Peter May - Cast Iron

Enzo gasped his frustration. ‘Typical bloody Sophie!’ he said.

Sophie became aware of the rhythm of the wheels beneath her and, with a start, realised that she had drifted off to sleep. She was lying on her side on a cold, hard, metal floor, hands bound behind her back, a hood pulled over her head and tied at the neck.

They must have been driving for hours, and although she couldn’t see anything, she was aware that it was light around her now, beyond the hood.

At one point during the night she had begged them to let her out to pee, and had suffered the humiliation of knowing that they were watching her as she squatted somewhere at the side of the road to relieve herself. There were, she had told herself with a great effort of will, worse things.

Now she managed to wriggle herself into a sitting position, knees pulled up to her chest, back against the side of the van. For the first hour or more she had fought the temptation to cry. She was damned if she was going to give them that satisfaction. But after so long in the discomfort of the van, she just felt numb. They must have travelled a very long way in all this time, but she had no idea where.

For a while she could hear traffic around them on the road, vehicles overtaking at speed, and she figured that maybe they were on a motorway. Then they seemed to leave the traffic behind, and the road surface became bumpy and uneven. They turned left and right, slowing several times almost to a standstill. Before finally the van drew to a halt and the driver cut the engine.

She heard other vehicles draw up beside them on what sounded like a gravel surface. Car doors banging, the sound of voices. And whoever had been riding in the back of the van with her threw open the door and jumped out. There was a rush of cold air, and Sophie smelled sulphur in it, and iron. Pollutants. Atmosphere thick with them. Somewhere industrial, she thought.

Rough hands pulled her out and she stumbled and fell. The ground was wet, the air much colder than it had been at her last place of incarceration, and she realised she was not afraid. If they had been going to harm her, why would they have driven all this way to do it?

Forced back to her feet, fingers closed roughly around her upper arm, very nearly cutting off the circulation, and she was led across a flat area pitted with ruts and puddles. There was a fine rain in the air, and she felt it starting to soak through the thin material of her hood. They stopped, and she heard the scraping of a metal door sliding aside on rusted runners. The sound of it echoed off into a vast space beyond, and she found herself pushed inside. Concrete suddenly beneath her feet, and despite them being indoors, water all across the floor, lying in pools that they splashed through as they walked.

There was no conversation among her captors, just a strangely forced silence as they led her over a huge empty floor area before finally reaching a metal staircase. Sophie felt it shake as they forced her to climb it, the sound of their footsteps echoing up into what seemed like a very high roof space. She was amazed at the pictures in her head that were conjured purely from the sounds and sensations around her. She envisaged a pitched glass roof, like a railway station, supported on a network of rusted girders. A sprawling, empty concrete floor that had once housed industrial equipment of some sort. This rattling old staircase leading up to a staging area, where there were maybe offices or workshops.

She was pushed across a grilled floor, then through a doorway and on to concrete again. The confines of a narrow corridor. There appeared to be just one man with her now, and she could hear his breathing and smell the cigarette smoke on his breath. They stopped. A key turned in a lock and a door swung open. Cold, stale air met her, and she was pushed violently forward, losing her footing and sprawling on the floor, hands still tied behind her back. She rolled on to her side and sensed her captor crouching down beside her.

‘If you’re a good girl,’ he hissed, ‘maybe we’ll take off the hood and untie your hands.’ She felt the flat of his hand run over the swell of her breasts, and she rolled quickly away. He stood up and laughed. ‘And maybe I’ll have to teach you exactly what good means.’

She tensed, but he turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him and turning the key once more in the lock.

All of the resolve that had seen her through the night dissolved in the tears that burned hot now on her cheeks.

Bertrand had lain in a state of semi-consciousness for some time before the world formed any coherence around him. It seemed impossible, somehow, that pain could maintain its intensity for this long. And yet it had. Relentlessly so. And he wondered how much more of it he could possibly take.

Rather than numbing his other senses, it seemed to have heightened them. Cold, hunger, fear, depression. He knew by now that he was suffering from exposure, and that even the toughest and strongest of men could be carried off by it.

The sun had gone behind thick cloud and it was impossible to see where in the sky it might be. The temperature had fallen, and he had no idea how long he had lain in the dry riverbed since sliding back down the embankment.

He felt himself succumbing to the temptation simply to close his eyes and drift away again into unconsciousness. At least that would bring some relief from his pain and misery. It was only the thought of Sophie and the need to reach Enzo that kept his eyes open and fuelled his determination to stay awake.

The sound of a car, motor purring, seemed suddenly very close, and he realised with a shock that there was a vehicle approaching along the single-track road. He had to get back up that slope, fast!

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to roll over on to his front, using his arms and his good leg to propel himself forward and drag himself back up the riverbank. As he reached the top of the bank, desperately searching fingers found and grasped the roots of some long-fallen tree. Summoning all his remaining strength, concentrated in muscles built during years of training in the gym, he pulled himself finally out of the dead river and rolled over among dried and browning ferns. In time to see a black Citroën gliding slowly by along the single track.

He bellowed at the top of his voice, hoarse now from crying out in pain, but felt hope and life draining out of him as the car kept going and receded into the distance. In less than a minute it was gone from sight, and the sound of it had faded to silence.

Bertrand lay on his back, succumbing to his misery and tears, and felt the first drops of rain falling from a darkening sky. He knew now that he was in real trouble.

The party was drawing to a close. The traiteurs had provided a selection of tapas. From olives and stuffed prunes, to Iberico ham, prawns wrapped in bacon and frogs’ legs in batter. And, as a main, Nicole and Fabien had reheated delicious choux farcis , served with cubes of roasted potato. Empty bottles of wine stood on all the tables, the ambience mellow and everyone gently tipsy.

It was late afternoon now and some of the guests were starting to leave. Enzo sat in his favourite armchair by the window, bouncing Laurent on his knee, not even daring to think that the child might not be his. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Charlotte in deep conversation with Jean-Luc Verne.

He spotted his old acoustic guitar gathering dust in the corner of the room, and regretted that he played it so seldom these days. But he had consumed enough wine by now to contemplate the thought that he might just pick it up to serenade his remaining guests.