into the car. And then we were away.
My mind was reeling. Half my teeth felt like they were about to say good-bye to the other half. I’d thought at first that I’d been caught by the police. But already I knew that it wasn’t the police. No. This was something worse.
BIGED
There were three of them in the car. I was in the backseat wedged between two of them. The third drove. There was a nodding dog on the ledge behind me. Only it wasn’t nodding anymore because somebody had pulled off its head. That was the sort of people they were. The sort who could visit the Chamber of Horrors and upstage the exhibits.
The driver was a punk. He had close-cropped, bright green hair and two studs in his ear. There was a scorpion tattooed on the back of his neck. He was chewing gum and every time he moved his mouth the scorpion writhed like it was trying to find a way out of his skin. That was all I could see of him from where I was sitting. It was enough to make me wish that I was sitting someplace else.
The two other men—they were both in their thirties—could have been brothers. Or sisters. They were somewhere in between. The fat, unshaven cheeks, the enormous biceps, the beer guts, and the balding heads . . . that was all definitely masculine. I wasn’t so sure about the handbags and the floral dresses. One of them had a scar running from his eye to his cheekbone. He’d tried to hide it with a dab of powder, but it needed something more. A large paper bag for example.
Nobody said anything for about five minutes, by which time we’d crossed the river, heading southwest. I shifted in my seat and one of the heavies dug an elbow into my ribs.
“Keep still, pretty boy,” he said in a voice so deep that it seemed to come from his knees.
“Where are we going?” I asked. “Who are you guys working for?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
The punk giggled, making the scorpion dance. I gritted my teeth. This wasn’t the first time I’d been taken for a ride. But if I didn’t make a move soon, it could well be the last. It didn’t seem fair. I was too young to die. And to be murdered by two men in women’s clothes! What would my parents say?
I made my move when the car slowed down for a red traffic light. I thought I’d timed it perfectly. We were in heavier traffic. One of the thugs was staring out of the window. The other was sitting back with his eyes half closed. Grab the handle, slam the door open, and I’d be out before they knew it. That was the idea.
But I’d underestimated them. I lurched forward. My hand moved a fraction. Then one of them grabbed me. I tried to shout out, to get the attention of the other drivers. I hadn’t even opened my mouth before something hit me, hard, on the side of the neck. I think it was a handbag. The car spun. I thought of the nodding dog. Then I was out.
When I came to, I was back behind bars—but not exactly in a prison. It was a long narrow building that wasn’t quite a building but was somehow familiar. My head was hurting and there was a nasty taste in my mouth. Otherwise I was more or less okay.
There was a sound outside. A rush and a shudder and a loud clinking. It told me what sort of building I was in. I should have known from the bare planks, the metal grille, the corridor almost as narrow as my prison cell, the square windows, and the communication cord. This was the guard’s van of a train. But it was a train that wasn’t moving. So where were we, then? Victoria Station?
I sat there for about two hours. It had been almost dark when I woke up, but now it was darker. I could see the light fading behind the screens that covered the windows. I expected the train to jolt forward at any time, but it never did. I was getting hungry. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and I was beginning to hope that a guard might wander through with a sandwich when the door opened and the punk appeared in the corridor.
He was still chewing gum and giggling. He had a safety
My mind was reeling. Half my teeth felt like they were about to say good-bye to the other half. I’d thought at first that I’d been caught by the police. But already I knew that it wasn’t the police. No. This was something worse.
BIGED
There were three of them in the car. I was in the backseat wedged between two of them. The third drove. There was a nodding dog on the ledge behind me. Only it wasn’t nodding anymore because somebody had pulled off its head. That was the sort of people they were. The sort who could visit the Chamber of Horrors and upstage the exhibits.
The driver was a punk. He had close-cropped, bright green hair and two studs in his ear. There was a scorpion tattooed on the back of his neck. He was chewing gum and every time he moved his mouth the scorpion writhed like it was trying to find a way out of his skin. That was all I could see of him from where I was sitting. It was enough to make me wish that I was sitting someplace else.
The two other men—they were both in their thirties—could have been brothers. Or sisters. They were somewhere in between. The fat, unshaven cheeks, the enormous biceps, the beer guts, and the balding heads . . . that was all definitely masculine. I wasn’t so sure about the handbags and the floral dresses. One of them had a scar running from his eye to his cheekbone. He’d tried to hide it with a dab of powder, but it needed something more. A large paper bag for example.
Nobody said anything for about five minutes, by which time we’d crossed the river, heading southwest. I shifted in my seat and one of the heavies dug an elbow into my ribs.
“Keep still, pretty boy,” he said in a voice so deep that it seemed to come from his knees.
“Where are we going?” I asked. “Who are you guys working for?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
The punk giggled, making the scorpion dance. I gritted my teeth. This wasn’t the first time I’d been taken for a ride. But if I didn’t make a move soon, it could well be the last. It didn’t seem fair. I was too young to die. And to be murdered by two men in women’s clothes! What would my parents say?
I made my move when the car slowed down for a red traffic light. I thought I’d timed it perfectly. We were in heavier traffic. One of the thugs was staring out of the window. The other was sitting back with his eyes half closed. Grab the handle, slam the door open, and I’d be out before they knew it. That was the idea.
But I’d underestimated them. I lurched forward. My hand moved a fraction. Then one of them grabbed me. I tried to shout out, to get the attention of the other drivers. I hadn’t even opened my mouth before something hit me, hard, on the side of the neck. I think it was a handbag. The car spun. I thought of the nodding dog. Then I was out.
When I came to, I was back behind bars—but not exactly in a prison. It was a long narrow building that wasn’t quite a building but was somehow familiar. My head was hurting and there was a nasty taste in my mouth. Otherwise I was more or less okay.
There was a sound outside. A rush and a shudder and a loud clinking. It told me what sort of building I was in. I should have known from the bare planks, the metal grille, the corridor almost as narrow as my prison cell, the square windows, and the communication cord. This was the guard’s van of a train. But it was a train that wasn’t moving. So where were we, then? Victoria Station?
I sat there for about two hours. It had been almost dark when I woke up, but now it was darker. I could see the light fading behind the screens that covered the windows. I expected the train to jolt forward at any time, but it never did. I was getting hungry. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and I was beginning to hope that a guard might wander through with a sandwich when the door opened and the punk appeared in the corridor.
He was still chewing gum and giggling. He had a safety
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