by Tom Bale
Young lady, you don’t understand. Cassie and the children are
alone, locked in a room at a location known only to me. No one else
is going to find them. Now, I’m prepared to be reasonable and revise
our earlier deal. But if you want to see them again you’ll have to
accept my terms.’
Valentin looked undecided, while Priya suddenly frowned, looking
around the room. She turned to Liam.
'Where’s Oliver?’
The mention of his name made Oliver jump, and nearly gave him
away.
He’d come downstairs and hidden in the hallway just outside the
gym. The danger only added to the excitement. He was in his element:
spying on others while remaining unobserved.
His view of the gallery was limited, but if he concentrated hard he
could hear almost every word. The acoustics of the gym helped: all
those hard shiny surfaces reflected the sound of voices.
Now Priya was demanding to know where he was. He felt a stab
of pride that she cared enough to ask, followed by a vague resentment
that it had taken her until now to register his absence.
It was Liam who supplied the answer. 'He’s locked in his bedroom.
Daddy didn’t want him around while he discussed business.’
'Where’s the key?’ Priya demanded.
'Probably in the lock,’ said Robert Felton. He seemed absurdly
confident, given the circumstances.
'Will you fetch him?’ Priya asked. Now her tone was strikingly
different: warm, feminine, sensual. Intrigued, Oliver crept nearer to
the doorway and discovered that she’d been talking to Valentin
Nasenko.
Before leaving the room, Valentin leaned close and brushed his
lips against her cheek while trailing his hand across her belly and hip.
It was a crude display of possession and, judging by Priya’s expression,
not exactly something she relished. But she didn’t fight him off, either.
Oliver felt something vital curl up and die deep inside him.
With Valentin gone, Priya turned back to Robert Felton. 'Now we
have an obvious transaction. You give us the gold and the girl, and
you and Oliver will be spared.’
'Just the girl?’ his father repeated. Oliver barely heard him over the
sudden loud buzzing in his brain. 'What about the others?’
'Cassie and the boy? I don’t care about them. Neither does Valentin.
We only want his daughter. Either you release her, or Oliver dies.
And I guarantee I’ll hurt him in ways you’ve never dreamed of, and
I’ll make you watch.’
The static filling Oliver’s head was almost unbearable, like a radio
caught between stations, blasting out at full volume. He had to shut
his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them, his father was still staring at Priya, his eyes
narrowed as if conducting a professional evaluation, trying to assess
exactly what manner of creature he was dealing with.
Frankly, Oliver couldn’t see why there wasn’t instant recognition.
If you went on character alone, his father might as well be looking
in a mirror.
'Interesting,’ said Felton. 'But I’m afraid your threats don’t work.
You can do what you like with Oliver.’
'Bullshit!’ It was Liam who reacted. 'What do you take us for?’
'I assure you, Liam, my son is a source of constant regret. A dysfunctional
parasite. A waste of oxygen.’ He gave them a complacent smile.
'In all honesty, you’d be doing me a favour.’
You think you could stand by and watch your own son tortured to
death?’ Liam again.
'I’m not claiming that I’d take any pleasure in witnessing it, of
course not. But I’d get over it. I have a remarkably strong constitution,
you see.’
Oliver wanted to scream. He wanted to throw himself into the room
and do battle with his father one last time.
But he didn’t. Somehow he not only controlled himself, but even
summoned the presence of mind to consider whether his father was
bluffing. Felton senior could have reasoned that the best way to save
Oliver was to profess no concern for his survival.
On the other hand, Robert Felton was also a ruthless sociopath,
and every one of his insults bore the ring of truth. In fact, most of
them had been said before – to Oliver’s face.
A room full of gold versus a dysfunctional parasite? There was really
no competition.
Oliver knew he couldn’t listen any more. As his gaze fell away he
realised he wasn’t as well hidden as he’d thought. Valentin’s bodyguard,
Joe, was standing inside the squash court, staring straight at him.
They made eye contact for a second. Oliver was grateful that Joe’s
expression never wavered, because Liam would surely have noticed
if it had.
But that moment of silent communication was enough. Oliver
hurried away, believing he knew what Joe wanted him to do.
Joe couldn’t decide what to make of Felton’s performance. Priya was
bound to assume that Felton was feigning his disdain for Oliver, but
Joe wasn’t so sure. He knew a little about the tensions between them,
mainly from gossip passed on by Angela Weaver. And with so much
at stake, it seemed all too plausible that Felton would be willing to
sacrifice Oliver for his cause.
But one thing was certain. Regardless of which side prevailed, Joe’s
fate was sealed. No one would trust him to keep quiet about their
deal: therefore he had to be eliminated.
When he glanced at the doorway, trying to gauge if he could take
Liam on, he was confronted with the unexpected sight of Oliver Felton.
The young man’s face was a white mask of shock as he listened to his
father’s ruthless condemnation.
He’ll believe it, Joe thought. He’ll want to believe it, to fuel his
paranoia and self-pity.
But at least Oliver was going to get away. That was one small mercy.
And if Priya really had killed Felton’s men, maybe the other prisoners
at Dreamscape had a chance of freedom as well. With any luck, Oliver
would help them escape, and then raise the alarm.
Fifty-Eight
When Angela cut Terry free, the first thing he did was wrap her in a
heartfelt embrace. It lasted only a couple of seconds, but its effect was
extraordinary: obliterating all the pain and fear in an instant. She could
scarcely believe how wonderful it felt. Her instinctive response was to
clamp her arms around him and not let go, but Terry was already stepping
away.
Of course he was. They had two more people to release. To keep
them waiting would be rude and selfish. But she was sorry it had
ended so soon.
While he cut the restraints, Terry set out his escape plan. 'We may
have to get past guards or a roadblock at the bridge, so I suggest we
go to my place first. My Hummer’s parked in the garage.’
Angela nodded her agreement, but Maria gave an apologetic smile.
'So sorry. But first I need . . .’ She made a face, embarrassed.
Terry frowned. 'What?’
Then the driver, Pete Milton, said, “Me too. I feel like my bladder’s
; gonna explode.’
'You know that every second we stay in here — '
'We know, Terry,’ said Angela. 'But we’ve been trussed up in here
for hours, and frankly I’m also in no fit state to run anywhere until
I’ve visited the loo.’
She started towards the inner door, but Terry stayed where he was.
When she turned, he waved her away.
'You go on. I’ll meet you in the hall.’
They found two cloakrooms on the ground floor. Angela took one,
and Maria the other. Milton didn’t discuss what arrangements he’d
made, but when Angela came out she found him strolling back from
the kitchen, looking a lot more relaxed. He’d also managed to wash
off some of the blood around his broken nose.
Terry was waiting for them in the hall, bouncing on his feet like a
hyperactive teenager. He too looked much happier, and he showed
her why, lifting a handgun into sight.
'Found this on the guard,’ he said. 'Loaded and ready to go.’
'You really think you’d use it?’
'Too bloody right I would.’
Making sure the way was clear, Terry led them outside. Angela and
Maria followed close behind him, with Milton bringing up the rear.
The night was clear and starry, the air cool and sweet after the evil
stench of the garage: to breathe it was a heady delight.
They made it across the driveway, but as Terry reached the gates
he suddenly flapped his free hand in a downwards motion. He dropped
into a crouch, checking over his shoulder to make sure they’d done
the same.
'What?’ Angela mouthed, but by now she could hear the footsteps.
Somebody coming . . .
Priya didn’t like the way Felton was looking at her: with a lazy smile
and half-closed eyes, an expression that was at once smug, disrespectful,
even faintly lecherous. He radiated the type of blithe natural confidence
that seemed impervious to threats.
Worst of all, she didn’t think he was faking any of it. He really did
believe he was immune to failure.
'Lot of mopping up to do,’ he observed. 'The poor buggers next
door, and those two, of course.’ He nodded towards the squash court:
Liam and Joe. 'If we do it your way, there can’t be any witnesses.’
'You don’t have a say in the matter.’
Felton shrugged, then called out to Liam: 'How do you feel about
being surplus to requirements? Priya and her lover boy won’t want
you playing gooseberry.’
'Shut the fuck up,’ Liam responded.
Grinning, Felton turned back to Priya. 'The truth hurts,’ he said
quietly. 'It’s the same with you, I’m afraid. You made a poor choice
with that wannabe oligarch.’ He leaned slightly, peering along the
corridor behind her. 'Valentin was never a player. Just look at his wife.
He couldn’t get a supermodel or a Hollywood star, so he settled for
some one-hit wonder from a TV talent show. Believe me, Priya, you
can do much, much better than that.’
She smiled. You’re wasting your breath.’
'Oh, I think you’re tempted. Even if Valentin does get his hands
on that gold, he’ll find a way to squander it somehow. And then where
will you be?’
Far away from any of you, Priya thought. With my own money safe
and sound.
Felton opened his hands palm out: a straight-talking gesture. 'Look,
I could pour on a lot of flattery about how smart you are, how beautiful,
but I don’t need to do that. All I’m suggesting is that you reassess
your position. It’s not too late.’
'To change sides, you mean?’
He nodded. 'To be a winner.’
His gaze flickered past her, and a touch of caution entered his face.
Valentin returned, one hand caressing the small of Priya’s back as he
came alongside her. He looked about twenty years older than Felton,
grey and drab and weary.
One foot in the grave, she thought.
He showed her the key in his hand. 'I can’t find him. The door
was locked, but the room is empty.’
Felton displayed grudging admiration. 'He’s escaped? My God, I
didn’t think he had it in him.’
'The bathroom window was open,’ Valentin went on, 'but it’s a long
drop. Unless somehow he climbed down?’
Priya was picturing the house, the peculiar little dormers and
concealed attic room. She shook her head.
'He went up. Climbed over the roof.’
As she said it, Felton was waiting with a congratulatory smile:
one step ahead of them as always. It was the smile of a man who
believed he was home and dry, because without Oliver they had
no leverage at all. Reason dictated that Priya would have to take
his offer seriously. She would see the merit of his argument and
climb aboard.
It could be done in an instant, she thought. Valentin was just inches
away from her: unarmed, unsuspecting, his attention focused mostly
on Felton. Point-blank range.
Easy as a bullet, once the decision was made.
Easy as a bullet.
The footsteps were light but rapid. Angela felt her stomach clench at
the thought of yet more violence. She had sensed a subtle change in
Terry, now that he was wielding a gun. Not quite a swagger, but definitely
a swelling of confidence, as though he would welcome a chance
to use it.
For all her misgivings, it was quite understandable. And if their
survival depended on his willingness to kill, Angela knew she would
not object.
A figure loomed over them as Terry launched himself up, ready to
shoot. Angela was the first to recognise Oliver Felton, but it was too
dangerous to shout or grab Terry’s arm. Instead she rushed past him
and threw herself in front of the tall, thin, bewildered boy.
'Oh, Jesus.’ Terry whipped the gun away from them, and Angela
saw the white spots on his knuckles. 'I nearly. . .’
Angela touched Terry’s cheek; she could feel his warmth, and the
roughness of his stubble. 'It’s all right. Oliver’s on our side. Aren’t
you?’
For a moment Oliver just stared at her, as if she’d spoken in a
foreign language.
'So is it your dad over there?’ Terry asked, indicating the Felton
house. 'Is that who those other men are working for?’
'His storm troopers,’ Oliver said, his voice strangely placid.
'Why didn’t they release us when they had the chance?’ Angela
asked.
'He had a deal to make first. With Valentin. It’s all he cares about:
deals, money, power. My father is a monster. Always has been. Always
will be.’
His voice tailed off as he looked beyond them and fixed his gaze
on Dreamscape. Angela had the unsettling impression that he’d been
talking to himself, and barely knew they were there.
'We need to hurry,’ Terry reminded her.
Yes.’ She waved her hand to attract Oliver’s attention. 'Come on.
Leave them to their in-fighting and let the police take over.’
'He’ll only buy his way out. Police, judges, politicians, they all
succumb at the right price.’
He smiled, as t
hough he found his own wisdom immensely satisfying,
and continued to stare at the huge empty house.
Angela flinched as a hand gripped her shoulder. Terry. 'What he
does is up to him. But we’re leaving. Now.’
He eased her towards the road, but she went sluggishly, still trying
to persuade Oliver.
'Please come with us. Don’t stay here.’
But it was no good. Oliver’s dreamy smile never faltered as she
backed away, and finally she allowed herself to turn, hurrying to keep
pace with the others, her heart wrenched by a sudden conviction that
she would never see him again.
'Is that how he got out? Did he climb over the roof?’ Priya asked. The
answer was immaterial, but she needed time to think and this bought
her valuable seconds.
'I’ve no idea,’ said Felton. 'Maybe he built a glider and flew away
on it.’ He lifted his hand and made a fluttering motion with his fingers,
all the time his eyes locked on Priya, glinting with the thrill of their
illicit communication. We could fly away . . .
'Where will he go?’ Valentin demanded.
'Why would I tell you that, even if I knew? He’s soft in the head.
Impossible to predict.’ Enjoying Valentin’s frustration, Felton added,
You know, do you, that this young lady is quite happy to let your
family perish?’
'That’s not true,’ said Priya.
'I beg your pardon. You want me to spare the daughter, but Cassie
and her son can die, paving the way for your own . . . liaison. Will
you marry her?’ Felton snapped the question at Valentin, who baulked.
'Enough of this. Give me my daughter, and the gold, and we will
spare your life.’
Felton ignored him. 'I wish Yuri had told me she was your Achilles
heel.’
Yuri did not know about us,’ Valentin said. 'No one knew.’
'She’s a hell of a catch, Valentin. In fact, we were just saying, she’s
really a bit too good for you. I can’t see it lasting, to be honest.’
For a second Priya thought Valentin was going to snatch the gun
from her and shoot Felton on the spot. She knew all about Valentin’s
short temper; his eagerness to take offence and bear a grudge. She’d
told herself that it wouldn’t matter once they were together; that his
negative qualities would be outweighed by security and wealth.
Besides, Valentin had rescued her, like a knight in a fairy story. If
not for him, she’d have sunk into a morass of drug addiction and prostitution.