today, and yes, I know we don't usually send letters this early, but I'm your boss, and if you question me again... Yes. Right now... Martha... Now! "
The sound of the phone clicking shut brought Russell's head snapping up, and he looked through the grate. The old man shook as though a damn palsy victim.
He'll fucking have a heart attack in a minute.
"Good man,” Beard said, taking the phone. “Once Toby's in the back, you can go. No need to tell you he won't be returning to work in the morning. Reckon you'll be busy this afternoon putting a job ad in the paper."
Russell's guts churned.
Beard stared past the old man and down the street to their left. “Won't be long and you can get back to your spuds and bananas, me old mate.” He laughed, somewhat sadly, and rasped his hand over his beard. “Now, both of you be quiet. I'm getting a fucking headache."
Russell stared down Fountain Street, his eyes straining for the first sight of Toby. Although he felt badly for thinking it, at least they'd be together in this. If he had to go through whatever lay ahead alone, he reckoned he'd crumble at the first sign of being hurt. Or would he? If he was alone in this, would thoughts of returning to Toby give him the strength he needed to carry on?
Self-preservation alone would do it.
He coached himself to remain strong, despite his body getting the shakes and his teeth chattering. Shit, he was scared—scared out of his fucking mind.
Toby rounded the corner. Russell's heart leaped. He lunged forward, kneeling on the other bench, and hammered his fists on the window.
Got to warn him.
In his peripheral vision, Russell caught sight of Beard's fist shooting toward Mr Jacob again. Shit, he should have known that would happen, so why did he do what he did?
Because Toby means more to me than some old man, that's why .
That sounded harsh, but it was the damn truth.
Mr Jacob's sobs added to the weight of guilt pouring down on Russell's shoulders. Russell reared back and slumped onto the seat he'd occupied before, a huge breath gushing out of him. Dejection took hold, sheer helplessness that he was a grown man and couldn't do a bloody thing to stop this madness. His eyes stung. That was all he needed, to cry now.
Toby drew closer, nearly at the post box. Russell resisted the urge to leap forward again. What good would it do? Beard had eased open the driver's-side door, one hand on the steering wheel. Toby brought his hand up and dropped the letters inside the slot. He turned and looked up as he walked back down the road.
The rain had started again.
Beard got out of the van and closed the door. Russell shouted until his voice broke and smacked the windows with both hands made into one fist. He glanced at Mr Jacob, who sat with his head bent, shoulders bobbing. Turning away and looking back at Toby, Russell sucked in a breath and shouted again.
"Toby! Fucking run! Toby!"
Beard grabbed Toby's jacket, and Toby swung around, fist raised. His eyes widened along with his mouth. Beard yanked him toward the van, and Toby tried to stop him—Russell saw him doing the same as he had, trying to dig his feet into the ground.
It won't work, mate.
As Beard and Toby approached the back of the van, Russell scooted along the bench, ready to kick out at Beard the minute the door opened. His breaths stuttered, and pains lanced his chest, his heart rate kicking up speed.
"Please don't do anything stupid,” Mr Jacob whimpered. “He'll take it out on me."
Sorry old man, but fuck you.
Beard pre-empted Russell and kept Toby in front of him. Toby's face pressed against one of the door windows, and Beard fumbled inside his jacket. Cable tie. As Beard yanked Toby's arms behind him and worked on his wrists, Toby jolted against the glass, his cheek white from the pressure.
We're fucked. So fucked.
Beard shoved Toby aside, meaty hand gripping his upper arm. He opened one of the doors. Toby spotted Russell, and his mouth worked with no sound coming
The sound of the phone clicking shut brought Russell's head snapping up, and he looked through the grate. The old man shook as though a damn palsy victim.
He'll fucking have a heart attack in a minute.
"Good man,” Beard said, taking the phone. “Once Toby's in the back, you can go. No need to tell you he won't be returning to work in the morning. Reckon you'll be busy this afternoon putting a job ad in the paper."
Russell's guts churned.
Beard stared past the old man and down the street to their left. “Won't be long and you can get back to your spuds and bananas, me old mate.” He laughed, somewhat sadly, and rasped his hand over his beard. “Now, both of you be quiet. I'm getting a fucking headache."
Russell stared down Fountain Street, his eyes straining for the first sight of Toby. Although he felt badly for thinking it, at least they'd be together in this. If he had to go through whatever lay ahead alone, he reckoned he'd crumble at the first sign of being hurt. Or would he? If he was alone in this, would thoughts of returning to Toby give him the strength he needed to carry on?
Self-preservation alone would do it.
He coached himself to remain strong, despite his body getting the shakes and his teeth chattering. Shit, he was scared—scared out of his fucking mind.
Toby rounded the corner. Russell's heart leaped. He lunged forward, kneeling on the other bench, and hammered his fists on the window.
Got to warn him.
In his peripheral vision, Russell caught sight of Beard's fist shooting toward Mr Jacob again. Shit, he should have known that would happen, so why did he do what he did?
Because Toby means more to me than some old man, that's why .
That sounded harsh, but it was the damn truth.
Mr Jacob's sobs added to the weight of guilt pouring down on Russell's shoulders. Russell reared back and slumped onto the seat he'd occupied before, a huge breath gushing out of him. Dejection took hold, sheer helplessness that he was a grown man and couldn't do a bloody thing to stop this madness. His eyes stung. That was all he needed, to cry now.
Toby drew closer, nearly at the post box. Russell resisted the urge to leap forward again. What good would it do? Beard had eased open the driver's-side door, one hand on the steering wheel. Toby brought his hand up and dropped the letters inside the slot. He turned and looked up as he walked back down the road.
The rain had started again.
Beard got out of the van and closed the door. Russell shouted until his voice broke and smacked the windows with both hands made into one fist. He glanced at Mr Jacob, who sat with his head bent, shoulders bobbing. Turning away and looking back at Toby, Russell sucked in a breath and shouted again.
"Toby! Fucking run! Toby!"
Beard grabbed Toby's jacket, and Toby swung around, fist raised. His eyes widened along with his mouth. Beard yanked him toward the van, and Toby tried to stop him—Russell saw him doing the same as he had, trying to dig his feet into the ground.
It won't work, mate.
As Beard and Toby approached the back of the van, Russell scooted along the bench, ready to kick out at Beard the minute the door opened. His breaths stuttered, and pains lanced his chest, his heart rate kicking up speed.
"Please don't do anything stupid,” Mr Jacob whimpered. “He'll take it out on me."
Sorry old man, but fuck you.
Beard pre-empted Russell and kept Toby in front of him. Toby's face pressed against one of the door windows, and Beard fumbled inside his jacket. Cable tie. As Beard yanked Toby's arms behind him and worked on his wrists, Toby jolted against the glass, his cheek white from the pressure.
We're fucked. So fucked.
Beard shoved Toby aside, meaty hand gripping his upper arm. He opened one of the doors. Toby spotted Russell, and his mouth worked with no sound coming
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