The Game (Tom Wood)

FORTY-NINE





Mr Hart. That was the blond man’s name. Lucille had heard the young man in the suit call him that when he praised the blond man’s good work. She was scared. More scared than she had been during the long journey in the dark. Hart had kidnapped her and Peter for the man in the suit. But why? What did he want?

‘Who was that?’ Peter asked. He sat next to Lucille on the mattress while the van rocked and swayed. He spoke loudly to be heard above the rumble of the engine and exhaust.

‘I don’t know, honey.’

‘I want to go back in the cab.’

‘Maybe later.’

‘I’m bored in here.’

She put her arm around him and pulled him close. ‘Me too.’

‘I’m hungry.’

She fumbled in the darkness until she found the bag Hart had given her what seemed like an eternity ago. She had given up trying to keep track of the passing time. When she slept and woke, she didn’t know how long she had been asleep. She felt continuously exhausted.

‘Here you go,’ Lucille said, finding Peter’s hand and placing a bar of chocolate in it.

‘Ugh,’ he grunted. ‘I want some proper food.’

‘I’m sorry, honey, I don’t have any. We’ll eat some soon, I promise.’

The van rocked and swayed and Lucille reminded herself to be strong for Peter’s sake. He was in denial, of course. Despite his age, he must know they were in some kind of trouble, that something bad was happening, but he buried it down deep inside him and pretended it wasn’t real. Lucille wished she could do the same, and maybe if she tried, she could convince herself that they were going to get out of this okay and she could find a brief moment free of terror and panic. But she needed that fear. She needed to be afraid each and every second because she had to be ready to try – to fight. For Peter.



It seemed about an hour before the van stopped again but the engine stayed running. The padding on the walls, floor and ceiling muffled exterior sounds but Lucille felt as if their captor had left the vehicle for a moment and then climbed back inside. Twenty seconds later the van stopped once more and the vibrations from the engine ceased. The rear doors opened again and the man with blond hair and the wolf’s eyes, the man called Hart, stood before her.

‘We’re here,’ he said.

‘You’re letting us go?’

‘Not yet.’

‘But you’re going to?’

He said, ‘Of course,’ but his eyes said otherwise.

She looked past him. They were outside some kind of industrial complex. She saw large buildings, crates, equipment, tanks and containers and a forklift truck. It seemed deserted. She recognised the Italian script on a safety sign.

‘We’re in Italy,’ she said out loud.

Hart nodded.

‘Why?’

‘Why not?’

‘Let us go. Please.’

He held out his hand. ‘Come with me.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Of course you don’t, but you will.’

His expression didn’t change and his hand stayed outstretched, waiting for her to accept it. She knew she couldn’t refuse him. She bit her bottom lip to stop it trembling and touched his hand with hers. He gripped it and helped her out of the van. He turned away from her to beckon Peter and she fantasised about striking the back of Hart’s skull with a length of iron pipe and grabbing Peter and running. But there was no length of pipe for her to use, and if there had been, she had no strength to swing it.

Hart lifted Peter up and placed him down on the ground next to Lucille, then ruffled his hair. Peter didn’t smile.

‘This way,’ Hart said.

He gestured for her to walk to the smaller of the two buildings. The larger one was a modern factory unit, whereas the building she walked towards looked at least a century old. It had whitewashed walls and a sloping roof of red tiles. A set of arched double doors made of dark-stained wood formed the main entrance and Lucille approached them, heart thumping, imagining what might be on the other side of them.

But Hart said, ‘Not through those,’ and led them to one end of the building. ‘In there.’

She inhaled sharply. ‘No, please…’

‘Save your tears, Lucille.’ Hart wiped one from her cheek and sucked it from his thumb. ‘You’ll need each and every one for later.’