Shaun Hutson - Captives

A chill wind had come with the onset of darkness and Magee pulled up the collar of his coat as protection against the breeze. Both hands dug firmly in his pockets, he walked along the narrow thoroughfare, the lights of the Strand up ahead of him. A young woman passed close and smiled. Magee returned the gesture, nodding a passing greeting, turning to look at her, appreciating the shapely legs visible below her short skirt.

She had not been the first woman to offer him a smile during the past few hour. Magee was a good-looking man, his shoulder-length black hair and chiselled features making him look at least five years younger than his actual age. He had helped one woman with a pushchair and screaming infant on to a bus earlier, and she had gripped his hand tightly in hers as she had said thank you. He had merely smiled and waved to her as the bus pulled away.

You either had it or you didn't, thought Trevor Magee, smiling broadly to himself.

He passed a pub on his right called The Griffin, the sound of loud music swelling from inside. For a moment he thought about going in and fumbled in one of his pockets for some change, but he decided against it. He walked on, climbing the flight of stone steps that brought him up into the Strand itself.

To his right there was a McDonalds; behind him the lights of the Charing Cross Hotel glowed in the darkness. To his left was Trafalgar Square.

Magee's smile broadened.

He looked around him, aware of the traffic speeding up and down, of the people who walked past him on the pavement, of people coming out of McDonalds laden with fast food. There was a dustbin outside and an elderly man dressed in a filthy jacket and torn trousers was shuffling towards it. There was a dark stain around the crotch of the trousers; Magee wrinkled his nose at the stench the old man was giving off.

He watched as the tramp sorted through the rubbish, finally pulling out a soft-drinks container. He took off the lid and sniffed the contents, satisfied the liquid was drinkable. He swallowed it down as if parched.

Magee's smile faded to a look of disgust.

The tramp tossed the empty cup away and shuffled off in the other direction.

Magee watched him go, pushing his way past pedestrians, finally disappearing down a side street.

The younger man swallowed hard, then turned and walked briskly in the direction of Trafalgar Square.

He had things to do.

SIXTY

She rubbed a thin layer of Vaseline over her lips and smiled, satisfied with the extra lubrication. Zena Murray had seen on television that beauty queens used the trick so she figured it would work for her. After all, she had to do a lot of smiling in her business, too. Contestants in a beauty contest had only judges to impress with their looks and stance. Zena had many other, more trenchant critics to impress. The punters were always demanding.

Jim Scott watched as she finished applying the vaseline, pacing the dressing room as she stood naked before him, slipping on a G-string and a suspender belt.

'And you haven't seen or heard from Carol since last night?' he said agitatedly.

'Scotty, we work together, that's it,' Zena told him, rolling one stocking up her leg.

'She didn't stay with you?'

'There's hardly room in my place for me, let alone bloody guests,' Zena told him.

Scott sighed.

'She's okay, I bet you,' Zena said, trying to sound reassuring. She looked at Scott, something close to pity in her voice. 'Look, Scotty, you shouldn't worry about her so much. She's got her own life to lead, you know.' And you won't be part of it for much longer. 'You'd be better off looking for someone else,' she smiled, her attempts at light banter failing miserably. 'I'm unattached, you know.'

'I don't want anyone else, Zena,' he told her.

She shrugged.

'Just trying to help,' she said. Help, or soften the blow?

Scott opened the door.

'When she comes in, tell her I want to see her, will you?' he said, then he was gone.

Zena pulled on another stocking and heard his footsteps echoing away up the corridor.

***

Scott returned to his office and sat at his desk, glancing at the phone, wondering if he should try calling Carol's flat again. He resisted the temptation, leaning back in his seat, running a hand across his forehead. A confusion of emotions tumbled through his mind: anger, concern, fear. He couldn't seem to settle on one that suited him. It was not knowing where she was that was so unsettling.

Or who she was with?

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

She wouldn't do that to him.

Would she?

He got to his feet and crossed to the window of the office. Below the streets were alive with people, all of them bathed in the neon glow that seemed to fill the very air itself with multi-coloured energy.

Who was she with?

Scott gritted his teeth.

There couldn't be anyone else. He would know. There would be signs he'd have spotted. He sucked in a deep breath. No. There was a rational explanation for all this and, when Carol arrived, he'd discover what it was.

If she arrived.

He returned to his desk and sat down. Even as he did there was a knock on the door and he was on his feet again instantly. The door opened.

John Hitch walked in, smiling at Scott, who merely exhaled wearily.

'Hello, Jim, I'm glad to see you too,' Hitch said, still smiling.

'Sorry, John,' Scott said. 'I was expecting someone else.'

The two men shook hands and Scott offered the other man a seat which he accepted and a drink which he declined.

'Is Ray with you?' Scott wanted to know.

Hitch shook his head.

'I'm allowed out on my own tonight, Jimmy boy,' Hitch grinned.

'This isn't a social call, is it, mate?' Scott said.

'No. Ray sent me. I've got a job for you.'

Scott looked puzzled.

'Tomorrow night,' Hitch continued. 'We're going to hit a shipment of coke that Ralph Connelly's bringing in.' He laced his fingers on the desk top. 'You're supposed to drive one of the getaway cars.'

'Are you fucking serious?' Scott exclaimed. 'That's not my line of work.'

'I know that. I was as surprised as you, but Ray Plummer wants you in on it.' He sat back in his seat, i'm just a messenger, Jim. I do as I'm told, and he told me to include you in this job.'

'Why?'

Hitch shrugged.

'Fuck knows. Like I said, I'm just doing what I was told.'

Scott ran a hand through his hair, bewilderment on his face.

'You'll be picked up from here tomorrow night at twelve,' Hitch told him. 'You'll be briefed on what you've got to do. I don't know what else I can say.' He looked almost apologetic.

'I don't like this, John,' Scott told him.

'Maybe not, mate, but you've got no choice.' Hitch got to his feet and crossed to the door.

'You got a shooter?' he asked.

'Beretta 92S. Why?'

Hitch nodded.

'Bring it.'

SIXTY-ONE

The beating of dozens of wings sounded like disembodied applause, receding gradually into the darkness.

Trevor Magee stopped and looked up as the pigeons took off, anxious to avoid him as he made his way across Trafalgar Square. To his right was a hot-dog stand with a number of people gathered around it. From where he stood the pungent smell of frying onion was easily detectable. To his left one of the massive bronze lions that guarded the square had become a meeting place for some teenagers grouped around a ghetto blaster. Music was roaring from it. Magee didn't recognise the tune. Ahead were the fountains and Nelson's Column, jabbing upwards towards the overcast heavens as if threatening to tear the low cloud and release the torrents of rain that seemed to be swelling in them.

Magee walked on, across the square, hands still dug firmly into his pockets. Every so often he would glance over his shoulder.