Authors: Sarah Masters
"I've brought you some food,” Croft said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
The boy shook harder.
"Cheese and ham sandwich. Bit of salad. Some orange juice too.” He kept his voice calm, knew he'd be lucky to get this kid's name out of him tonight. It usually took them a while to trust him, to realise he wasn't going to hurt them. “If you don't want to talk, that's all right. And if you want to eat facing the wall, that's all right too."
The only response was a whimper.
Croft rasped his palm over his beard. He'd be damn glad to shave it off once this nightmare was over. Growing it had been Frost's idea. Apparently, Croft looked more menacing with a face full of hair.
He tried again, softening his voice further. “I can't leave the food here, mate. If you don't eat it, I'll have to take it away."
From where Croft sat, it looked like the kid could do with a bite of food. The ridge of his spine stood out, and his ribs reminded Croft of a birdcage, pushing against the thin skin like that.
Fuck, this is awful. Years, bloody years this shit has been going on here.
The soles of the kid's feet were rough, the heels bearing hard skin. This child hadn't been brought up pampered. If Croft's plan didn't pan out, whoever bought this lad wouldn't be pleased about those feet.
Where had the boy come from? Was he a runaway like most of the others, or was he abused at home? If he was a street kid, he'd probably thought he was a tough nut too, out there on the streets in his little world, but in here, he'd been reduced to the minor he was. Afraid. Vulnerable. Sad.
"I was like you once,” Croft said gently. “Laying on one of these beds and wondering what was going to happen next. As far as I know, no one's going to hurt you. Certainly not me anyway. I'm the one who brings the food, changes the sheets, makes sure you're okay. Stuff like that."
No response except uneven breathing.
"Did the boss give you lemonade in the basement?"
A barely imperceptible nod, but the boy gave one all right.
"Did you tell him your name?"
Another nod.
"What's that then? I can't keep calling you mate, can I? Unless you want me to. And if that's what you want, it's fine. I don't want you doing anything you don't want to."
Croft didn't catch the answering whisper.
"What's that, mate? You'll need to speak up a bit."
"Fraser,” the boy said, his voice cracked. “I'm Fraser Croft."
Croft's body seemed to hollow, like his bones had liquefied and everything inside him had disappeared. He instinctually reached out but remembered to hold back just before his fingers touched the kid's skin.
His brother's skin.
"Fraser?"
Turn around. Let me see your face. Show me you're not him, that this is something Frost told you to say to me.
Fighting panic, anger, and burgeoning tears, Croft took short little breaths to erase the many questions streaking through his mind. He needed a clear head. He needed to remain emotionless.
Fuck, it was hard to keep from crying, from grabbing that bony shoulder and forcing the boy to look at him, but he had to gain his trust. Couldn't let this fuck up months of hard work.
"I've got a brother called Fraser,” he said, keeping his tone light.
The lad released a gasp.
Don't break down. Keep it together.
“Haven't seen him in years. Don't reckon he'd even know me now. I miss him."
The boy moved his head, just a tiny bit, to stare at Croft with one eye over his shoulder. A dark brown eye Croft had seen fill with many a tear after their mother beat the shit out of them. It
was
him.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Croft leaned back a bit to see him better. “Looks a bit like you, actually. Funny, that, eh?” His heart thudded so hard he wondered if the boy could hear it. “I won't let anyone here hurt you, all right? Did the boss...did he...do anything else to you in the basement?"
Fraser eased around, embracing his shins, and settled on his other side so he faced the door. Croft drank in his features, and shit, it was like looking at himself at that age. The boy's shins were covered in bruises, old and brown, some yellow-tinged.
From Mum's kicks? Dad's? Someone else's?
"My granddad's dead,” Fraser said, staring at the door.
Aww, fuck. FUCK!
"I'm sorry to hear that, mate. Will your mum and dad be worried where you are?"
"Dunno. I left last year. When Granddad died.” Fraser's dead stare eyed the sandwich on the chest of drawers.
Why didn't I keep tabs on them? Why did I just leave and forget them all?
Croft blinked hard.
Because you had to get yourself sorted, that's why.
Come to terms with what happened to you.
"You want to eat now?” Croft asked. He could look after Fraser
now
, that's what mattered. Make up for what he didn't do in the past.
Fraser nodded and sat up, groggy and just not with it at all. He kept his knees pulled to his chest.
That fucking lemonade...
"Listen, mate. Fraser. Let me get you some clothes."
Croft went to the drawers and pulled out some jogging bottoms and a T-shirt. He held them out to Fraser, who reached up a thin arm, wrist bones like two jutting marbles. “I'll face the door so you can dress, yeah? Then you can eat."
He studied the wood grain of the door, eyes stinging like a bitch slap. Should he try and hug his brother? Tell him what he'd planned?
Maybe this is a test from Frost.
No, he'd remain on track, do everything as he'd planned.
He took the tray and handed it to Fraser, stood by the door while the kid ate. Taking his phone from his pocket, he texted Darrow, his thumbs shaking as he pressed the buttons.
THE NEW KID, he typed. HE'S MY FUCKING BROTHER.
Russell lay on a mattress in the darkness, Toby beside him. Both on their backs, clasping one another's hands between them, neither said a word. Their other hands were manacled at the wrist, chains keeping them tethered to the wall of the alcove either side of them.
What was Toby thinking? Why couldn't Russell find anything to say? Words failed him right now. He kept going over what had happened in his mind, how his life had changed since last year, and came up with a big ball of what the fuck?
They lay in silence for ages. No idea of the time. No idea how long they'd hung there or how long it would be before someone came back down here to give them some more shit.
He reckoned they were in shock. Deep shock.
Earlier, the sound of a door opening had Russell snapping his eyes open. Every muscle in his body screamed as the awareness of where he was smacked back into his mind. The mansion, not their own bed at home. A dank basement, the smell of mould and damp permeating his nostrils. A metal beam in the main part of the room, heavy-duty chains dangling, awaiting either them or the next unfortunate bastard to be strung up by them.
While he'd dangled, going to a place that shut out all the pain of hanging from those fucking chains like that, he'd thought he was going crazy. That dream had been so weird, so real, and when Toby had finally answered him, Russell had broken down and sobbed.
Toby hadn't spoken since they'd been left alone on the mattress this time, but Russell heard his lover's heavy breathing turn to shallow pants then change back to heavy. Long and drawn out. Had he found the same place as Russell? Or had his lungs been damaged by the beating?
After the sound of the door opening, a faint shaft of light had penetrated the darkness ahead, illuminating about three steps and a small square landing. The light faded to nothing, the blackness even more absolute than it had been before, it seemed. The door had been relocked, the key scraping loud and ominous, and footsteps came, strident and echoing.
Russell's heart had thumped hard and fast, the fear inside him coming back right along with the pain of being stretched in a position no body had a right to be in. The skin at his wrists pinched, burned from the manacle, and it felt like the bones had pierced through the skin. And if they had? Nothing he could do about it. He doubted either of them would be getting any medical attention.
He'd braced himself for that blinding light to come back on, for Frost to be there behind the circle of brilliance, for the clink of the chain as he lifted it, ready to strike him and Toby again. What the hell kind of person did that to another? Russell couldn't get over it. How had Frost been getting away with this shit? Was it like on TV, where he had shifty policemen on his payroll? Did that kind of thing even happen for real?
A softer light had been switched on instead, though, a spotlight in the right-hand corner, the bulb low-watt. The cone of peach-coloured light lit a circle on the rough cement floor, the darkness around it bleeding into the corona. Even that hurt his eyes, and it took a few seconds for his sight to become accustomed.
Whoever had come down here didn't say a thing at first.
Russell heard the person breathing, then sigh, as if they were tired or at a loss as to what to do. The breathing continued for a while, louder than Russell's and Toby's. What was the person doing? Studying them? Building up a rage in order to whack them some more?
The not knowing was horrendous.
Russell no longer cared that he was naked, whether someone looked him up and down and found him wanting. And if whoever stood in front of them in the shadows had a problem with the floor beneath Russell and Toby being damp, then they could go fuck themselves. They'd had to piss somewhere. Holding it wasn't an option. Bladder pain added to what they already felt wasn't something they could bear.
Russell opened his mouth to say something but wasn't sure what he should say. He suspected whatever he said would be ignored. Or he'd get punished for it.
Fuck it. I'll say what's on my mind and be done with it.
He just wanted Toby released.
"Please, will you just let Toby go?” he whispered. “He won't say anything, and I'll stay here as insurance or whatever you want. Just please, let him go."
No answer came.
Toby made a noise, like a sharp intake of breath, and Russell wondered if it was from emotions in response to what he'd said or whether his lover was in pain.
"You both have to stay,” a male voice had said. Beard.
Russell shivered at the memory now and squeezed Toby's hand slightly. Even doing that made him want to cry out. The pain in his muscles was so bad he wondered if he'd survive until the next time some merciless freak came in here and tortured him some more. Maybe his mind would go to that place again, where he felt nothing. At the moment, it even hurt to breathe. His ribs felt as though they'd been broken, but the chain hadn't whipped them that much. The main strikes had been on the side of his right leg—the one that had faced Frost as Toby held him in place—and his arse, back, and shoulders. His left side had fared badly too as the end of the chain had snaked around like a living thing, biting into his flesh.
He took a small breath and cleared his throat. His head throbbed with the effort.
"You all right?” he whispered, actually more of a croak, knowing it was a damn stupid question. Neither of them were all fucking right.
Toby's voice came back broken. “Not too bad, mate. I think you got the worst of it. I'm sorry for that. I should have kept my mouth shut but I—"
"It's okay. Where do you hurt the most?"
"My sides, from being stretched up there, and I think, hell, I
know
there are open welts. I felt the blood dripping. It feels tight now. Like they've scabbed over. I just don't have the guts to touch them to find out how bad they are.” He sighed. “I'll live."
Will you?
Will I?
"I...fuck, this is mental,” Russell said.
"Yeah."
Russell attempted to lift his free hand, the longing to touch Toby's face gripping him, but it was just too hard a feat. The chain attached to his wrist manacle rattled. His energy depleted for now, all he could manage was watching the memories in his mind.
Beard, the big fucker, had walked toward them once he'd flicked another spotlight on. One directly above them. Brighter than the one in the corner. Sharp and intrusive on Russell's eyes. Russell had shivered at the sight. Beard looked so sinister, the light only reaching the skin of his face. His beard melted into the darkness below, and it seemed like only a forehead, eyes, and a nose hovered midair.
At the time, Russell expected Beard to start punching him in the face like he'd done to Mr. Jacob, but the man just stood a couple of metres in front of them. His eyes held what looked like compassion, and it confused Russell. This bloke had been nothing but brusque with them when they'd been in his company, yet here he was, apparently sorry?
Russell shook his head. He'd imagined the look, the sorrow, hadn't he? No way did this brute feel anything but hatred for them.
"I've been told to get you down,” Beard said. “I don't want any funny shit when I do, either. It's better for you if you just let me lower you and attach you to another chain in the alcove back there.” His face wavered as he nodded, his gaze staring behind them. Then his sights returned to Russell, and he asked, “You hurt bad? Reckon anything's broken?"
Beard
did
look sorry, concerned, and Russell wondered whether the man liked his job or whether he'd been forced to do it. That wouldn't surprise him in the slightest. Frost was an arsehole.
Russell waited for Toby to speak, and when he didn't, he said, “Everything hurts. Tends to when you've been whipped with a fucking chain and left hanging for God knows how long, know what I mean?” He inwardly cursed himself for his outburst, but shit, he was going to die at some point anyway, so he may as well say what was on his mind. “You'll soon see when you let us down, won't you? If we can walk, bonus, if we can't..."
All of a sudden he wanted to hug Toby, to kiss him, have some form of normality in this crazy situation. He wished they were down already, that Beard had left the room, and they could just hold hands and
be
.