Savage Night (26 page)

That night Tommy hadn't slept at all. He was cold and scared and the chain kept getting in the way. Worse, something was stuck in his bicep from when he'd tried to escape the previous night back at the car. He'd have taken a look at the damage, but there was no lamp and he couldn't reach the lightswitch.

He waited till dawn. Saw that a piece of glass was embedded in his arm. Poked around tentatively, but couldn't get a grip on it.

Next morning, he threw the bucket at the window and broke a pane. He shouted for help.

Smith appeared in his mask, slippers,
katana
, said, "There's no one for miles." He left the room with the bucket, came back dressed, a gun tucked into his waistband and carrying a dustpan and brush, a roll of duct tape and a new bucket, a blue plastic one with a white handle. He taped a piece of cardboard over the hole.

Before he left, Tommy asked him, "Can I have my clothes back?"

Smith said, "No."

Tommy said, "Would you help me take this piece of glass out of my arm?"

Smith looked at him. "Did you try to get any pieces of glass out of my son?"

***

TWO DAYS LATER and the wound didn't look too good. Tommy had managed to tease and pinch and tug the glass out yesterday but the wound needed more than sluicing with cold water. Ought to be properly cleaned, stitched, bandaged. But Smith wasn't about to take him to the nearest hospital, or play nursemaid. He'd made that clear before asking Tommy to hand over the piece of glass.

Yesterday seemed a long time ago.

Smith barged into the room. "Morning," he said. "You want breakfast today?"

Tommy shucked off his blanket. "My arm's agony," he said. "You have to let someone take a look at it."

Smith said, "No," and turned his head away. "Cover yourself up."

Who'd have thought Smith would be such a prude?

Tommy pulled the blanket round him again. "If the cut's infected, I could die of blood poisoning."

"I don't give a rat's arse."

"Your fun would be over."

Tommy was relying on being worth more to Smith alive then dead. Smith had indicated to Phil that Tommy would be alive till somebody got in touch. It made sense that Smith would keep him alive till he'd screwed every last penny out of him.

"My fun," Smith repeated. He kept his head turned away, poked the point of the
katana
into the floorboards. "How about I cut your arm off at the shoulder? That'll be a sure way to get rid of any infection."

"Won't help." Play him at his own game, Tommy thought. "Chances are I'll die of blood loss or shock. And if the blade's not sterile, there's the same risk of infection."

"I'll get you some antiseptic cream," Smith said. "You can rub it on the stump."

Tommy didn't know how far to push. He tried a little further. "Cream would be good. Can I get some now?"

Smith said, "I should really cut your
nnnnngah
tongue off." He left the room, walking awkwardly with his gun in his trousers and the sword in his hand. Came back ten minutes later with a plaster and a piece of cloth which he told Tommy to wrap round the cut and keep out of sight, it was ugly.

***

ANOTHER DAY.

Smith opened the door, stood there wearing a cheap dark suit and a black tie, studying Tommy through the eyeholes of his ski mask. "Funeral," he said. "My son's funeral."

Tommy held his gaze for as long as he could, then looked away. When he looked back again, the door was closed and Smith had gone.

Pressure built behind Tommy's eyes until he cried, but it didn't help.

***

NEXT TIME SMITH let him call Mum she said, "I've been worried sick. Why haven't you called?"

"Bit difficult."

"Why? Where are you?"

"I can't say."

"Don't you think you're being paranoid?"

"No. They can trace these things. Work out where I am."

Smith flinched.

Had he not thought of that? For a moment, Tommy believed he'd got the better of him. But the sad truth was that nobody was going to trace his calls. Didn't matter if they could pinpoint their origin.

Tommy noticed he was playing with his chain, let it fall onto the bed.

"Jordan misses you," Mum said.

"Can I speak to him?"

Smith shook his head.

"He's at Fraser's," Mum said. "You could try his mobile."

"Okay." He sighed. "Got to go now."

"Where are you? Tell me where you are."

"I can't do that."

"You don't trust me?"

"It's not a matter of trust, Mum. Just believe me that it's better you don't know."

"Better for who?"

"For us all. For the family."

"Tommy, are you in really bad trouble?"

He smiled, wished she could see him. "Yes, I'm in some really deep shit."

Smith dragged his finger across his throat.

Tommy went cold. Then he realised Smith only meant for him to end the call. "In case I don't get through to Jordan," he said to Mum, "tell him I love him."

***

A FEW DAYS later.

"Are you sick?"

When he'd looked at his arm half an hour ago, pus was weeping out of the cut. It hurt to touch. Painful even just to move his arm and there was a stiffness to it that was worrying.

He was weak and sweating. Even the phone in his hand felt like it was perspiring. He smelled sweet. His stomach ached. Last night Grant spoke to him again in a dream and this time both halves of the lad's body were there, the upper half hovering a few inches above the lower. The dead boy's eyes were unblinking black stones in a bone-white face. He told Tommy that there was no such thing as an accident. He told Tommy that a father had a duty to avenge his son or he was no father at all. Tommy said no, it didn't have to be that way. Grant told him he didn't know what he was talking about. As he spoke, blood dribbled from his mouth and then it started to pour from his nose and ears. Then those black eyes started to bleed. Tommy woke up drenched. He hadn't been able to go back to sleep.

"Tommy?"

"Just a bit of a cold, Mum," Tommy said into the phone.

Smith stared at him, tongue flicking out of the mouthhole of the mask.

Mum said, "You have to look after yourself."

"I know."

"Sure you're okay?"

He tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. "Absolutely. Nothing to worry about."

"How can I not worry?"

"I know." Pause. "I know."

"You will come home?"

He glanced at Smith. "When it's safe."

"And when's that?"

He struggled to keep his voice from breaking. "Soon."

***

SMITH DUMPED THE food on Tommy's bed—snacks, as usual. Since his incarceration Tommy'd had nothing wholesome to eat apart from a couple of tins of soup and the occasional plate of baked beans. Smith tucked into a bag of crisps. Tommy knew he was about to say something, even though he couldn't read his face through the ski mask. Something to do with the way his body jerked to a halt.

"Not hungry?" Smith said. "I'll have yours if you don't want it."

Tommy stared at the junk pooled in a channel in the rumpled quilt, gathered his blanket round him. Actually, even the thought of a big juicy steak did nothing for him. Scarcely any flab bunched up round his stomach now when he sat forward. Not that he was ever fat like his brother, but there'd been a bit of excess. Changed days.

The blanket stank. Or maybe it was his arm. Or the bucket. Although he'd not had anything to deposit in it recently.

Tommy looked at the laptop screen. "Can I call home?" he asked.

"Fuck off and eat something."

"Let me call my mother. I want to speak to Jordan."

"Eat."

"If I eat something, will you let me make that call?"

"Okay."

Tommy scooped up a bar of chocolate. Unwrapped it. His fingers were puffy and tender. He bit into the bar. Chewed twice, swallowed. Had a second bite. Finished it with his third. Licked his upper front teeth but couldn't stop them throbbing.

"Can I phone now?"

"No," Smith said. "I think you've spoken quite enough."

***

NIGHTTIME. LIGHTS WERE out. The image on the computer was dark. He'd gone to bed too.

The quiet made Tommy's ears hum. His skin prickled all over, he felt lightheaded, his eyelids were solid weights, his eyeballs throbbed but he couldn't sleep. Didn't want to.

Asked himself the question he'd asked a hundred times since Smith had plugged in the laptop.

Why was there a live video feed into Fraser's sitting room?

***

"PINHOLE CAMERA," SMITH had explained once the image was working. "Set it up while he was out. On the mantelpiece peeking through the gap between a couple of picture frames. Hard to see, even if you know it's there. Bit worried about Fraser dusting, but luckily he doesn't seem to be that houseproud."

The colour image was clear enough to make out the pattern of the carpet.

The room was empty at the moment. A dead place.

"Like a nanny cam," Smith said. "Heard of them?"

Tommy said nothing.

"You'd think they cost a fortune." Smith paused. "Less than a grand, that one. Anyway, I've got a fortune, remember?"

Tommy didn't give a shit about the fifty grand Smith had stolen from him. He was welcome to it.

"Battery powered," Smith carried on. "They'll last much longer than needed. Wireless, of course. And some fancy software loads it to a website where I can play it in real time. Bit jerky. But it does the trick."

"What's all this for?" Tommy said. "What's it for? Tell me that."

Smith said, "Patience."

***

UNTIL HE SAW Fraser, he hadn't believed the camera was in his son's home. Thought the image was a fake. But when Fraser walked into the frame, Tommy knew it was real. There was no sound, and Tommy watched as his son silently passed out of sight.

Tommy's hand moved towards the screen, clutched at the air, dropped to his side.

Fraser came back a few minutes later, wiping his nose like he'd just been snorting coke. Tommy smiled, couldn't help himself.

***

SMITH'S CRISP PACKET rustled.

Tommy dragged his gaze away from the screen. He blinked repeatedly, his eyes irritated as if they were full of grit. His forehead was hot and damp.

Smith had brought a chair in about ten minutes ago, and he sat there six feet away, eating his crisps, smug behind his ski mask, occasionally glancing at the screen, but mainly just sticking crisps in his mouth, salt dusting the mouthhole of his ski mask, watching Tommy watching the monitor.

"Let me see your face," Tommy said. He'd never forgotten Smith telling the waiter that his face was horribly scarred. He was sure it was a lie, but it wasn't proof he was after. Just wanted to see what Smith looked like behind the mask.

"I don't think so," Smith said.

"You're Grant's father. I can identify you that way. Seeing your face won't make any difference."

"I'm keeping the mask on. So fuck you."

Tommy sipped some water from a plastic beaker. Wiped his brow. His forehead was slick with sweat but he was shivering.

"I need another blanket," he said.

Smith crunched another crisp.