Captives (14 page)

    Dexter moved towards the first door and selected a key.

    From inside there were screams. Wild, almost animalistic yells of fear and rage.

    'We can't' shouted Colston, shielding his head as more of the burning masonry showered down.

    'We have no choice,' Dexter told him. Another piece of the ceiling fell inwards, driving them back, the flames rearing up, snatching at them like venomous reptiles. Colston shielded his face, raising his voice again to make it heard above the raging inferno that now threatened to engulf them.

    'We can't get them all out,' he shouted, staring wide-eyed at Dexter.

    The older man realised he was right.

    He headed for the last cell.

    'No,' shouted Colston in horror. 'You can't.' He tried to prevent Dexter opening the door but the other man already had the key in the lock. He pushed Colston away.

    The door swung open.

    Dexter thrust the bunch of keys into his colleague's hand.

    'Open that door,' he bellowed, the heat now almost unbearable. He nodded to the door at the end of the corridor and Colston did as he was told, pushing the key in, straining to turn it, to release the lock.

    More sparks showered him; the ceiling seemed to hover, as if suspended on invisible wires.

    It was a matter of moments before the entire thing caved in.

    Colston twisted the key helplessly in the lock, afraid that the heat might have warped it out of shape.

    Inside the cell Dexter took a cautious step towards the occupant. As ever he found that he was shaking slightly as he drew nearer.

    'We have to go,' he said, his voice calm and measured, his eyes never leaving the inhabitant of the room. He could feel how dry his throat was. Not all of it, he realised, was due to the fire. When he tried to swallow it felt as if somebody had filled his mouth with chalk.

    'Come on,' screamed Colston.

    'We must go now,' Dexter said, his tone more forceful.

    'Dexter, for God's sake,' Colston bellowed, looking up at the ceiling.

    Inside the cell the single occupant moved towards Dexter.

    It was then that the ceiling collapsed.

    

    

    

    The figure moved slowly in the darkness, treading carefully in the gloom, cursing the lack of light but welcoming the cover the blackness brought.

    The only sound was the crunch of footsteps on the gravel of the driveway.

    An owl sat in the lower branches of a nearby tree, unable to hunt as efficiently without the presence of the moon. It watched the figure that moved from the house to the car repeatedly.

    More than once the figure would stand still beside the car as if listening to the stillness of the night, ears attuned to the slightest sound or movement. Then, satisfied that no one else was around, the dark shape would move stealthily about its business once again.

    There was rain in the air, the odd gust of wind bringing with it the first droplets that threatened a storm. Banks of cloud were gathering to the west, blown ever closer by the rising wind. It rattled the branches of the trees and ruffled the feathers of the owl, which finally tired of watching the furtive movement and flew off, its wings beating quietly in the darkness.

    The figure looked up, following the bird as it soared high into the night sky in search of prey.

    After a moment longer spent listening to the stillness the shape returned to the house.

    There were no lights burning within the building; the darkness inside was as total as that of the tenebrous gloom without. But the figure moved more assuredly within the confines of the house, scurrying back and forth from room to room, sometimes pausing in one room, glancing around as if to check that everything was in place.

    Finally, the figure ascended the stairs, slowly but purposefully.

    The rain began to fall more rapidly now, the wind propelling the droplets like handfuls of cold gravel.

    When the figure emerged from the house again it turned its face to the rain as if in welcome, standing there for a moment before turning to another dark shape which accompanied it.

    Had the owl still been perched in the tree it would have seen a second figure join the first in the blackness.

    The first of them opened the passenger side door and ensured that the second was comfortably seated, then closed the door and locked it from the outside.

    That task completed, the first figure walked unhurriedly around to the other side of the car and slid behind the wheel.

    The silence was broken by the noise of the engine, which idled for a moment. Then the car was driven away from the front of the house, the wheels crushing gravel as the tyres rolled.

    It began to pick up speed along the short driveway then turned into the road.

    There was no traffic about at such a late hour. The occupants of the car may as well have been the last two people on earth.

    The car disappeared into the night.

    

    

    He'd stolen the car an hour earlier.

    The automatic transmission on the Datsun had taken a bit of getting used to and when he'd first slipped behind the steering wheel he'd cursed his luck. But, fuck it, he needed a car. He'd manage. Now Mathew Bryce slowed up as he approached the traffic lights in Shaftesbury Avenue, his eyes scanning the hordes of people that filled the bustling thoroughfare. So intently was he studying the throng that he didn't notice the lights slip onto green. The blast of a hooter behind alerted him to the situation.

    Bryce swung the car right, peering round at the driver behind, raising two fingers. The man mouthed his own insult back and drove past.

    'Cunt,' muttered Bryce, his eyes still flicking back and forth. He saw couples. Old, young. Girls in groups. Sometimes alone. Some people hurried along, others strolled through the night. A young man was running along, trying to stop a taxi before it pulled away, but he was unsuccessful and stood, hands on hips, glaring at the vehicle as it moved off. Bryce passed him and grinned out at the man.

    All around the neon signs from clubs, pubs and restaurants filled the night, creating a kind of artificial twilight. With the window wound down, Bryce could hear the crackle of so much static electricity. He slowed down as he saw a woman crossing the road ahead of him, watching her breasts bouncing in her tight fitting top. Her silver-coloured hair trailed over her shoulders, blown by the wind that whipped through the narrow streets. It also disturbed the litter that lay in the gutters and on the pavements. An empty can was sent rattling across the concrete like a kind of bizarre tumbleweed. A youth passing by took a kick at it and sent it skittering into the road. Further along an old man, bundled up in a thick overcoat, was sorting through one of the overflowing dustbins, picking out portions of half-eaten food and carefully dropping them into the plastic bag he carried, making his choice as fastidiously as any gourmet at a buffet table.

    Bryce swung the car right again, then sharp left into Rupert Street. Again he slowed down, peering at a young woman standing in a doorway talking to a tall man in a suit. Bryce stared at her with interest. She couldn't have been more than twenty, her shapely legs revealed by the short mini-skirt she wore. She was puffing contentedly on a cigarette as she spoke. Bryce stopped the car, the engine idling.

    It was a couple of minutes before the man finally noticed and looked questioningly across at Bryce, who was now leaning on the windowframe, looking more closely at the girl.

    'You lost, mate?' the man in the faded suit called.

    Bryce didn't answer.

    The girl also turned to face him now, brushing a stray hair from her mouth.

    He looked at her features, his own face expressionless.

    'What do you want?' the man called.

    A car turned into the road behind Bryce, the driver braking to avoid a collision.

    The man in the faded suit moved towards the car.

    'You got a fucking problem, or what?' he said, irritably.

    Bryce pressed down on the accelerator and the car moved off, leaving the girl to stare after him. He turned another corner and saw a car pulling out of a parking space. Bryce guided the Datsun into it, cursing when it juddered slightly. He switched off the engine and sat there for a moment, his window down, the noises of the night filling his ears. He leant forward, his forehead resting on the steering wheel. From across the street he could hear music and, all around him, voices and the ever-present crackle of neon. He put both hands over his ears as if to shut out the noise. Theh, slowly, he sat up again, looking around him, catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the rear view mirror. It stared back at him accusingly. His face was pale, the dark rings beneath his eyes all the more prominent because of his pallor. His hair was thick but combed back severely from his prominent forehead. As he ran a hand over his chin he heard the rasp of his bristles against his fingertips.

    Bryce grunted, gripped the rear-view mirror and tore it off.

    He hurled it onto the back seat and sat there, panting. Then he turned slowly and looked at the blanket that lay across the rear seat.

    The blanket had belonged to the owner of the car.

    The can of petrol and the hunting knife it concealed belonged to Bryce.

    

    

    For a moment she thought he was going to fall over. Paula Wilson stood rigid as she watched Mark Eaton lurch from the doorway of the pub in Cambridge Circus. He shot out a hand and steadied himself, smiling stupidly at her.

    The gesture only made her more angry.

    'You never know when to stop, do you?' she snapped angrily, looking first at him then at the night sky. The first drops of rain were beginning to fall. Paula pulled up the collar of her suede jacket. A large droplet of rain fell onto it and she sighed. Grey suede. It would be ruined in the downpour.

    'I'll be okay,' said Eaton, stumbling towards her, bumping into a dustbin. Some of its contents spilled out onto the pavement and he stooped to pick them up as if he were tidying his own house. Passers-by looked quickly at the young couple, particularly at the young woman in the grey suede suit who was shouting so vehemently.

    'You probably can't even remember where you left the car, can you?' she rasped.

    'I just need some fresh air, that's all,' he told her, none too convincingly. 'I'll be fine.' He sucked in several deep lungfuls of the night air. The odour of burning hot-dogs came wafting to him and he noticed a street vendor cooking the blackened frankfurters a few yards away. The smell made him want to vomit. He saw Paula turn away and made a grab for her arm. 'Where are you going?' he wanted to know.

    'I'm going home,' she told him, shaking free of his grip and setting off towards Romilly Street.

    Eaton followed her.

    'I'll drive you,' he said.

    'I'm not getting in a car with you in that state,' she said angrily. 'I'll get a taxi.' She continued walking, Eaton now almost running to keep up with her. Her high heels clicked on the pavement, beating out a furious tattoo.

    As she reached the side of the Prince Charles Theatre he grabbed her again and pushed her into one of the sheltered doorways marked 'Exit'. The theatre had been closed for more than forty minutes now; they weren't likely to be disturbed.

    'I'm not letting you go,' he told her, standing in front of her to block her way.

    'Get out of my way, Mark,' she said, glaring at him. 'I told you, just let me clear my head and I'll drive you.'

    'It's going to take more than fresh air to clear your head tonight. Maybe you should try dynamite.' She thought about pushing past him again, but as she saw the rain beginning to fall more swiftly she realised that perhaps, for the time being, sheltering in this doorway was more prudent. She looked up at him, her eyes still full of anger. 'Why did you have to spoil it, Mark?' she said, her voice quieter.

    'I don't know what you're talking about,' he told her. 'Look, I had more to drink than I should have done. I'm sorry about that.'

    'Well, it's too bloody late now, isn't it? You can't drive in your condition.'

    He smiled that stupid grin again. It only served to make her more irritable.

    'It's always the same when you get together with Dean and Richard, isn't it? They keep drinking and you have to keep up with them, don't you?'

    'Don't speak to me as if I'm a child, Paula,' he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

    'When you're with them you act like one,' she chided. 'Why did you tell them we were going to be in that pub tonight, anyway?'

    'I didn't tell them,' he protested. 'That's where they usually go for a drink. It wasn't my fault they happened to come in while we were there. It's a free country, you know. What was I supposed to say? "Sorry, lads, but it's Paula's birthday, we're out celebrating, so would you mind pissing off and leaving us alone?" I work with them, for Christ's sake. They're mates.'

    'Well, then, get one of them to drive you home,' she said bitterly.

    'We were supposed to be spending the night together,' he said, touching her cheek with one hand. He grinned again.

    'A celebratory fuck, is that what you mean?'

    'I wouldn't have put it quite like that,' he chuckled, and the chuckle soon became a fully-fledged laugh.

    Paula decided she'd rather get her grey suede suit wet than endure any more of his drunken ramblings. She pushed past him and out into the downpour. He tried to stop her but she pushed him away.