FIC: A Million By Tuesday [14/?]
Nov. 26th, 2013 03:59 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
*
"Gordon. Gordon…." Martin tried to extricate himself from Gordon's grasp, but it was proving difficult. Impossible, actually. Finally he put his hands on Gordon's upper arms and pushed himself away. Forcing himself to look Gordon in the eye, he spoke slowly and distinctly. "Gordon, we've got to talk."
"I should say we do, pet." Gordon tried to pull Martin into another embrace, but Martin took a quick step back. Gordon frowned. "What's wrong? I expect you’ll want to call the police right away."
“Yes….” Not really, actually. Martin took a deep breath. "But I've got to talk to you, and I-I've got to do it while I've still got the nerve. Could you sit down?" Gordon stared at him, his eyes narrowing, and Martin tried again. "Please?"
Gordon went back to his desk chair and sat. "All right. I'm listening."
"I've had a lot of…wait, let me back up a bit. This past week has been…scary."
"I expect it has," Gordon said coolly.
"Yes. I felt very, erm, alone. And frightened and uncertain."
Gordon laced his fingers together and rested them on his abdomen. "Yes."
"I think it's possible, for me at any rate, that that sort of experience can make you re-evaluate things, if you know what I mean. Well, the thing is, as I was saying, I've had a lot of time to think about…my life, I suppose, and our relationship, and so on."
Deep furrows laddered Gordon's brow, but he said nothing.
Just say it. Go on. Say it! Martin took another deep breath and let his words out on the exhale. "I'm not staying, Gordon."
Gordon tilted his head inquisitively to one side. "You're…not staying."
"Right. I can't."
"Are you suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder?"
Martin shook his head and took off his jacket. He sat on the sofa and scrubbed a hand up his unshaven face. "No. I mean, I might be, but it isn't impairing my judgment or anything. Gordon, look. I'm going to go upstairs and pack a bag and call a taxi. I'll stay in a hotel tonight. We can discuss details later this week if you'd like, but right now I've just got to be alone for a bit and get my head sorted out."
"Aha!" Gordon's expression was sourly triumphant. "You do have post-traumatic stress disorder."
"Please, Gordon. I'm quite serious."
"All right." Gordon leant forward, elbows on the desk, hands tightly folded. "Am I allowed to ask why you're leaving, or are you planning to keep that information to yourself?"
"N-no, I'll tell you." A hot blush crept up Martin's neck. "I don't think that you…you value me. It's not that I blame you," he went on hastily, "not completely, not altogether. It's just that I don't think we've been very happy together for a while now."
"Don't value you?" Gordon echoed quietly. He shook his head, and a small smile twisted his mouth upward. "Where's that coming from, if I may ask?"
Martin stood his ground. "It's true. I'm sorry, but it is."
"I've fed you, sheltered you, clothed you, given you every sort of luxury for years…." Gordon's face was turning red. Picking up a paper clip, he bent it back and forth until it snapped. "I was prepared to pay two million pounds to get you back – to save your life, or have you conveniently managed to forget that?"
"After you were under suspicion!" Martin shouted, and slapped the tufted leather of the chesterfield hard enough to hurt his hand. Tears began to well in his eyes, not from pain but from anger and humiliation and resentment. "Before that you said you didn't have that sort of cash – one million, not two, and I know you could have got your hands on it if you'd really wanted to, I know you could have done, and you said you didn't negotiate with terrorists. And you didn't even call the bloody police until after you thought I was dead!" Martin swiped furiously at his nose.
Gordon stood up. "Is that what you think?"
"That's what I know." Martin stood up as well. He wasn't going to be intimidated by Gordon's greater physical size or strength. Not anymore. "I-I was feeling abandoned, and helpless, and scared half out of my wits, and the only reassurance I got from you was you saying you didn't negotiate with terrorists. You didn't show the first time, and I thought…I don't even remember what I thought, but I made excuses for you. And then I made more excuses for you, the way I've always done. You're – you're awful, Gordon. You're an awful person, and I should have listened to Carolyn ages ago and left you. Well, I'm not staying here tonight, or any night thereafter, and you can just s-sod off." Martin turned and marched toward the door. He groped for the handle through a haze of furious tears.
Gordon was beside him in an instant. He grabbed Martin's wrist and yanked it upward.
Martin cringed, then wrenched his arm away. "Don't you hit me. Don't you dare. I'll go to the police, I swear I will."
"I'm not going to hit you." Gordon held his hands up, palms out. "I'm not going to hit you. I just want to talk. That's all." He stepped back. "You've had your say. I think it's only fair that I get a chance to defend myself and explain a few things to you. Will you give me that chance, Martin?"
Hadn't he heard this sort of reasonable talk from Gordon before? He was sure he had. It didn't matter, though. Gordon could say whatever he liked – Martin was still leaving, and no question. "All right. But it won't change anything."
"Fine. I just want to say a few things, and then we can part amicably. Please – sit down." Gordon gestured toward the chesterfield, and Martin sat on the edge. Gordon took a wing chair opposite. "First of all, I need to explain about the money. I haven't been completely honest with you, Martin."
There's a shock. Martin folded his arms. "What do you mean?"
"Well, the truth is, the financial picture isn't quite as rosy as I tend to paint it. It's always ups and downs in my line of work, you know that, but lately there have been a lot more downs than ups."
"It's always like that, though," Martin said with a frown. "That's what you always say, anyhow."
"Yes, but I've taken some fairly hard hits this fiscal year. I…the fact is, I've had to liquidate some of our assets to meet my obligations. And…well, you remember how I told you that Douglas Richardson quit?"
Martin forced his face to remain perfectly still. "Yes?"
"Actually, he didn't quit. I sacked him. And I admit I was a bit brutal about it. I simply couldn't afford to keep a full-time pilot on staff. I might have to sell the jet, too. Might as well, if I haven't got a pilot to operate the bloody thing."
"Why did you lie about that?" Martin heard the frostiness in his own voice and tried to warm it up a bit, but he couldn't help himself.
"Because it was a bit sudden, and I knew you loved flying and I hated to disappoint you."
"I rather think Mr. Richardson was more disappointed than I was." And I love flying, but not as a passenger. You'll never understand that. Never.
"Possibly, but I gave him a nice severance package, and he's got his pension, of course. I'm not a complete monster."
A knot of anger pinched Martin's midsection. How many lies was Gordon planning to tell? "So you really couldn't get your hands on the cash."
"No, I couldn't. If you knew how I scrambled, trying to scrape it up from anywhere. And the police – that's the other thing. I called them the moment I rang off that first night. God, Martin – all I could think of was that photo of you, and the fear in your voice. I was in agony, don't you see? I can't imagine how I must have sounded, but I was numb with shock. It was terrible for me."
"It was pretty terrible for me, too," Martin replied.
"I know." Gordon stood and moved to the chesterfield, sitting a short distance from Martin. "I envisioned all sorts of dreadful scenarios. Whilst the police hunted for clues, I couldn't keep myself from thinking about what they were doing to you. Taunting you, starvation, beatings, torture…." Gordon smiled. "I suppose I let my imagination run away with itself. Thank God you appear to be all right. Did they hurt you, by the way?"
Martin shook his head. "No. He – erm, the person who brought me food and water and let me use the loo – he was…." He thought a moment. "He was brusque, but not totally heartless."
"I'm grateful for that, at least. They sounded like a rough lot. How many were there?"
"Three, I think. I was, erm, blindfolded a lot."
Gordon nodded. "About what I said, Martin. To the kidnappers. I was so furious with them, so angry, and the police had assured me that they'd rescue you, because their rate of victim retrieval is so high – I cocked it up. I admit that, and I'm sorry. I thought that being tough would intimidate them, and I should have been thinking about you. You must have felt…I can't even think how badly you must have felt after that." Gordon shook his head and clasped his hands together. "That was my fault. I'm sorry."
Martin sighed. Gordon might have been telling the truth. He'd had more than his fair share of moments of machismo, often at Martin's expense. "Well, it's all…actually, don't you see, Gordon, that when you get so angry it's n-not good for anybody. They were so angry, I thought they were going to kill me right then and there."
Gordon hung his head. "I know. I know. Look here, Martin, I don't…what if I promised to get counselling, love?" Tentatively, he reached out and laid a hand on Martin's knee.
Gently but firmly Martin removed Gordon's hand. "I'm sorry. It's too late for that. I'm sorry, I really am."
"It wasn't all bad, was it, pet?" Gordon looked at Martin beseechingly.
Martin shook his head. "No, it wasn't all bad. But we can't go back and change it now." And I'm in love with someone else. Even if I never see him again. "We've been married for years and you never told me the truth about your finances. I might have helped, if you'd have let me."
"With Icarus Removals?" Gordon exhaled heavily. "Forgive me, Martin, but you were scarcely supporting yourself with that little scheme. I doubt you'd have made much of a dent."
"But I could have helped with the bills, the groceries, something."
"You might have been able to pay the electricity bill, but your wages wouldn't stretch much further than that. I'm not placing blame, pet. I wanted you to have nice things, to live comfortably. And I didn't want to burden you with something you'd never have understood and that changed from moment to moment. It might still, you know."
"I'm sorry," Martin said. "Maybe…maybe if you did get help, you'd…what I mean is that it's too late for us, it's too late for Carolyn and you, but I'm sure there will be someone else, someone wonderful, and if – if you weren't angry, you could make a real go of it." He watched Gordon's mouth tighten, and rushed on. "And there's Arthur. God, Gordon, he loves you so much. It's – he still needs his dad. My own dad didn't think much of my ambitions, but I knew he loved me just the same. And I loved him. There's still time, Gordon." Hesitantly, he touched Gordon's arm, and Gordon grasped his hand tightly. Martin winced, but didn't pull away.
Gordon stared down at the floor, holding Martin's hand, and didn't speak for a long time. At last he looked up at Martin. "You're sure?"
"Yes." As he said that one tiny word, a glorious sensation of freedom suffused him. He was out. It would be a clean break – he wouldn't demand maintenance. Maintenance involved too high a price – a monthly reminder of how foolishly he'd spent the last few years. They'd simply cut ties, and Martin would be free. Poor, but free.
Resignedly, Gordon nodded. "All right. You've certainly changed, pet. I'm sorry about it. Sorry about all this."
I've changed for the better. Not your doormat anymore. "I know it must be hard to hear, Gordon, but it's true. I'm glad, at least, that I didn't end up costing you two million pounds. I don't think you'd ever be able to forgive me for that, on top of your other financial burdens." Or ever fail to remind me of it.
"I love you, and I'd have paid it willingly. Someday, perhaps, you'll realise that." Gordon got to his feet. "Listen, pet. Don't leave tonight. No, listen. I know you haven't got a penny in your pocket. You can't afford a hotel. Just stay in one of the guest rooms, and when you're ready to go, you can go. But stay a few days, at least. It would…it's rather selfish of me, but try to think of how that would look, if you left immediately after the kidnap. I already look rather bad thanks to the press. I'm begging you not to make it worse. One last favour to me, pet. Please."
Martin hesitated. He wanted to leave immediately, with no delays wherein Gordon might try to persuade him to stay, as he'd done more than a few times already. But Martin had never laid down the law so resolutely. Things were different now. He'd stay a few days, and then…then he'd find Douglas before he left for Tangier or wherever. Douglas cared for him, a little at least – Martin knew he did, even if Douglas had refused to take advantage of the situation and Martin's vulnerability, a thing which, in retrospect, Martin found he admired very much. They didn't have to move in together or anything. They could start over. Start as friends. And then, whatever happened…happened.
He could wait a few days for the rest of his life.
Slowly, he nodded. "All right. I'll take the guest room at the end of the hall."
Gordon seemed to sag with relief. "Good."
"But I'm not staying, Gordon. I plan to be out permanently by Wednesday latest. I-I need you to respect that."
"All right. Could I ask something else in return?"
"What?" Martin asked warily.
"I've been besieged by journalists and paparazzi lately. They've been driving me mad."
"There wasn't anybody outside the house when I came home."
"They'll be back. It's a pattern. One day on, one day off. At any rate, I'd like to ask you to keep a low profile for the next few days – don't leave the house, they'll jump on you, and you've been through enough just lately. I'm going to call the police and ask them to stop by tomorrow, and I expect we'll need to make a press statement at some point, but I just need a bit of decompression. Just until tomorrow night or the next morning. All right?"
"All right," Martin said. "That's reasonable, I reckon. I wasn't exactly planning to go clubbing or anything anyhow."
Gordon chuckled. "Right."
Martin remembered his books and got up. "Oh – I left something outside. I'll just go and grab it." He'd have left them, but the skies threatened rain and he didn't want to damage Douglas' gift.
"I'll go," Gordon said, heading to the door. "What is it? Where'd you leave it?"
God, no. He couldn't risk Gordon seeing the books. What if Douglas' name were written inside? "Oh, erm…." Martin dug in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Oh. Never mind. I thought I dropped this inside the gate." He'd have to sneak them inside tomorrow night, or find a safer place for them until he left. "I'm going to have a shower. Good night, Gordon."
Gordon moved toward Martin and gently enfolded him into an embrace. "I'm so glad you're safe, pet."
Martin stiffened, then yielded. Maybe it had been rough for Gordon too. It didn't change things between them, but Martin found it in his heart to feel at least a tiny bit of compassion for the man he'd been married to for three years, who had provided for him the best way he knew how. He could afford compassion. He was free. Carefully, he patted Gordon's back. "Thank you."
Gordon let him go and opened the door. "Up you go. I didn't hear Jaye go out, did you?"
"Her car wasn't in the drive, and the gate was locked. She's gone for the night, I suppose."
"Ah. I didn't realise. I'll have her prepare something special for us tomorrow. Homecoming."
It wasn't his home any longer, but Martin only smiled. "That would be nice."
"Good night, pet."
Martin smiled at Gordon, relieved. It could have been so much worse. "Good night, Gordon."
*
Gordon waited until he heard the shower running, and then dialled Jaye's number, getting her answerphone. Good. Good. "Jaye, it's Mr. Shappey. I'm getting some sort of flu, I think – I've got chills and fever, so I think it's best that you stay home tomorrow. I'll pay you for the day, of course." Freeloading bint. "I know you'll worry, but don't – I'll have Gavin drive me to Dr. Weybridge. Thanks. If you need anything, call my mobile, I'll probably be in bed all day." Note to self: don't let Martin answer land line. "Thanks, Jaye. 'Bye."
He rang off and glanced through the doorway. The shower was still running, but he took the precaution of closing and locking the door. Then he went to his desk, sat down, and took another mobile from his desk, a cheap flip phone purchased only the day before yesterday. He dialled another number and waited for a voice to answer.
"It's Shappey. Yes. You remember what we talked about? Yes, of course. No. No. It's…it's back on. It's a go. Tomorrow evening. You have the key. Yes, absolutely. We'll discuss that tomorrow evening. Right. Right. See you then."
Gordon closed the mobile and placed it back in the drawer. He slid the drawer shut and drew a deep breath to combat his sudden lightheadedness. Distantly aware that he was sweating, he passed a hand over his brow.
Get help.
You can sod off.
I should have left you years ago.
Miserable, ungrateful little fuck.
So Gordon was awful, was he? Martin didn't know the meaning of awful.
Not yet.
*
The day had passed with a speed that could only be described as glacial. Martin did as Gordon had asked and hadn't left the house. He'd slept late, eaten breakfast, showered again, and pottered around the house, picking up his possessions. There weren't many; books, mostly, a framed photo of his family, an RAF fridge magnet Arthur had given him last year. Anything else amounted to clothes and toiletries and the watches and jewellery Gordon had given him over the years. He intended to sell the jewellery for whatever he could get, but if he told Gordon that, no doubt Gordon would demand it back.
Although, Martin had to admit, Gordon was being unusually pleasant. He'd stayed home from work, and though he'd spent the greater part of the day in the library, now and then he'd pop into whatever room Martin was occupying and chat.
Now, as Martin was sorting through some boxes in the garage, Gordon drifted in, rubbing his hands together, a sure sign he was agitated. "What are you up to?"
Martin looked up from his search and smiled. "Oh – hi. Me? Just going through some things. I think there's a box of models somewhere in here. I was sure I'd labelled it." Martin's model planes, like most of Martin's pre-Gordon possessions, hadn't been deemed worthy of display in Gordon's professionally (and a bit stuffily, in Martin's opinion, but that was neither here nor there) decorated house. Not that his few things would have made much difference, but Gordon was immovable on the subject of interior design. On most things, really.
"You're making a mess."
"I'll tidy up," Martin promised, then regretted it. He should have nonchalantly ignored Gordon, but honestly, there was no point in making waves now.
"It's just that I can have your things sent to you. You needn't get all mucky."
Martin found the box he'd been seeking and dragged it out, then rose from his crouch and dusted his hands on his jeans. "That's thoughtful of you, Gordon, thanks. But there's no need. I've only got a few boxes."
"I saw you've packed your clothes." Gordon leant against the bonnet of his Land Rover. "You're not planning to leave tomorrow, are you?"
"Well…tomorrow or the next day, really," Martin replied. "I think it's probably best that way."
"Eager to start your new life."
Martin pressed his lips together, struck by what Gordon had said. New life. Suppose he was just repeating a pattern, going from a rich older man to another, less rich older man? Was he setting himself up for disappointment and heartache again? But Douglas wasn't Gordon, Martin reminded himself, and there wasn't even a guarantee that Douglas would want him for a boyfriend. He mustn't hang all his expectations upon Douglas Richardson. Tempting as it was. "Yes, I reckon so. Gordon, about maintenance and things like that –"
"Another time," Gordon said with a wave of his hand. "When we've both had some space to think about things."
"It's just that I wasn't planning to ask for –"
"Another time," Gordon repeated. He looked down at the box at Martin's feet. "Model planes. Some things never change, do they?"
Martin stiffened at the contempt in Gordon's voice. He picked up the box and moved past Gordon. "No, they don't."
He took the box into the guest room and laid it carefully on the floor. He'd open it another time, well out of Gordon's sight. Gordon was trying to be kind, as kind as he could be, but he was right – some things never changed.
*
Gordon made dinner – frozen pizza, but it tasted nice. Martin polished his off quickly. He planned to head upstairs early, wait until Gordon had gone to bed, and then slip out for his books. He could pack them in one of the bin bags that held some sundry stuff, and maybe read a bit before bed as well. "That was great, thanks, Gordon. Where's Jaye?"
"She phoned this morning. She wasn't feeling well, so I told her to stay home."
"That was nice of you." And unusual. Ordinarily Gordon complained at the least inconvenience. Martin yawned hugely and got to his feet, collecting plates and glasses. "I'll wash up. Then I think I'll turn in – I'm pretty tired."
"All right." The doorbell rang, and Gordon shot up from the table. "I'll get it."
"I thought the gate was locked?" Martin called on his way to the kitchen, and then shrugged when Gordon didn't reply. He opened the dishwasher and stacked the plates, glasses, and cutlery inside, and added a soap capsule. He turned the machine on and wiped up the few crumbs on the dining room table.
"Martin." Gordon came back into the kitchen, followed by a tall, barrel-chested man with a ginger beard. He wore black from head to foot and even a black watch cap – odd, for summer. "This is Detective Sergeant Simmons."
"Hi, Martin." Simmons took a step forward and shook Martin's hand. "It's good to meet you. I'm glad you're safe and sound. I spoke to Mr. Shappey earlier, and we're going to have to ask you some questions. I hope that's all right."
Martin crossed his arms over his chest. Stick to the basics. You didn't see much, you couldn't hear much, there were three of them and a dark van. Be vague about everything. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."
"Great," Simmons said, and smiled so widely Martin wondered what would have happened if he'd said no. "I understand you might be feeling a bit vulnerable, but we'll do our best to make you comfortable. We've got a debriefing centre in Luton – sort of a safe house, with all the latest tech toys."
"All right." Martin wiped his hands on a tea towel. "Should I pack a bag?"
"No, no need – you'll only be there for ten or twelve hours. Bring whatever you had with you on the night of the kidnap, though – we'll need to look at it for evidence."
"Okay. I'll be right back." Martin ran upstairs and found his phone and wallet and the jacket he'd worn last Saturday evening. His other clothes were in the laundry hamper – a good thing, since he didn't want them finding random particles from Douglas' house. After a moment's thought he dropped the jacket back on the bed and hastily yanked the rubber case from his phone, tossing it to the floor. He wiped down the face of the phone and stuck it in his pocket, then wiped off his wallet for good measure, though he couldn't recall Douglas touching it. He stuck both items in his pockets and blew out a quick breath, then went to close the window – the guest room had been stuffy, and had needed a good airing.
The night sky was an orange-purple colour, heralding rain. Martin stuck his head out the window and caught sight of a car in the drive. It was a Subaru or Toyota, dark, and looked at least ten years old. That was Detective Sergeant Simmons' car? Well, maybe he didn't make much money, or maybe it was one of those undercover cars. Martin hadn't spotted the policewoman in the green mac at the ransom drop – he wasn't a dab hand at observation. Still, it was odd. And it was in the drive and Simmons had rung the doorbell – so Gordon had given the police his entry code, apparently. That was odd, for Gordon; he'd been reluctant about giving Martin the code, let alone a stranger. Maybe he had been distraught after all.
Martin descended the stairs and heard a half-whispered conversation in the kitchen. Simmons sounded angry; Martin hoped Gordon wasn't antagonising him.
"Half now. That was the deal, Shappey."
"Lower your voice, for fuck's sake."
"Half, or I walk."
"Fine. Christ. Wait here."
Martin heard Gordon stomp into the library, and he moved into the hall, frowning. God, what now – surely Gordon wouldn't bribe the police. What for, for goodness' sake? He went into the kitchen and saw Simmons sitting at the table. "Is everything all right?"
"Absolutely," Simmons said with a grin that dissolved when Gordon re-entered the room. "Martin, why don't you go out to the car and I'll be along in just a moment."
"You're not coming, Gordon?"
Gordon twitched a smile at Martin. "Oh, I've been thoroughly vetted, believe me. You'll be fine, pet. Erm, I'll just leave you to it, Constable."
"Detective Sergeant," Martin corrected, and then froze. A horrible sensation of foreboding stole over him, as if he'd stepped into that roomful of snakes in Raiders of the Lost Ark. He turned to Simmons. "Isn't it?"
"Yeah, yeah, of course." Simmons got to his feet. "Come on, I'll get you settled."
Martin took a step back. "Maybe I could see your warrant card?"
"I don't carry one on special ops, Martin." Simmons smiled again. "Too risky. Come on, off you go."
"I…I…." Martin edged backward down the hall. "I'm suddenly not feeling very comfortable about this."
"Oh, for the love of God, Martin," Gordon snapped. "Don't give the man a hard time."
"Why did he want half?" Martin demanded, hearing his voice climb into an upper register, but unable to stop himself. "Half of what? Gordon?" He looked from Gordon, who was pale, to Simmons, who was still smiling. Horror insinuated itself through Martin's trepidation and coiled around it, tightening. "A-are you even a police officer, or are you just s-some thug with a Toyota?"
Gordon's face tightened into a grimace, and he glanced at Simmons. "Christ," he muttered. "Simmons…."
Simmons' very posture seemed to change, alchemising from friendly to menacing in an instant. He lunged forward and grabbed at Martin's wrist. His aim was clumsy, though, and he stumbled forward, half-tripping on the carpet.
Martin scrambled backward, turned, and fled up the stairs.
"Get him, for fuck's sake!" Gordon shouted.
Oh, God, oh, God! Martin ran down the hall toward the guest room and slammed the door, locking it with shaking fingers. Why didn't you run out the front door, you colossal IDIOT? He grabbed a chair and pushed it against the door, but it was too short to wedge under the handle. It always works in movies. His breath sobbing unevenly out of his chest, he struggled to move the heavy bleached-oak dresser forward, but it wouldn't budge. Just as he was frantically casting about for something else, the handle rattled.
"Open the door, you little cunt!"
Martin dashed to the open window and looked down into darkness. Two storeys, at least five metres, and meticulously clipped hedges on the ground beneath. They might break his fall. Or, more likely, he'd break his leg and Simmons Not-A-Copper would just come round the house and drag him off.
The door trembled under an earsplitting crash.
Oh, God, he's kicking the lock in! Martin snatched the thin summer-weight cover from the bed and tore it down the middle. He tied it round the bedpost with shaking hands.
Another crash filled Martin's ears, and the door swung inward.
Martin backed toward the window, feeling for the sill. "Oh, no. Please, please…."
Simmons flung the chair aside and charged at Martin, grabbing at his shirt as he tried to escape through the window. "Get back here, you –"
"No!" Martin struggled as hard as he could as the man's arms tightened round his ribcage. He pounded furiously with his free hand – the other was pinned – and kicked in a frenzy of terror and desperation, but the thug dragged him backward and out into the corridor. "Let me go. Let go!"
"Shut up," Simmons growled, and hauled Martin down the stairs. "Shappey! Shappey! Where the fuck are you?"
"Here." Gordon, his face dead white, stepped out of the library.
"Go find me some fucking gaffer tape, you useless twat." He twisted Martin's arm up behind his back and kicked him behind the knees.
Martin cried out in pain and collapsed to the floor. In a flash Simmons' knee ground into his spine, and there was something cold and sharp against his throat. "What –"
"Shut up. You shut your fucking mouth."
"Please. Please don't," Martin gasped. He strained forward, one hand clawing the carpet, gathering it into woolly flowered folds. Gordon was backing down the hall toward the kitchen, his expression unreadable. The kitchen. If he could free himself – get hold of a knife –
The point of the knife sank into his flesh in a searing slice of pain. "I said shut up."
"I think," said a voice, "that you'd better put that knife down."
Douglas.
Douglas!
*
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
*
"Gordon. Gordon…." Martin tried to extricate himself from Gordon's grasp, but it was proving difficult. Impossible, actually. Finally he put his hands on Gordon's upper arms and pushed himself away. Forcing himself to look Gordon in the eye, he spoke slowly and distinctly. "Gordon, we've got to talk."
"I should say we do, pet." Gordon tried to pull Martin into another embrace, but Martin took a quick step back. Gordon frowned. "What's wrong? I expect you’ll want to call the police right away."
“Yes….” Not really, actually. Martin took a deep breath. "But I've got to talk to you, and I-I've got to do it while I've still got the nerve. Could you sit down?" Gordon stared at him, his eyes narrowing, and Martin tried again. "Please?"
Gordon went back to his desk chair and sat. "All right. I'm listening."
"I've had a lot of…wait, let me back up a bit. This past week has been…scary."
"I expect it has," Gordon said coolly.
"Yes. I felt very, erm, alone. And frightened and uncertain."
Gordon laced his fingers together and rested them on his abdomen. "Yes."
"I think it's possible, for me at any rate, that that sort of experience can make you re-evaluate things, if you know what I mean. Well, the thing is, as I was saying, I've had a lot of time to think about…my life, I suppose, and our relationship, and so on."
Deep furrows laddered Gordon's brow, but he said nothing.
Just say it. Go on. Say it! Martin took another deep breath and let his words out on the exhale. "I'm not staying, Gordon."
Gordon tilted his head inquisitively to one side. "You're…not staying."
"Right. I can't."
"Are you suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder?"
Martin shook his head and took off his jacket. He sat on the sofa and scrubbed a hand up his unshaven face. "No. I mean, I might be, but it isn't impairing my judgment or anything. Gordon, look. I'm going to go upstairs and pack a bag and call a taxi. I'll stay in a hotel tonight. We can discuss details later this week if you'd like, but right now I've just got to be alone for a bit and get my head sorted out."
"Aha!" Gordon's expression was sourly triumphant. "You do have post-traumatic stress disorder."
"Please, Gordon. I'm quite serious."
"All right." Gordon leant forward, elbows on the desk, hands tightly folded. "Am I allowed to ask why you're leaving, or are you planning to keep that information to yourself?"
"N-no, I'll tell you." A hot blush crept up Martin's neck. "I don't think that you…you value me. It's not that I blame you," he went on hastily, "not completely, not altogether. It's just that I don't think we've been very happy together for a while now."
"Don't value you?" Gordon echoed quietly. He shook his head, and a small smile twisted his mouth upward. "Where's that coming from, if I may ask?"
Martin stood his ground. "It's true. I'm sorry, but it is."
"I've fed you, sheltered you, clothed you, given you every sort of luxury for years…." Gordon's face was turning red. Picking up a paper clip, he bent it back and forth until it snapped. "I was prepared to pay two million pounds to get you back – to save your life, or have you conveniently managed to forget that?"
"After you were under suspicion!" Martin shouted, and slapped the tufted leather of the chesterfield hard enough to hurt his hand. Tears began to well in his eyes, not from pain but from anger and humiliation and resentment. "Before that you said you didn't have that sort of cash – one million, not two, and I know you could have got your hands on it if you'd really wanted to, I know you could have done, and you said you didn't negotiate with terrorists. And you didn't even call the bloody police until after you thought I was dead!" Martin swiped furiously at his nose.
Gordon stood up. "Is that what you think?"
"That's what I know." Martin stood up as well. He wasn't going to be intimidated by Gordon's greater physical size or strength. Not anymore. "I-I was feeling abandoned, and helpless, and scared half out of my wits, and the only reassurance I got from you was you saying you didn't negotiate with terrorists. You didn't show the first time, and I thought…I don't even remember what I thought, but I made excuses for you. And then I made more excuses for you, the way I've always done. You're – you're awful, Gordon. You're an awful person, and I should have listened to Carolyn ages ago and left you. Well, I'm not staying here tonight, or any night thereafter, and you can just s-sod off." Martin turned and marched toward the door. He groped for the handle through a haze of furious tears.
Gordon was beside him in an instant. He grabbed Martin's wrist and yanked it upward.
Martin cringed, then wrenched his arm away. "Don't you hit me. Don't you dare. I'll go to the police, I swear I will."
"I'm not going to hit you." Gordon held his hands up, palms out. "I'm not going to hit you. I just want to talk. That's all." He stepped back. "You've had your say. I think it's only fair that I get a chance to defend myself and explain a few things to you. Will you give me that chance, Martin?"
Hadn't he heard this sort of reasonable talk from Gordon before? He was sure he had. It didn't matter, though. Gordon could say whatever he liked – Martin was still leaving, and no question. "All right. But it won't change anything."
"Fine. I just want to say a few things, and then we can part amicably. Please – sit down." Gordon gestured toward the chesterfield, and Martin sat on the edge. Gordon took a wing chair opposite. "First of all, I need to explain about the money. I haven't been completely honest with you, Martin."
There's a shock. Martin folded his arms. "What do you mean?"
"Well, the truth is, the financial picture isn't quite as rosy as I tend to paint it. It's always ups and downs in my line of work, you know that, but lately there have been a lot more downs than ups."
"It's always like that, though," Martin said with a frown. "That's what you always say, anyhow."
"Yes, but I've taken some fairly hard hits this fiscal year. I…the fact is, I've had to liquidate some of our assets to meet my obligations. And…well, you remember how I told you that Douglas Richardson quit?"
Martin forced his face to remain perfectly still. "Yes?"
"Actually, he didn't quit. I sacked him. And I admit I was a bit brutal about it. I simply couldn't afford to keep a full-time pilot on staff. I might have to sell the jet, too. Might as well, if I haven't got a pilot to operate the bloody thing."
"Why did you lie about that?" Martin heard the frostiness in his own voice and tried to warm it up a bit, but he couldn't help himself.
"Because it was a bit sudden, and I knew you loved flying and I hated to disappoint you."
"I rather think Mr. Richardson was more disappointed than I was." And I love flying, but not as a passenger. You'll never understand that. Never.
"Possibly, but I gave him a nice severance package, and he's got his pension, of course. I'm not a complete monster."
A knot of anger pinched Martin's midsection. How many lies was Gordon planning to tell? "So you really couldn't get your hands on the cash."
"No, I couldn't. If you knew how I scrambled, trying to scrape it up from anywhere. And the police – that's the other thing. I called them the moment I rang off that first night. God, Martin – all I could think of was that photo of you, and the fear in your voice. I was in agony, don't you see? I can't imagine how I must have sounded, but I was numb with shock. It was terrible for me."
"It was pretty terrible for me, too," Martin replied.
"I know." Gordon stood and moved to the chesterfield, sitting a short distance from Martin. "I envisioned all sorts of dreadful scenarios. Whilst the police hunted for clues, I couldn't keep myself from thinking about what they were doing to you. Taunting you, starvation, beatings, torture…." Gordon smiled. "I suppose I let my imagination run away with itself. Thank God you appear to be all right. Did they hurt you, by the way?"
Martin shook his head. "No. He – erm, the person who brought me food and water and let me use the loo – he was…." He thought a moment. "He was brusque, but not totally heartless."
"I'm grateful for that, at least. They sounded like a rough lot. How many were there?"
"Three, I think. I was, erm, blindfolded a lot."
Gordon nodded. "About what I said, Martin. To the kidnappers. I was so furious with them, so angry, and the police had assured me that they'd rescue you, because their rate of victim retrieval is so high – I cocked it up. I admit that, and I'm sorry. I thought that being tough would intimidate them, and I should have been thinking about you. You must have felt…I can't even think how badly you must have felt after that." Gordon shook his head and clasped his hands together. "That was my fault. I'm sorry."
Martin sighed. Gordon might have been telling the truth. He'd had more than his fair share of moments of machismo, often at Martin's expense. "Well, it's all…actually, don't you see, Gordon, that when you get so angry it's n-not good for anybody. They were so angry, I thought they were going to kill me right then and there."
Gordon hung his head. "I know. I know. Look here, Martin, I don't…what if I promised to get counselling, love?" Tentatively, he reached out and laid a hand on Martin's knee.
Gently but firmly Martin removed Gordon's hand. "I'm sorry. It's too late for that. I'm sorry, I really am."
"It wasn't all bad, was it, pet?" Gordon looked at Martin beseechingly.
Martin shook his head. "No, it wasn't all bad. But we can't go back and change it now." And I'm in love with someone else. Even if I never see him again. "We've been married for years and you never told me the truth about your finances. I might have helped, if you'd have let me."
"With Icarus Removals?" Gordon exhaled heavily. "Forgive me, Martin, but you were scarcely supporting yourself with that little scheme. I doubt you'd have made much of a dent."
"But I could have helped with the bills, the groceries, something."
"You might have been able to pay the electricity bill, but your wages wouldn't stretch much further than that. I'm not placing blame, pet. I wanted you to have nice things, to live comfortably. And I didn't want to burden you with something you'd never have understood and that changed from moment to moment. It might still, you know."
"I'm sorry," Martin said. "Maybe…maybe if you did get help, you'd…what I mean is that it's too late for us, it's too late for Carolyn and you, but I'm sure there will be someone else, someone wonderful, and if – if you weren't angry, you could make a real go of it." He watched Gordon's mouth tighten, and rushed on. "And there's Arthur. God, Gordon, he loves you so much. It's – he still needs his dad. My own dad didn't think much of my ambitions, but I knew he loved me just the same. And I loved him. There's still time, Gordon." Hesitantly, he touched Gordon's arm, and Gordon grasped his hand tightly. Martin winced, but didn't pull away.
Gordon stared down at the floor, holding Martin's hand, and didn't speak for a long time. At last he looked up at Martin. "You're sure?"
"Yes." As he said that one tiny word, a glorious sensation of freedom suffused him. He was out. It would be a clean break – he wouldn't demand maintenance. Maintenance involved too high a price – a monthly reminder of how foolishly he'd spent the last few years. They'd simply cut ties, and Martin would be free. Poor, but free.
Resignedly, Gordon nodded. "All right. You've certainly changed, pet. I'm sorry about it. Sorry about all this."
I've changed for the better. Not your doormat anymore. "I know it must be hard to hear, Gordon, but it's true. I'm glad, at least, that I didn't end up costing you two million pounds. I don't think you'd ever be able to forgive me for that, on top of your other financial burdens." Or ever fail to remind me of it.
"I love you, and I'd have paid it willingly. Someday, perhaps, you'll realise that." Gordon got to his feet. "Listen, pet. Don't leave tonight. No, listen. I know you haven't got a penny in your pocket. You can't afford a hotel. Just stay in one of the guest rooms, and when you're ready to go, you can go. But stay a few days, at least. It would…it's rather selfish of me, but try to think of how that would look, if you left immediately after the kidnap. I already look rather bad thanks to the press. I'm begging you not to make it worse. One last favour to me, pet. Please."
Martin hesitated. He wanted to leave immediately, with no delays wherein Gordon might try to persuade him to stay, as he'd done more than a few times already. But Martin had never laid down the law so resolutely. Things were different now. He'd stay a few days, and then…then he'd find Douglas before he left for Tangier or wherever. Douglas cared for him, a little at least – Martin knew he did, even if Douglas had refused to take advantage of the situation and Martin's vulnerability, a thing which, in retrospect, Martin found he admired very much. They didn't have to move in together or anything. They could start over. Start as friends. And then, whatever happened…happened.
He could wait a few days for the rest of his life.
Slowly, he nodded. "All right. I'll take the guest room at the end of the hall."
Gordon seemed to sag with relief. "Good."
"But I'm not staying, Gordon. I plan to be out permanently by Wednesday latest. I-I need you to respect that."
"All right. Could I ask something else in return?"
"What?" Martin asked warily.
"I've been besieged by journalists and paparazzi lately. They've been driving me mad."
"There wasn't anybody outside the house when I came home."
"They'll be back. It's a pattern. One day on, one day off. At any rate, I'd like to ask you to keep a low profile for the next few days – don't leave the house, they'll jump on you, and you've been through enough just lately. I'm going to call the police and ask them to stop by tomorrow, and I expect we'll need to make a press statement at some point, but I just need a bit of decompression. Just until tomorrow night or the next morning. All right?"
"All right," Martin said. "That's reasonable, I reckon. I wasn't exactly planning to go clubbing or anything anyhow."
Gordon chuckled. "Right."
Martin remembered his books and got up. "Oh – I left something outside. I'll just go and grab it." He'd have left them, but the skies threatened rain and he didn't want to damage Douglas' gift.
"I'll go," Gordon said, heading to the door. "What is it? Where'd you leave it?"
God, no. He couldn't risk Gordon seeing the books. What if Douglas' name were written inside? "Oh, erm…." Martin dug in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Oh. Never mind. I thought I dropped this inside the gate." He'd have to sneak them inside tomorrow night, or find a safer place for them until he left. "I'm going to have a shower. Good night, Gordon."
Gordon moved toward Martin and gently enfolded him into an embrace. "I'm so glad you're safe, pet."
Martin stiffened, then yielded. Maybe it had been rough for Gordon too. It didn't change things between them, but Martin found it in his heart to feel at least a tiny bit of compassion for the man he'd been married to for three years, who had provided for him the best way he knew how. He could afford compassion. He was free. Carefully, he patted Gordon's back. "Thank you."
Gordon let him go and opened the door. "Up you go. I didn't hear Jaye go out, did you?"
"Her car wasn't in the drive, and the gate was locked. She's gone for the night, I suppose."
"Ah. I didn't realise. I'll have her prepare something special for us tomorrow. Homecoming."
It wasn't his home any longer, but Martin only smiled. "That would be nice."
"Good night, pet."
Martin smiled at Gordon, relieved. It could have been so much worse. "Good night, Gordon."
*
Gordon waited until he heard the shower running, and then dialled Jaye's number, getting her answerphone. Good. Good. "Jaye, it's Mr. Shappey. I'm getting some sort of flu, I think – I've got chills and fever, so I think it's best that you stay home tomorrow. I'll pay you for the day, of course." Freeloading bint. "I know you'll worry, but don't – I'll have Gavin drive me to Dr. Weybridge. Thanks. If you need anything, call my mobile, I'll probably be in bed all day." Note to self: don't let Martin answer land line. "Thanks, Jaye. 'Bye."
He rang off and glanced through the doorway. The shower was still running, but he took the precaution of closing and locking the door. Then he went to his desk, sat down, and took another mobile from his desk, a cheap flip phone purchased only the day before yesterday. He dialled another number and waited for a voice to answer.
"It's Shappey. Yes. You remember what we talked about? Yes, of course. No. No. It's…it's back on. It's a go. Tomorrow evening. You have the key. Yes, absolutely. We'll discuss that tomorrow evening. Right. Right. See you then."
Gordon closed the mobile and placed it back in the drawer. He slid the drawer shut and drew a deep breath to combat his sudden lightheadedness. Distantly aware that he was sweating, he passed a hand over his brow.
Get help.
You can sod off.
I should have left you years ago.
Miserable, ungrateful little fuck.
So Gordon was awful, was he? Martin didn't know the meaning of awful.
Not yet.
*
The day had passed with a speed that could only be described as glacial. Martin did as Gordon had asked and hadn't left the house. He'd slept late, eaten breakfast, showered again, and pottered around the house, picking up his possessions. There weren't many; books, mostly, a framed photo of his family, an RAF fridge magnet Arthur had given him last year. Anything else amounted to clothes and toiletries and the watches and jewellery Gordon had given him over the years. He intended to sell the jewellery for whatever he could get, but if he told Gordon that, no doubt Gordon would demand it back.
Although, Martin had to admit, Gordon was being unusually pleasant. He'd stayed home from work, and though he'd spent the greater part of the day in the library, now and then he'd pop into whatever room Martin was occupying and chat.
Now, as Martin was sorting through some boxes in the garage, Gordon drifted in, rubbing his hands together, a sure sign he was agitated. "What are you up to?"
Martin looked up from his search and smiled. "Oh – hi. Me? Just going through some things. I think there's a box of models somewhere in here. I was sure I'd labelled it." Martin's model planes, like most of Martin's pre-Gordon possessions, hadn't been deemed worthy of display in Gordon's professionally (and a bit stuffily, in Martin's opinion, but that was neither here nor there) decorated house. Not that his few things would have made much difference, but Gordon was immovable on the subject of interior design. On most things, really.
"You're making a mess."
"I'll tidy up," Martin promised, then regretted it. He should have nonchalantly ignored Gordon, but honestly, there was no point in making waves now.
"It's just that I can have your things sent to you. You needn't get all mucky."
Martin found the box he'd been seeking and dragged it out, then rose from his crouch and dusted his hands on his jeans. "That's thoughtful of you, Gordon, thanks. But there's no need. I've only got a few boxes."
"I saw you've packed your clothes." Gordon leant against the bonnet of his Land Rover. "You're not planning to leave tomorrow, are you?"
"Well…tomorrow or the next day, really," Martin replied. "I think it's probably best that way."
"Eager to start your new life."
Martin pressed his lips together, struck by what Gordon had said. New life. Suppose he was just repeating a pattern, going from a rich older man to another, less rich older man? Was he setting himself up for disappointment and heartache again? But Douglas wasn't Gordon, Martin reminded himself, and there wasn't even a guarantee that Douglas would want him for a boyfriend. He mustn't hang all his expectations upon Douglas Richardson. Tempting as it was. "Yes, I reckon so. Gordon, about maintenance and things like that –"
"Another time," Gordon said with a wave of his hand. "When we've both had some space to think about things."
"It's just that I wasn't planning to ask for –"
"Another time," Gordon repeated. He looked down at the box at Martin's feet. "Model planes. Some things never change, do they?"
Martin stiffened at the contempt in Gordon's voice. He picked up the box and moved past Gordon. "No, they don't."
He took the box into the guest room and laid it carefully on the floor. He'd open it another time, well out of Gordon's sight. Gordon was trying to be kind, as kind as he could be, but he was right – some things never changed.
*
Gordon made dinner – frozen pizza, but it tasted nice. Martin polished his off quickly. He planned to head upstairs early, wait until Gordon had gone to bed, and then slip out for his books. He could pack them in one of the bin bags that held some sundry stuff, and maybe read a bit before bed as well. "That was great, thanks, Gordon. Where's Jaye?"
"She phoned this morning. She wasn't feeling well, so I told her to stay home."
"That was nice of you." And unusual. Ordinarily Gordon complained at the least inconvenience. Martin yawned hugely and got to his feet, collecting plates and glasses. "I'll wash up. Then I think I'll turn in – I'm pretty tired."
"All right." The doorbell rang, and Gordon shot up from the table. "I'll get it."
"I thought the gate was locked?" Martin called on his way to the kitchen, and then shrugged when Gordon didn't reply. He opened the dishwasher and stacked the plates, glasses, and cutlery inside, and added a soap capsule. He turned the machine on and wiped up the few crumbs on the dining room table.
"Martin." Gordon came back into the kitchen, followed by a tall, barrel-chested man with a ginger beard. He wore black from head to foot and even a black watch cap – odd, for summer. "This is Detective Sergeant Simmons."
"Hi, Martin." Simmons took a step forward and shook Martin's hand. "It's good to meet you. I'm glad you're safe and sound. I spoke to Mr. Shappey earlier, and we're going to have to ask you some questions. I hope that's all right."
Martin crossed his arms over his chest. Stick to the basics. You didn't see much, you couldn't hear much, there were three of them and a dark van. Be vague about everything. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."
"Great," Simmons said, and smiled so widely Martin wondered what would have happened if he'd said no. "I understand you might be feeling a bit vulnerable, but we'll do our best to make you comfortable. We've got a debriefing centre in Luton – sort of a safe house, with all the latest tech toys."
"All right." Martin wiped his hands on a tea towel. "Should I pack a bag?"
"No, no need – you'll only be there for ten or twelve hours. Bring whatever you had with you on the night of the kidnap, though – we'll need to look at it for evidence."
"Okay. I'll be right back." Martin ran upstairs and found his phone and wallet and the jacket he'd worn last Saturday evening. His other clothes were in the laundry hamper – a good thing, since he didn't want them finding random particles from Douglas' house. After a moment's thought he dropped the jacket back on the bed and hastily yanked the rubber case from his phone, tossing it to the floor. He wiped down the face of the phone and stuck it in his pocket, then wiped off his wallet for good measure, though he couldn't recall Douglas touching it. He stuck both items in his pockets and blew out a quick breath, then went to close the window – the guest room had been stuffy, and had needed a good airing.
The night sky was an orange-purple colour, heralding rain. Martin stuck his head out the window and caught sight of a car in the drive. It was a Subaru or Toyota, dark, and looked at least ten years old. That was Detective Sergeant Simmons' car? Well, maybe he didn't make much money, or maybe it was one of those undercover cars. Martin hadn't spotted the policewoman in the green mac at the ransom drop – he wasn't a dab hand at observation. Still, it was odd. And it was in the drive and Simmons had rung the doorbell – so Gordon had given the police his entry code, apparently. That was odd, for Gordon; he'd been reluctant about giving Martin the code, let alone a stranger. Maybe he had been distraught after all.
Martin descended the stairs and heard a half-whispered conversation in the kitchen. Simmons sounded angry; Martin hoped Gordon wasn't antagonising him.
"Half now. That was the deal, Shappey."
"Lower your voice, for fuck's sake."
"Half, or I walk."
"Fine. Christ. Wait here."
Martin heard Gordon stomp into the library, and he moved into the hall, frowning. God, what now – surely Gordon wouldn't bribe the police. What for, for goodness' sake? He went into the kitchen and saw Simmons sitting at the table. "Is everything all right?"
"Absolutely," Simmons said with a grin that dissolved when Gordon re-entered the room. "Martin, why don't you go out to the car and I'll be along in just a moment."
"You're not coming, Gordon?"
Gordon twitched a smile at Martin. "Oh, I've been thoroughly vetted, believe me. You'll be fine, pet. Erm, I'll just leave you to it, Constable."
"Detective Sergeant," Martin corrected, and then froze. A horrible sensation of foreboding stole over him, as if he'd stepped into that roomful of snakes in Raiders of the Lost Ark. He turned to Simmons. "Isn't it?"
"Yeah, yeah, of course." Simmons got to his feet. "Come on, I'll get you settled."
Martin took a step back. "Maybe I could see your warrant card?"
"I don't carry one on special ops, Martin." Simmons smiled again. "Too risky. Come on, off you go."
"I…I…." Martin edged backward down the hall. "I'm suddenly not feeling very comfortable about this."
"Oh, for the love of God, Martin," Gordon snapped. "Don't give the man a hard time."
"Why did he want half?" Martin demanded, hearing his voice climb into an upper register, but unable to stop himself. "Half of what? Gordon?" He looked from Gordon, who was pale, to Simmons, who was still smiling. Horror insinuated itself through Martin's trepidation and coiled around it, tightening. "A-are you even a police officer, or are you just s-some thug with a Toyota?"
Gordon's face tightened into a grimace, and he glanced at Simmons. "Christ," he muttered. "Simmons…."
Simmons' very posture seemed to change, alchemising from friendly to menacing in an instant. He lunged forward and grabbed at Martin's wrist. His aim was clumsy, though, and he stumbled forward, half-tripping on the carpet.
Martin scrambled backward, turned, and fled up the stairs.
"Get him, for fuck's sake!" Gordon shouted.
Oh, God, oh, God! Martin ran down the hall toward the guest room and slammed the door, locking it with shaking fingers. Why didn't you run out the front door, you colossal IDIOT? He grabbed a chair and pushed it against the door, but it was too short to wedge under the handle. It always works in movies. His breath sobbing unevenly out of his chest, he struggled to move the heavy bleached-oak dresser forward, but it wouldn't budge. Just as he was frantically casting about for something else, the handle rattled.
"Open the door, you little cunt!"
Martin dashed to the open window and looked down into darkness. Two storeys, at least five metres, and meticulously clipped hedges on the ground beneath. They might break his fall. Or, more likely, he'd break his leg and Simmons Not-A-Copper would just come round the house and drag him off.
The door trembled under an earsplitting crash.
Oh, God, he's kicking the lock in! Martin snatched the thin summer-weight cover from the bed and tore it down the middle. He tied it round the bedpost with shaking hands.
Another crash filled Martin's ears, and the door swung inward.
Martin backed toward the window, feeling for the sill. "Oh, no. Please, please…."
Simmons flung the chair aside and charged at Martin, grabbing at his shirt as he tried to escape through the window. "Get back here, you –"
"No!" Martin struggled as hard as he could as the man's arms tightened round his ribcage. He pounded furiously with his free hand – the other was pinned – and kicked in a frenzy of terror and desperation, but the thug dragged him backward and out into the corridor. "Let me go. Let go!"
"Shut up," Simmons growled, and hauled Martin down the stairs. "Shappey! Shappey! Where the fuck are you?"
"Here." Gordon, his face dead white, stepped out of the library.
"Go find me some fucking gaffer tape, you useless twat." He twisted Martin's arm up behind his back and kicked him behind the knees.
Martin cried out in pain and collapsed to the floor. In a flash Simmons' knee ground into his spine, and there was something cold and sharp against his throat. "What –"
"Shut up. You shut your fucking mouth."
"Please. Please don't," Martin gasped. He strained forward, one hand clawing the carpet, gathering it into woolly flowered folds. Gordon was backing down the hall toward the kitchen, his expression unreadable. The kitchen. If he could free himself – get hold of a knife –
The point of the knife sank into his flesh in a searing slice of pain. "I said shut up."
"I think," said a voice, "that you'd better put that knife down."
Douglas.
Douglas!
*
TBC....
