeves for support, and Douglas must have taken it as a positive sign, because he swept Martin into a quick but tight embrace.

"Oh!" Martin clung to Douglas, staring up into his eyes, and then did the unthinkable.

*

TBC....