rotten in here. I
feel vibrations through the bottom of the trolley. I’m moving. There’s a metallic clanging sound and everything rumbles. Sounds like an engine. I must be in the back of a van or lorry.
‘Let me out! Let me out!’ The shouts are inside my own mind. My lips are numb, and so is every other part of me. No one can hear me. Whatever was on that paper has immobilised me, just
as if I were tied up.
After a few minutes though, painful pins and needles jab like knives into my arms and legs. The feeling’s slowly coming back into limbs. Soon I’m able to haul myself out of the
trolley. I land with a painful crash onto a metal floor. It’s dark but I can make out that I’m in some kind of van. I crawl towards what should be the driver’s end and bang on the
wall, yelling until I’m hoarse and my knuckles ache, but no one responds.
I curl up on the floor, arms around my legs, watching the doors. As soon as the van stops I’m going to be ready for them. A couple of times I roll back and lift both my legs in a position
ready to strike but we’re obviously just at traffic lights because we soon move on again.
After a lifetime, I feel the van go over bumpy ground and come to a stop, then hear the doors opening at the front. There are urgent voices.
I get right behind the doors and wait . . .
There’s a clunk of someone turning the handle and, as a sliver of light dazzles me, I kick the door with both legs as hard as I can. I hear a crunch and a high cry of pain and I’m
straight out of the doors. Before I know it, two strong pairs of arms take hold of me. I’m outnumbered.
Beardy is bending forwards, holding his nose. There are bright drops of blood falling between his fingers onto the wet earth. He looks up, eyes full of fury. The two men on either side of me
start dragging me towards a pool of bright light coming from what looks like a low, long farmhouse.
A small woman in her twenties with short black hair is at the door.
‘Easy now, Cal,’ she says. ‘It’s OK, you’re safe.’
I try to wrench myself free of the two blokes holding me but their grip is firm. I twist to look at them. One is black and heavily muscled with his hair in cornrows and a tiny earring glinting
in his ear lobe. He ignores me. The other is white with cropped dark hair. He gives what looks like an apologetic smile as he drags me inside.
I’m inside a country kitchen that should have homemade cake being cut by a jolly farmer’s wife. Instead, a handful of people are standing around and looking at me. There’s no
Victoria sponge on the table. Instead, there’s what looks like a couple of AK47 guns. A middle-aged woman with glasses and blond hair is standing in the middle of the room. Her face softens
into a smile and she approaches me, then she gasps as Beardy comes into the room holding a blood-sodden hankie over his face. He mumbles something and disappears through another door, throwing
death beams at me with his eyes.
The blond woman looks to the men with a questioning eyebrow.
The dark-haired one who smiled shrugs. ‘The boy was a bit too keen to get out. Nathan copped it in the face.’ He crosses his arms and his lips twitch as though he’s trying not
to laugh. ‘He’ll be all right, he’s a big boy.’
‘What the hell is going on?’ I’m standing with my hands balled into fists. I could quite easily break someone else’s nose at this precise moment.
‘Please sit,’ says the woman, gesturing to one of the chairs.
I slam it hard against the table instead. ‘Just tell me where I am!’ I shout. ‘Who are you?!’
The woman raises her hands like I’m a dangerous animal. ‘You’re right to be upset, Cal, I completely understand,’ she says. ‘The last few days must have been deeply
unsettling for you. But you’re safe. For now, at least.’ She pulls out the nearest chair and sits down, folding her hands on the table. ‘My name is Helen Bonaparte,’ she
continues. ‘My
feel vibrations through the bottom of the trolley. I’m moving. There’s a metallic clanging sound and everything rumbles. Sounds like an engine. I must be in the back of a van or lorry.
‘Let me out! Let me out!’ The shouts are inside my own mind. My lips are numb, and so is every other part of me. No one can hear me. Whatever was on that paper has immobilised me, just
as if I were tied up.
After a few minutes though, painful pins and needles jab like knives into my arms and legs. The feeling’s slowly coming back into limbs. Soon I’m able to haul myself out of the
trolley. I land with a painful crash onto a metal floor. It’s dark but I can make out that I’m in some kind of van. I crawl towards what should be the driver’s end and bang on the
wall, yelling until I’m hoarse and my knuckles ache, but no one responds.
I curl up on the floor, arms around my legs, watching the doors. As soon as the van stops I’m going to be ready for them. A couple of times I roll back and lift both my legs in a position
ready to strike but we’re obviously just at traffic lights because we soon move on again.
After a lifetime, I feel the van go over bumpy ground and come to a stop, then hear the doors opening at the front. There are urgent voices.
I get right behind the doors and wait . . .
There’s a clunk of someone turning the handle and, as a sliver of light dazzles me, I kick the door with both legs as hard as I can. I hear a crunch and a high cry of pain and I’m
straight out of the doors. Before I know it, two strong pairs of arms take hold of me. I’m outnumbered.
Beardy is bending forwards, holding his nose. There are bright drops of blood falling between his fingers onto the wet earth. He looks up, eyes full of fury. The two men on either side of me
start dragging me towards a pool of bright light coming from what looks like a low, long farmhouse.
A small woman in her twenties with short black hair is at the door.
‘Easy now, Cal,’ she says. ‘It’s OK, you’re safe.’
I try to wrench myself free of the two blokes holding me but their grip is firm. I twist to look at them. One is black and heavily muscled with his hair in cornrows and a tiny earring glinting
in his ear lobe. He ignores me. The other is white with cropped dark hair. He gives what looks like an apologetic smile as he drags me inside.
I’m inside a country kitchen that should have homemade cake being cut by a jolly farmer’s wife. Instead, a handful of people are standing around and looking at me. There’s no
Victoria sponge on the table. Instead, there’s what looks like a couple of AK47 guns. A middle-aged woman with glasses and blond hair is standing in the middle of the room. Her face softens
into a smile and she approaches me, then she gasps as Beardy comes into the room holding a blood-sodden hankie over his face. He mumbles something and disappears through another door, throwing
death beams at me with his eyes.
The blond woman looks to the men with a questioning eyebrow.
The dark-haired one who smiled shrugs. ‘The boy was a bit too keen to get out. Nathan copped it in the face.’ He crosses his arms and his lips twitch as though he’s trying not
to laugh. ‘He’ll be all right, he’s a big boy.’
‘What the hell is going on?’ I’m standing with my hands balled into fists. I could quite easily break someone else’s nose at this precise moment.
‘Please sit,’ says the woman, gesturing to one of the chairs.
I slam it hard against the table instead. ‘Just tell me where I am!’ I shout. ‘Who are you?!’
The woman raises her hands like I’m a dangerous animal. ‘You’re right to be upset, Cal, I completely understand,’ she says. ‘The last few days must have been deeply
unsettling for you. But you’re safe. For now, at least.’ She pulls out the nearest chair and sits down, folding her hands on the table. ‘My name is Helen Bonaparte,’ she
continues. ‘My
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