As if a bright light had been turned on, he knew exactly what had happened and where he was—and more importantly, who had imprisoned him.
Peter Young was sitting on a sofa chair at the center of the living room, staring at the television screen opposite. The room was small and the lime-green furniture and flower-patterned wallpaper looked dated. With the curtains closed, the only source of light was from the television and two small lamps fixed to the wall. At the far end of the room was a large open doorway leading into a kitchen. Behind Richard, past the stone archway, was a yellow-tiled hallway that led to the front door and the rest of the cottage. And fast asleep on Peter’s lap was a small child. The baby boy looked no older than one, wearing a blue one-piece outfit.
Panic struck Richard when he saw this, and his breathing became erratic through his nostrils. Struggling to move, he wriggled noisily on the floor, trying desperately to get to his feet. But it was no use—his efforts were ineffective.
“Don’t bother,” he heard Peter calmly say.
Richard could feel his mind race and his body almost spasm with terror. He tried to move but was frozen, staring intently at Peter’s chunky, towering frame.
“Stay exactly where you are,” Peter said, standing with the baby in his arms. He lowered the sleeping child into a cot at the side of the sofa, kissing him as he tucked him into a blanket. “So, tell me,” he said, starting to walk toward Richard. “Who are you?”
Richard’s words were muffled by the gag.
Peter groaned. “Look, if I pull that thing out of your mouth, you promise not to scream or try anything funny? I don’t want you waking up the baby.”
Richard nodded obediently.
Kneeling down beside him, Peter untied the gag. Richard let out a loud breath of relief.
“So, I’ll ask you again,” Peter said, still kneeling down. “Who the hell are you?”
Richard had to think fast. “I was just looking for help.”
“Help for what?”
“My car’s broken down, and I couldn’t get a signal on my phone.” Instantly he regretted mentioning that he had a phone because he could still feel its weight in his pocket. “So I took a walk to look for a public phone.”
“Where’s your car?”
“It’s just outside your gate—by the bushes.”
Peter didn’t reply, he just glared deep into Richard’s eyes, clearly trying to see if he was lying.
“It’s just outside,” Richard repeated, desperation and panic in his voice. “You can check if you want.”
Peter paused for a moment. “You know what: I might have believed you if I hadn’t caught you sneaking around the house—because most people ring the bloody doorbell when they want someone’s help.” His calm tone had changed dramatically, causing Richard to tighten up and sidle back a little.
“Please, I was just a bit lost,” he explained, his voice quivering. “And I was admiring your land.”
All that was going through Richard’s mind as he watched Peter was getting home to his wife, and how he had made a stupid mistake coming here in the first place. Why couldn’t he have listened to the voice of reason in his head? Why couldn’t he have just gone to the police like an ordinary person?
“I tell you what I’m gonna do for you,” Peter calmly said, as he got up heavily from the floor. Richard anxiously followed his every movement. “I’m going to give you a chance,” he said, walking over to the sofa, “to tell me the truth about why you’re here.” Reaching down, he grasped something out of Richard’s view. “And if you don’t—” Richard gasped loudly in horror when he saw Peter turn and point a shotgun directly at him. “—I’m gonna blow your fucking head off.”
Almost hyperventilating, Richard’s muscles tensed, nearly bursting. “Please. I’m telling you the truth,” he pleaded, his eyes filling with tears. “I swear to God. I wouldn’t lie. Please—put the gun away. I’ve got a family. Please!”