out. Face paling, he blinked then frowned. Shoving Toby in the back, Beard sent him sprawling onto the van floor, closing the door quickly behind him just as Russell flung out a foot. The end of his boot smacked into the door, and he bit back a yell, his toes mashing against the steel toecap inside. Leaning down, Russell pushed Toby onto his side. Toby's eyes were closed, and a nasty gash on his forehead bled, a crimson river dribbling down his temple.
"Fuck! Toby. Wake up, mate. Wake up!” Russell went down on his knees, barely aware of Beard getting back into the van and telling Mr. Jacob to get out. Breaths unsteady, his heart beating way too fast, he leaned forward, cheek in front of Toby's face.
Please be alive. Please...
He was still breathing.
Releasing an unsteady breath, Russell hauled Toby into a sitting position by pulling his arm. He dragged him to the space behind the passenger seat so he could watch Beard while tending to Toby. He sat wedged in the corner, hefting Toby against him, and looked out the window. Mr Jacob ran down the street, his bandy legs looking like they'd give out any second. Russell turned back to Toby and pressed his jacket sleeve to his lover's forehead.
"I'll fucking have you for this,” he snarled at Beard.
Laughing, Beard started the engine and nosed away from the curb. “Whatever, mate. Whatever."
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Chapter Six
Toby's mouth felt like it was filled with cotton wool. His clock radio blared, some song where the singer was young, free, and all right. Lucky him. He kept his eyes closed, recalling the fuck-off weird dream he'd just had where he'd been at work, and sent out to post letters. That seemed off in itself. Mr Jacob was a stickler for routine, the post never sent before four p.m. Some black-bearded bloke had grabbed Toby at the post box—and it was well odd that no one was in the street too—tied his wrists and shoved him in a black van. Russell was inside, his wrists tied, too, and Toby had smacked his head on the van floor and blacked out.
So bloody strange.
He moved his head—was it against Russell's arm?—and tried to prise his heavy eyelids open. They refused to budge. One seemed stuck closed with sleepy dust. He frowned, the world around him penetrating the fug of sleep.
Was that the sound of an engine? And was the bed rocking?
Realisation slammed into him at the shriek of brakes and his body lurching sideward into something hard. A metal bench. His eyes snapped open then all right, and he flung back the other way, staring at the bench opposite. Fuck. He hadn't dreamed.
Shit!
Turning his head, grimacing at the pain in his brow and at his bound wrists behind him, he glanced at Russell, whose head had flopped back into the corner. He slept, and Toby would bet if Russell knew he'd dropped off, he'd be pissed as hell. Toby looked through a metal grate between the back of the van and the front. The guy who had shoved him in here tapped the steering wheel, clearly agitated he'd had to stop at a red light. Toby's heart rate sped up, and a ball of something lodged in his chest. Fear? Anxiety? Both, probably.
How long had they been travelling? He'd posted the letters around eleven this morning, and it was clearly evening now. Outside, dark grey clouds scudded across a navy blue sky studded with faint stars. What looked like shops—what he could see of them anyway; the rooms above, perhaps—lined either side of the road. Lights blazed from some of the windows, and a green-and-pink neon sign in the shape of a scantily clad woman flashed on and off high up on one of the building's walls. A club?
Fresh raindrops clung to the outside edges of the windshield, indicating a recent downpour, but the wipers weren't swishing to and fro now. Light made the droplets appear like diamonds, shimmering and perfect on a van holding an imperfect driver and passengers.
Toby craned his neck in order to see better, see below the shop signs. See people . Not
"Fuck! Toby. Wake up, mate. Wake up!” Russell went down on his knees, barely aware of Beard getting back into the van and telling Mr. Jacob to get out. Breaths unsteady, his heart beating way too fast, he leaned forward, cheek in front of Toby's face.
Please be alive. Please...
He was still breathing.
Releasing an unsteady breath, Russell hauled Toby into a sitting position by pulling his arm. He dragged him to the space behind the passenger seat so he could watch Beard while tending to Toby. He sat wedged in the corner, hefting Toby against him, and looked out the window. Mr Jacob ran down the street, his bandy legs looking like they'd give out any second. Russell turned back to Toby and pressed his jacket sleeve to his lover's forehead.
"I'll fucking have you for this,” he snarled at Beard.
Laughing, Beard started the engine and nosed away from the curb. “Whatever, mate. Whatever."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Six
Toby's mouth felt like it was filled with cotton wool. His clock radio blared, some song where the singer was young, free, and all right. Lucky him. He kept his eyes closed, recalling the fuck-off weird dream he'd just had where he'd been at work, and sent out to post letters. That seemed off in itself. Mr Jacob was a stickler for routine, the post never sent before four p.m. Some black-bearded bloke had grabbed Toby at the post box—and it was well odd that no one was in the street too—tied his wrists and shoved him in a black van. Russell was inside, his wrists tied, too, and Toby had smacked his head on the van floor and blacked out.
So bloody strange.
He moved his head—was it against Russell's arm?—and tried to prise his heavy eyelids open. They refused to budge. One seemed stuck closed with sleepy dust. He frowned, the world around him penetrating the fug of sleep.
Was that the sound of an engine? And was the bed rocking?
Realisation slammed into him at the shriek of brakes and his body lurching sideward into something hard. A metal bench. His eyes snapped open then all right, and he flung back the other way, staring at the bench opposite. Fuck. He hadn't dreamed.
Shit!
Turning his head, grimacing at the pain in his brow and at his bound wrists behind him, he glanced at Russell, whose head had flopped back into the corner. He slept, and Toby would bet if Russell knew he'd dropped off, he'd be pissed as hell. Toby looked through a metal grate between the back of the van and the front. The guy who had shoved him in here tapped the steering wheel, clearly agitated he'd had to stop at a red light. Toby's heart rate sped up, and a ball of something lodged in his chest. Fear? Anxiety? Both, probably.
How long had they been travelling? He'd posted the letters around eleven this morning, and it was clearly evening now. Outside, dark grey clouds scudded across a navy blue sky studded with faint stars. What looked like shops—what he could see of them anyway; the rooms above, perhaps—lined either side of the road. Lights blazed from some of the windows, and a green-and-pink neon sign in the shape of a scantily clad woman flashed on and off high up on one of the building's walls. A club?
Fresh raindrops clung to the outside edges of the windshield, indicating a recent downpour, but the wipers weren't swishing to and fro now. Light made the droplets appear like diamonds, shimmering and perfect on a van holding an imperfect driver and passengers.
Toby craned his neck in order to see better, see below the shop signs. See people . Not
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