Page 34 of Outcast

“Hobson?”

It was insane. Here I was, duct taped for the second time in twenty-four hours, still suffering from being injected with a mystery drug, but it felt good to be the one doing the snubbing for once. The more Henry called out, the more I ignored him. He and the triumvirate were used to being the center of Mercia Academy. Let him see what it felt like to be the one clamoring for attention. I’d bet he didn’t feel quite so kingly now. Eventually, whatever drugs still remained in my system kicked in again, and I fell back to sleep.

The next time I woke, a large someone was carrying me over his shoulder. I cracked my eyes open. It was sunrise, but the streetlights still shone. We seemed to be in a residential area of terraced houses fronted by ridiculously tiny front gardens with brick walls. This wasn’t Mercia village. The distant traffic sounds and the lack of fresh air made me think we were in a large city.

Between parked cars, I caught glimpses of pot-holes in the road, indicating that this was a run-down part of town. Then we passed a street sign that said MULBERRY TERRACE. Whoever was carrying me stopped at a house with lots of broken furniture and black, plastic bags piled into its front garden. My nose twitched at the stench of trash.

The door opened, wafting out the warm, sickly-sweet smell of marijuana. The chatter of young people filled the air along with the strains of Bob Marley playing on a smartphone. My abductor’s heavy tread made every floorboard creak underfoot. I counted three flights of what felt like woodworm-infested stairs.

“Caz!” shouted a slurred voice.

“Chat later,” one of the kidnappers snapped.

“Oi, Stokes?” the voice said. “What are you two doing?”

I bit down hard on my lip and memorized those names. From the party atmosphere and lack of DJ, this place appeared to be some sort of commune for hippy criminals. At the end of the third floor hallway, someone up ahead opened a creaking door, and we entered a musty room filled with broken furniture. The man whose shoulder I’d been lounging on placed me onto a bed topped with a bare, urine-scented mattress.

“Keep her quiet, or we’ll do it for you,” said a rough voice.

I drew in a sharp breath through my teeth. More drugs?

“Don’t worry about Hobson,” Henry replied, resignation in his voice. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

When the door clicked shut and a key turned in the lock, Henry rushed to my side.

“Hobson? Are you alright?”

I tried to sit up, but the pain swirling inside my skull shoved me back down. “Headache.” I squeezed my eyes shut, reciting a list of everything I’d seen: large city, pot-holes, Mulberry Terrace, broken furniture in the front garden, a three-story house occupied by hippies, the scent of marijuana, woodworm, Caz and Stokes. “But I’m fine.”

Henry lowered himself onto the mattress, making its springs groan. “Hopefully, they’ll let us out once the ransom is paid.” He glanced around the room. “Although I think the squalor may kill us first.”

Chapter 12

I must have fallen asleep again because the next thing I knew, I was propped up on the mattress with my back against the wall while someone took photos of me with a flash camera. My entire skull felt like it was made of iron, and each flare of the camera flash sent searing pain through its contents. They must have injected me again while I’d dozed off.

Cold despair filled my heart, seeped out into my chest and settled in my stomach, adding to its thickening dread. If the kidnappers kept me drugged like this, I’d probably be an addict by the time they’d convinced Rudolph to pay my ransom. Then I’d have to drop out of school and go to rehab, then spend the rest of my life relapsing like Dad. Then Mom would abandon me, and I’d end up a burden to Dad’s new family, and he’d probably also start taking drugs again. Tears stung the back of my eyes. Why had I chased after Henry last night? It wasn’t like the liar would have been willing to straighten things out.

The grimy photo shoot came to an end, and I cracked my eyes open. A pale blonde woman in her mid-thirties leaned against the far wall holding an SLR camera with a large flash. Thick, unkempt dreadlocks framed her scrawny face, and dark circles ringed her eyes. She wore a black sweater over a miniskirt that did nothing to flatter her thin, blotchy legs.

The photographer showed the screen of her digital camera to a clean-shaven man in his early twenties wearing a beanie. Thin wisps of fluff covered his jawline, and I re-evaluated his age. He was probably just a couple of years older than me. The pair discussed the images in hushed voices, working out which ones to send with their demand for ransom.

I closed my eyes again, not wanting them to know I’d seen their faces.

There was no sign of Henry in the room. Perhaps they’d taken him somewhere to make a ransom video.

Eventually, they shuffled out into the hallway. When the door clicked shut, and the key turned in the lock, I snapped my eyes open and surveyed my surroundings. Broken furniture lined the wall, piled to the ceiling in front of the windows. They were boarded up, but chinks of sunlight shone through a gap in the wood. At the side of the bed stood an oak chair, where they’d left two bottles of water and a pack of paracetamol. I ignored the tablets and checked the seal on the bottle. It was still intact, so I cracked it open and took several gulps of warm liquid.

Moments later, the door was unlocked, and Henry stumbled through. Behind him stood a pair of men in balaclavas. I drew my knees to my chest and breathed hard. It had been a good call to pretend I’d been asleep for the photo shoot. These kidnappers might not have let me out of their house alive otherwise.

The smallest of the balaclava men pointed at me. “Stay quiet, and no one gets hurt.”

I nodded and gulped.

“How much do you think Trommel will pay for you? Five million? Ten?”

Warm water regurgitated to the back of my throat, making me cough. “What?”

The short kidnapper stepped forward and pointed his finger under my nose. “You’re his stepdaughter, aren’t you?”