Chapter Seven
In which Fee and Alec establish the parameters of their new relationship.
Fee…
As I said before, I am not impulsive, which I thought meant I was cautious and one for planning.
It turned out that what it also seemed to mean was that when it came to being impulsive I am piss poor at it when I give it a go.
Fortunately for me, my Grandad was a master of the last minute, and the king of improvising.
“Growing up without a pot to piss in has its advantages, Fee. Never doubt it,” he had said as he finished attaching a heavy bit of chain to a metal loop he’d drilled into the floor, and used it to shackle his surprise guest in place. “Makes you practical. Gives you life skills of all sorts.”
He brushed off the knees of his work pants and stood with a groan, hobbling about for a few steps until he could straighten up. “Ah, I’m not the man I was.”
I held Grandad’s rifle on Davies, though he was unlikely to come around even while the drilling and banging and shackling took place. Not with the amount I’d given him, on top of what he’d drunk before. Still, at his size and apparent capacity for liquor, anything was possible.
Looking at the setup Grandad had put in place, I understood why he had heavy chain around the farm, and even the loop that was now screwed to the floor, and the one attached to the wall.
Why he had the shackles, that wasn’t so clear. I looked from where Davies was bound by the wrist and ankle and then met Grandad’s eyes with a raised brow.
“Ask me no questions, girl, and I’ll tell you no lies,” he grinned at me in a way that made me choose to leave it at that and rather quickly. “Let’s go have the tea then. Prince Charming will be sleeping it off for a while yet.”
Over tea, while Da went into town to get a bunch of nonsense that wasn’t needed but that would keep him busy finding, I explained to Grandad what had happened and how he’d ended up with a billionaire in his basement. Even as I told the story I found myself feeling like a prize idiot. Yes, I could get a pile of money for Davies, several piles in fact. And there was no question he deserved a sore head and a bit of humiliation for his high-handed bullshit and complete lack of care for anything other than himself and his garbage business dealings.
But with all of that said, the bright light of morning, a few cups of Barry’s Tea with a plate of toast, and my Grandad’s whiskery face all brought me around to the truth that I had done what I had done for no real reason other than anger and a bit of vanity.
Endangering my family and possibly my team in the process.
I said as much and got waved off by the old man, “Never mind all that. You’ve done it. Yer man in the basement is here now, and probably looks at the odd abduction as the price of being himself. You get some sleep, and then talk to your people, the bad ones I know you know, and see about who you have to get the word out to about the money and how much you want. I must see to the goats before they eat their way through the barn wall.”
Standing up, he stretched and groaned again, and I wondered how long he’d be able to work the farm, even with the help of the few locals he paid and the students who lived here on and off. A few Euros would have to fall into his pockets as well, even if he didn’t care for it.
Tousling my hair on the way out, he looked at the basement door and laughed and muttered, “You keep me young, Fee, yes you do.”
Several texts and five hours of sleep later, I woke with a fresher head and to the smell of Da making a curry. Laying on my back in my old bed, in my old room, one of the couple including his own bedroom that Grandad hadn’t made over to hold several students, I gave myself a few moments to pretend this was a normal visit.
Out of the window, the wood holding it in place slightly warped so it whistled like something from a ghost story, Grandad’s voice came, cursing out his bull, Samson. Fighting the curry was the old stone smell of the walls, manure, the herb plot, and decaying veg in the composter that was like a teenager’s perfume - strong, unappealing to most, yet so nostalgic.
Sitting up, I looked at my mobile, quickly deleting most of the texts from my group. They would be better off not hearing from me for a while, though I was happy to note that they had maxed out most of Davies’ cards in a wild number of fucked up places before disposing of them.
I smiled to think of the look on his face when he saw his monthly statements.
The coded messages I had sent to the two people I knew - one in Russia, the other in Nigeria - who would be interested and able to help arrange the technical parts of a ransom had both been received. Viktoria had told me she would contact me later, that she was in the middle of a thing. Iyare responded with a series of emojis and a free download of his Afrobeat band’s latest track, which was his way of telling me he was taking one of his periodic vacations from criminal activism.
After showering and changing into the work clothes I left at the farm, I checked the news, curious as to how Davies’ disappearance was being framed.
And kept looking.
And looking.
Nothing. The only recent news about him besides a few pieces about his appearance at the protest were some gossip column articles speculating his having had a falling out with another English Godking, Alastair Someoneorother, who was his bestie and who had recently married.
Well, that might explain Davies’ current interest in turning his blood into scotch, though it was hard to imagine the rich having enough humanity to care about anyone.
Downstairs Da had left a pot on the stove and headed out, probably to deal with the geese. The mean-tempered things hated everyone except him so when Ma kicked him out and he came home he took over looking after them.
I called out for Grandad before I noticed that the door to the basement was cracked open. Damn.
I opened it the rest of the way and stepped in far enough to get a peek at Davies. He was alive, haggard, in need of a shave, hollow-eyed, and probably shaking for a drink, and yet his handsome face was amused, and his rich, raspy voice managed to fill the room with arrogance.
Good luck to him trying that on Fintan Cassidy.
Who gave me a start, climbing back up the stairs for a moment I thought he was sick, his face was that green. He closed and locked the door and pulled off the Halloween mask.
“Oh, it's Frankenstein! I thought you were looking extra handsome today, old man.” I served us each up a plate of curry and rice.Da was the best cook in the family, especially when using the veg and chickens from the farm. “So, how is our guest?”
“Feisty as a bantam, arrogant as… an Englishman.Eager to talk to you and in need of a wash and change of clothes.” Grandad looked at me, waiting to see if I had a plan, an idea, anything to add.
“I’ll find something for him to change into. When you and Da go to the pub tonight I’ll see to him.”
“You mean,” he raised his finger to his temple, gun-like, and fired, and then laughed at his own joke.
After a few hours of good work on the farm and a late tea, my fellas headed off to Farragher’s pub and I checked my mobile for what felt like the thousandth time. Still nothing, not the slightest hint of a murmur of a rumor that a billionaire was unaccounted for. I knew that the ultra-rich like to keep themselves to themselves but even my connections in high-level corporate security seemed blissfully unaware.
That wasn’t merely unusual, it was positively unnatural, bordering on the supernatural.
After raiding the closets and the trunks in the attic I found a few articles of clothing that would fit Davies, and that would please me to see him wearing. Then I slapped together a sandwich that I wrapped in a napkin, not wanting to risk giving Davies a plate or anything he could break and use as a weapon. The gun and knife I’d taken from him implied he’d had some kind of self-defense training.
Opening the door I heard a soft, repeated, scrape thump , scrape thump . Was that numpty trying to get the chain loose from the floor or the wall? Good luck to him, the bolts were meant to hold bulls in place and whilst he had quite the pair of shoulders a minotaur he was not.
A dying bit of sunlight came from one of the windows high up on the wall of the dark basement, just barely showing the old iron bed in the corner and I could see where the noise was coming from.
Davies was doing inverted sit-ups, his knees over the footboard and his upper body was hanging off the end, holding his shoulders from touching the floor. The chain was pulled taut, adding extra stress to his body, but his features were expressionless, almost content. As if he were somewhere secret and safe and not being held captive in a mildewy basement.
Sweat dripped off his face, his hair, soaked through the fine linen of his shirt, the wool of his pants. The air was flooded with the stink of sweat and old booze.
And yet, again, I wondered what it would taste like to lick a bit up? To lap like a cat at his Adam's apple, to brush my lips along his straining forearm so they stung a little with the salt coming from him? My stomach felt warm with desire and the sensation started to work its way downwards.
I shook my head and mentally slapped my cheeks. Even if he were still interested in giving me a ride after a bit of roofying and criminal abduction, my own personal Geneva Convention kept me from feeling ok about taking sexual advantage of an imprisoned person.
Besides which, that bed looked perfectly purgatorial for sleeping, let alone anything fun.
“If you’re done with your workout routine…” I said and before I could finish walking down the last few steps Davies had used his upper body to vault up and onto the bed, sitting cross legged and looking like the cat who’d been in the cream.
“Did you like the show, Margaret ?” The tang he added to the name told me he knew it was fake. “I could hear your breathing from here. ”
“Who wouldn’t get their knickers wet at the sight of one of the .0001% doing a bit of work for a change?”
“Sure, let's call it that,” he said, knowing better.
Based on the situation in his trousers, he’d enjoyed my heavy breathing as much as I’d enjoyed his sit ups. “You spring back from a hangover quick.”
“Normally even quicker, when I haven’t been doused with a central nervous system depressant.”
“Colour me impressed. Frankie said you wanted to see me.”
“You mean your grandfather.”
“Please, Grandma would never have. She only had it off with Dracula. And maybe the Creature from the Black Lagoon. That once.”
He snorted, and then outright laughed and I worked hard not to join him, when I didn’t he trailed off. “I want my watch.”
“That’s it? You want your watch? Nothing else?”
“Not at the moment, no. Well, if you have a bottle of whiskey, something pot-stilled would be nice but I’m not fussy.”
“I think you’ve had enough for now.”
I waited, and he waited, and then we waited together. I wanted him to ask me what the plan was, he wanted me to volunteer the information.
“Well, scintillating as this has been -”
“You won’t get away with this. I mean, you have for the moment, I concede that. But soon this is all going to go wrong and you and Frankie, and Dracula, and the geese that have been screaming, and whatever animals are producing that fucking stink-”
“That’s the goats, most like-”
“-are all going to be very sorry that you-”
I knew where this was going and I knew it might even be true, “Shut up-”
“-ever met-”
“Here,” I threw the clothes, along with a threadbare washcloth and a scrap of soap I’d found in the worker’s breakroom, at his face. Part of the fabric went straight into his mouth and he sputtered around it. Grandad had perfectly nice linens, and a taste for fancy body wash he had picked up while dating a widow from Dublin, none of which I would waste on my captive. “You stink worse than the goats. And you scream more than the geese.”
I put the sandwich on the floor and slid it towards him, “I hopeyou like ham. And I want to thank you for making it so easy to kidnap you. I wouldn’t have believed how easy, if I hadn’t been there myself. Almost like you were hoping, hell, setting it up for something bad to happen to you. Glad to have been the one to do it you capitalist, earth-killing piece of shit.”
Scooping the sandwich up, he took an enormous bite, swallowing so quickly I thought he would choke. It was gone in moments, and he smiled up at me. “Delicious. I can’t remember the time a girl cooked for me on a first date, let alone took me home to meet her family.”
“Ah, well, I’m a romantic,” I said, starting back up the stairs.
“ Margaret ,” he made a meal of the name, “ Margaret …” I could feel it, like he was going to make a meal of me.
“What?”
“If you give me back my watch I’ll make sure nothing happens to Frankenstein. Unfortunately, I can’t promise anything for you.”
Closing the door carefully so my shaking hands wouldn’t slam it behind me, I at least managed a half-grin when I heard him cry out in outrage, “Are these fucking overalls? ”
After that I let Grandad take him his meals and an occasional book (mostly textbooks on native crop farming and some 70s romance novels of my gran’s that I also found in the attic), and I waited three days for Viktoria to finish her thing, or for there to be any word about Davies’ disappearance.
Everything was too quiet.