winced at the sound of his own voice.
Sniffly and tearful.
He didn’t want to cry. It would be shaming enough if his friends discovered he’d peed his pants when they let him out of here. In the next ten minutes or so at latest, when Jens and
Kevin lost interest in their practical joke. Because that’s what it was, you bet. A stupid, rotten, lousy practical joke!
What else would it be, you little piddle-pants? Stop blubbing.
Kevin was always boasting about the knockout drops they sold in the chemist’s shop his parents owned. He must have tried some out on him to pay him back.
Just because I hid his pants in the girls’ changing room after swimming. But at least that was funny. Not like this...
Toby tried to stretch. His elbows dug into the walls of his prison. It surprised him again that they yielded under pressure. Had the idiots stuck him in a tent?
No, it was too cramped for that. Besides, the surface wasn’t smooth. It didn’t feel like rubber or canvas. It was much rougher, more like coarse carpeting or wallpaper, or...
Or a sack?
Toby started sobbing again. He couldn’t help thinking of the horror video Jens had showed them during break at school. His parents were filthy rich. (Dad always says their windscreen
replacement business makes so much money, they could wipe their arses on banknotes if they ran out of toilet paper.) That was why Jens was the first boy in his class with the latest iPhone. The
kind you could use to view internet videos at a moment’s notice.
They’d all met up behind the gym the very first day, and Jens had proudly showed them the clip where a naked girl was stuffed into a sack by a gang of youths. She tried to defend herself,
lashing out with her arms and legs, but they got her into it in the end and tied the neck securely. Toby had joined in the others’ laughter at first, because it really did look as if a dozen
snakes were rampaging around inside the sack. But he’d felt sick when the youth with the cigarette in his mouth laughingly emptied a can of petrol over the squirming sack. He’d turned
away and walked back to the playground. On his own.
They’re probably doing the same to me. Because I was too chicken to watch.
‘Okay, you win,’ he called into the darkness. He pictured Kevin and Jens clutching their mouths so he couldn’t hear them giggling.
‘Come on, let me out.’
No answer.
Desperately, he rammed both fists against the material at head height, feeling the sweat run down his face. He was panting even harder than he would have done after running the 400 metres,
although he hadn’t exerted himself half as much as that in the last few minutes.
There’s nothing much anyone can do in here. Except feel scared.
Toby sniffed and drew several deep breaths. His fingers still tingled as if they were thawing out after a snowball fight. He ran them over the yielding walls around him.
They weren’t damp and there was no smell of petrol, thank God, so they’d left out that bit of the video.
So far.
All at once his fingers encountered something cold: a small metal object was hanging from the side of his cloth prison, roughly on a level with his tummy button. It was the size of the Zippo
lighter that his father always topped up at weekends.
Hey, it even felt like a Zippo.
But it definitely wasn’t one, because that sort of lighter had a hinged top you could open and a flint wheel you could turn.
And it certainly wouldn’t be hanging from a cloth ceiling in the dark.
Toby held his breath so as not to be distracted by the sound of his own hoarse breathing. Then, when he felt the top of the foreign object and came across a tiny U-shaped shackle, he knew what
he was holding in his hand.
It’s a padlock. A little bronze padlock like the one I use to chain up my bike.
He coughed with excitement. He still wasn’t sure what the discovery signified, but at least it was a discovery. Something that might help to get him out of here.
Is this a
Sniffly and tearful.
He didn’t want to cry. It would be shaming enough if his friends discovered he’d peed his pants when they let him out of here. In the next ten minutes or so at latest, when Jens and
Kevin lost interest in their practical joke. Because that’s what it was, you bet. A stupid, rotten, lousy practical joke!
What else would it be, you little piddle-pants? Stop blubbing.
Kevin was always boasting about the knockout drops they sold in the chemist’s shop his parents owned. He must have tried some out on him to pay him back.
Just because I hid his pants in the girls’ changing room after swimming. But at least that was funny. Not like this...
Toby tried to stretch. His elbows dug into the walls of his prison. It surprised him again that they yielded under pressure. Had the idiots stuck him in a tent?
No, it was too cramped for that. Besides, the surface wasn’t smooth. It didn’t feel like rubber or canvas. It was much rougher, more like coarse carpeting or wallpaper, or...
Or a sack?
Toby started sobbing again. He couldn’t help thinking of the horror video Jens had showed them during break at school. His parents were filthy rich. (Dad always says their windscreen
replacement business makes so much money, they could wipe their arses on banknotes if they ran out of toilet paper.) That was why Jens was the first boy in his class with the latest iPhone. The
kind you could use to view internet videos at a moment’s notice.
They’d all met up behind the gym the very first day, and Jens had proudly showed them the clip where a naked girl was stuffed into a sack by a gang of youths. She tried to defend herself,
lashing out with her arms and legs, but they got her into it in the end and tied the neck securely. Toby had joined in the others’ laughter at first, because it really did look as if a dozen
snakes were rampaging around inside the sack. But he’d felt sick when the youth with the cigarette in his mouth laughingly emptied a can of petrol over the squirming sack. He’d turned
away and walked back to the playground. On his own.
They’re probably doing the same to me. Because I was too chicken to watch.
‘Okay, you win,’ he called into the darkness. He pictured Kevin and Jens clutching their mouths so he couldn’t hear them giggling.
‘Come on, let me out.’
No answer.
Desperately, he rammed both fists against the material at head height, feeling the sweat run down his face. He was panting even harder than he would have done after running the 400 metres,
although he hadn’t exerted himself half as much as that in the last few minutes.
There’s nothing much anyone can do in here. Except feel scared.
Toby sniffed and drew several deep breaths. His fingers still tingled as if they were thawing out after a snowball fight. He ran them over the yielding walls around him.
They weren’t damp and there was no smell of petrol, thank God, so they’d left out that bit of the video.
So far.
All at once his fingers encountered something cold: a small metal object was hanging from the side of his cloth prison, roughly on a level with his tummy button. It was the size of the Zippo
lighter that his father always topped up at weekends.
Hey, it even felt like a Zippo.
But it definitely wasn’t one, because that sort of lighter had a hinged top you could open and a flint wheel you could turn.
And it certainly wouldn’t be hanging from a cloth ceiling in the dark.
Toby held his breath so as not to be distracted by the sound of his own hoarse breathing. Then, when he felt the top of the foreign object and came across a tiny U-shaped shackle, he knew what
he was holding in his hand.
It’s a padlock. A little bronze padlock like the one I use to chain up my bike.
He coughed with excitement. He still wasn’t sure what the discovery signified, but at least it was a discovery. Something that might help to get him out of here.
Is this a
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