David Gilman - Ice Claw

“Who are you and what are you doing in my home?” An imperious disdain filtered the words. She sounded just like the real comtesse used to. One of the boys took a step forward. There was no sign of any weapon, but his face was frightening.

Spittle wet the edge of his lips, which seemed like a slash, pulled back against his pointed teeth. Was he smiling or was that how he always looked? she wondered. He took a step closer and the others moved behind him out of the shadows. A phalanx of fear.

“Where’s the boy?”

“Boy? My grandson? I don’t know. He’s out. Who are you?” she demanded.

Don’t show them you’re frightened. Don’t yield to a threat. Stand your ground. Face the danger . That was what her husband would have done.

“Not him,” Sharkface said. “Max Gordon. He phoned his father in England. From here. We know that.”

How could they know? Her mind pushed the thought away. Expressionless, she faced her inquisitor.

“I don’t know any Max Gordon. You should leave now. My grandson and his friends will be home any moment. Trust me, you would not wish to see them angry! Get out!”

They took another pace towards her; she involuntarily stepped back, touching the edge of the big old sofa for support.

“We know about your surfing dropout. He won’t be coming home.”

The flat, disinterested voice was like a slap across the face. What had they done to Bobby?

“Where is he?” she demanded.

The grin revealed jagged teeth. “Where’s Max Gordon? He phoned his father from here. Or was that you? Where is he?”

She heard the click of the switchblade and saw the glint of moonlight on the knife one of the boys now held.

“You’ll tell us, old woman. You’ll tell us everything we need to know,” Sharkface snarled.

A small knot of warmth formed above her heart. It came, unsummoned, from somewhere deep within her and saturated her whole body. It was a longing for her husband. It was as if he held her, to protect her, an invisible shield between herself and the killers. Max Gordon would face these thugs, if he had not done so already, and he would have to fight for his life. Yes, they could hurt her and make her talk, she knew that. But she would not tell them what they wanted to know. She would not let these dogs loose after Max.

Her brave soldier husband, a hero of France, held her tightly. He embraced her, whispered his love for her, and gently, ever so gently, helped her take a step backwards onto the decayed balcony.

The moonlight filled her eyes; the crashing waves muffled the sound of splintering, shattered wood.

Her last breath was a sigh of joy.

She was dead before her body hit the ground.

Sayid made the taxi driver go past the entrance to the terminal and drive around the airport ring road. He wanted to see if there was any sign of the motorbike gang, even without their bikes, or any noticeable police presence.

He checked his passport and ticket, and the piece of paper with the magic square of numbers they had found in d’Abbadie’s chateau fell from his pocket. Sayid had shoved it in his jacket when they moved out of the library and into the observatory. If he was picked up he would be searched, and this piece of paper might be a clue as to where Max was heading. Sayid studied the five-by-five box of numbers. Max might have the instincts of a wild animal for survival, but Sayid had the ability to focus totally on anything mathematical.

He had used it effectively when cramming for exams. He supposed it was a bit like a musician being a sight reader. The immediacy of what lay on the score, or in this case the page, allowed him to embed the relevant numbers in his memory. Up to a point, that is. Heat-seeking missile, your brain is , Max always said.

Sayid concentrated, locking out all sounds from the passing night, worked each line up and down, and saw the numbers take shape in his mind’s eye, burning them into his memory. Then he wrote the other numbers that Max had dictated to him under the instep of his boot. Even Sayid’s memory recall wasn’t good enough to remember that sequence and the boxed numbers. Once he was satisfied the indelible ink had dried and there was no chance of misreading the numbers, he crumpled the piece of paper in his mouth and chewed it into a soggy mess and swallowed it.

That was what Max would have done.

It tasted horrible but at least part of the secret, whatever it was, was safe.

The taxi driver dropped Sayid off at the departure entrance. A car horn tooted. Like a Morse code signal. Calling him. Demanding he look. He turned. A gush of relief making him forget his trepidation about the flight home. Bobby’s van pulled up at the curb.

Sayid limped towards the door that swung open.

“Bobby, where the heck have you been?”

Hands grabbed him, pulling him into the unlit van, and threw him roughly into the back. He cried out, but the van’s engine was already revving as it pulled away. Someone had an arm around his throat, someone else bound his hands with gaffer tape, and then the tear of the sticky cloth as a strip was pulled across his mouth. Sharkface had split the hunting pack. Three of his thugs had staked out the airport while he had invaded the comtesse’s chateau.

There was a smell of neoprene and a tang of seaweed as they let Sayid fall against the black-clad body that lay trussed in the back of the van.

Eyes wide, he saw Bobby Morrell’s lifeless form. Panic nearly suffocated him. He had no idea if Bobby was alive or dead. He was unconscious, that was for sure. There was no warmth coming from his body, but that might have been because he still had on his wet suit.

The van pulled off the autoroute, leaving behind the glare of the yellow motorway lights, and stopped. The back doors’ tortured hinges screeched open, and without any care for the well-being of their captive, the thugs pulled Sayid out by his ankles. His back thumped onto the ground; the pain knifed into him, but his gasp was smothered by the tape across his mouth. He twisted his head left and right, but the old buildings around them were in darkness. An abandoned site. Fear and desolation.

Bobby’s body hit the ground next to him. Sayid heard a groan. Good! Bobby was still alive. Other men appeared; Sayid couldn’t see their faces clearly, but then one of them bent down and he recognized him from the attack at the d’Abbadie chateau.

Their faces were ugly with violence. Someone kicked Bobby, another dragged Sayid to his feet. They were bigger and stronger than he realized. Now Bobby, too, was on his feet, shaking his head groggily. A fist in the back prodded Sayid towards the darkened interior of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. As he was frog-marched towards the doors, Sayid deliberately dragged his boot through a muddy puddle-he had to hide those numbers.

There were other vans parked in the background. Two older teenagers leaned against them, smoking; another was finishing off repairs to a rack of motorbikes that slid out on a ramp. Sayid realized those were the bikes Max had knocked over.

One of the men pulled back the other van’s door, reaching for something. Peaches! She was unhurt but sat guarded by another thug. She glanced up. She was probably terrified, Sayid realized. They must have caught her and Bobby down in Hendaye. He wanted to shout. Wanted to tell her not to worry. That it’d all be OK. But he couldn’t and it wasn’t going to be. The door slid closed on her.

A biker circled the fringes of light, dipping in and out of the gloomy shadows, filming everything with a small video camera held almost at arm’s length. Sayid noticed there was an antenna on the roof of the van.

Another man stood in a pillar of light cast downwards by an overhead spotlight, which threw an ominous shadow across his pinched features. He was leaning against a metal table, an old workbench, rusted but solid, which had an angle grinder resting on it.