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The first thing I notice is the heat, radiating off every surface, making it difficult to breathe. A faint line of light is visible along the edge of the closed boot. My hands and feet are taped. My head is bleeding. The spare tyre is wedged beneath my hip. I am trapped. Dying.
My phone is in my back pocket, but without my hands I can’t pull it out and dial a number. Pulling up my knees, I manage to turn onto my back. I kick hard with my legs and yell for help. The car rocks. I kick again and again, screaming, sweating, bleeding.
I picture the men who attacked me. They came for Arben. A boy. What sort of monsters . . .?
I’m interrupted by a voice. Frail. Elderly.
‘What are you doing in there?’ he asks.
‘I’m trapped.’
‘How on earth did that happen?’
‘I was attacked.’
He’s with a woman, his wife perhaps, who calls him Ian and tells him to be careful because I might be dangerous.
‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘I’m baking in here. I need water . . . air.’
‘Where are your keys?’ asks Ian.
‘In my pocket.’
‘How am I supposed to let you out?’
‘Call the police. Get a crowbar. Please.’
I hear them arguing. His wife is called Hanneke and she doesn’t want to get involved because I might be part of a criminal gang.
‘I work for the police,’ I say.
‘How do we know that?’ she asks. ‘You could be lying.’
‘I’m not. I can prove it. I have ID.’
A third person enters the conversation. Younger. Male. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asks.
‘Some chap has locked himself inside,’ explains Ian.
‘No, I was attacked!’ I yell. ‘My name is Cyrus Haven. I work with the police.’
The younger man takes charge, telling me to sit tight, as though I might go somewhere. In the meantime, I listen to Ian and Hanneke talking about children and pets being locked in cars in the summer, dying of heatstroke and dehydration.
I interrupt them. ‘I was with someone – a teenage boy. His name is Arben. Is he there?’
‘No,’ they answer in unison.
‘What about a large four-wheel drive. It pulled up behind me.’
‘We don’t own a four-wheel drive,’ says Ian.
‘I’m not talking about you,’ I say, growing frustrated.
‘There’s no need to be rude,’ says Hanneke.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, sweat stinging my eyes.
The young guy returns and tells the couple to step back. I hear metal scraping against metal as the sharp point of a jemmy is levered under the boot lid near the lock. Metal groans and the lock buckles, before giving way.
