Page 41 of Break Out the Girl

“We are not those people,” Kitty-cat says in her most swishy voice. “You’ll be OK with us. But where is everyone else? We’re looking for a girl called Sky…or maybe Candy.”

“Too late, genius,” the kid snaps, being far too wiggly for me to break a record on cuff-picking. “They cleared the whole lot out at dawn.”

He tightens his clutch on the metal pipe. “Everyone was dressed up like fucking dolls, but they left me behind because I bit one of them.”

Ooh, have I found a kindred spirit?

“The main bastard said I was too unruly for the party, so they left me here. Took all the others. They’re stupid. Scared little sheep who won’t bleat in case they get hit.” He gives a little grin that makes me want to give him a blue certificate for excellent attitude in a shitty situation.

The cuff falls off and he shakes his ankle free, then stands, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Where have the other captives been taken?" Shane growls, his eyes doing that slitty pupil thing. The kid blinks, looking at Shane with shivery respect.

“Big party,” the boy says, his voice turning deadly serious. “A massive, stupid superyacht called The Carnivàle, has been out in the bay. You could see it from the bathroom window. They sometimes have parties and auctions on it. They took all the kids there first thing this morning.”

“Fuck,” Kitten sighs. “Stop doing your thing, François. He’s just a kid.”

Ahh, the shiver-vision.

I put out a hand. “Come along, little fella. Time to make like a bun and roll. Ooh, what’s your name? Is it Roland?”

“Does it matter? It's not like we’re going to be friends.”

No, no, no. That’s not true. “Listen, Mr. Man,” I tell him. “We are already your friends, so tough titties. And actually, I think your name is Tucker.”

He looks like a ‘Tucker’.

He gives me a look like maybe he’s feeling pukey. “My name is not Tucker, it’s Basil, fuckwad.”

Aha!

“Nice to meet you, Basil Fuckwad.”

“Can we please get moving,” Kitten murmurs. “Like, now?” Moving. Yes. Quite right.

Except my legs don’t seem to have received the memo. They’re stuck. Cemented right into the oak floorboards.

The worms in my belly aren’t just twisting anymore; they’ve turned into giant, slimy eels, wrapping around my throat, squeezing the breath right out of my pipes. The fake lavender scent they’d spray around to cover up the tang of fear is just the same. Number nine.

Nine turned upside down is six. Six doors down. Six feet under.

“London?” A sweet voice sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a deep, dark well calls my name.

Or maybe I’m in the well. Ding dong dell. It’s me. I’m sixteen again, and the man with the scarred face is holding that heavy cattle-prod. Buzz, buzz, conked-out.

“Oh dear,” I mumble.

I think I’m having a little bit of a funny-turn.

“London, look at me!” Warm hands grab at my arms.

“He’s losing it,” a shivery voice says. They’re not wrong. “We don’t have time for this, Aurora. I’ll carry him.”

“Don’t touch me!” I shriek, a horrible, high-pitched animal bleat ripping out of my throat as I scramble backward into the corner.

My spine slams hard against the radiator pipes. “No parties! No more parties…” I will not let Coco and Bozo take me to the circus again.

A sharp, violent sting explodes across my left cheek. SMACK.