Dead if You Don’t

62

Sunday 13 August

07.00–08.00

At first Mungo thought it was a prank being played on him by Aleksander. Two men, dressed in black and wearing balaclavas, bursting into the house, blinding him with flashlights, tying his hands roughly behind his back and trussing his legs together. All the time they talked to each other in a harsh guttural accent, totally ignoring his questions asking them who they were. Then they had carried him upstairs and out into the night, and dumped him in what felt like the boot of a car.

Now, as he lay for what seemed like hours, blindfolded and gagged and only able to breathe through his nose, he felt sick with fear. The hard, sharp bindings were cutting into his wrists and his ankles. He was parched with thirst and he needed to pee, badly. There was a stench of petrol and intermittent exhaust fumes. Beneath him, the floor pan vibrated and he could hear a steady, muted roar and the thrumming of tyres on the road.

He knew he’d fallen asleep for a while when the car had been stationary. Now he didn’t know for how long they had been travelling, nor where they were. For a while, the road had been twisty, and the car, travelling fast, threw him from side to side, and he slid forward, bashing his head painfully, each time the driver braked hard. After a while the car had slowed and they’d driven for a long while at a much steadier speed.

At one point he heard a siren and his hopes rose. But it howled on past them and away into the distance.

After what seemed an eternity, they stopped again and he was lifted out, clumsily, then carried a short distance. He could hear the sound of the sea and smelled salty air. Nothing else. Dead silence. No other clues as to where he might be. Then the footsteps of his captors. Their voices. They entered some kind of chamber and descended steps. Then he was dumped roughly on his back onto a hard, cold surface, with the sound of lapping water only inches away.

A moment later, he cried out in pain as the tape across his eyes was ripped off, and he lay blinking against the bright light of a torch. He cried out again as the tape over his mouth was also ripped off, forcefully.

‘Aleksander!’ he shouted. ‘Where is Aleksander?’

There was no response.

‘I’m desperate for a pee! Please! I have to pee!’

Again, no response.

‘I’m going to piss my pants. Please.’

‘So, piss in them,’ a voice said in heavily accented English.

A bottle of water was jammed between his lips.

He took a sip and spluttered as he choked. One of the men helped him sit up a little. The bottle was replaced by a chocolate bar and crammed into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. As soon as he had finished he was pushed, roughly, back down, a hand pinning him by the neck.

He shook in fear. Were they going to kill him? But they wouldn’t have given him a drink and food if they were going to do that, would they?

Was this Aleksander’s idea of a joke?

Fresh tape was pressed in place over his mouth and pulled tight against his cheeks. He saw the glint of a knife blade. Something tugged hard on his right ear and he let out a muffled scream as he felt a sudden searing pain in it. He saw a bandage raised in the air, then felt it taped over his burning ear. He felt something warm trickle down his neck.

Then he was lifted up again. Each of his captors taking an arm, he was carried down steps and into water that came up to his waist. The two men cursed as they splashed through it and down into what seemed like an underground chamber. Ahead was an ancient, partly submerged cannon, water slopping over its wooden plinth. They carried on, continuing through the water for some yards, towards it, the roar of the sea growing louder. Then he was hoisted up, his legs were grabbed and pushed backwards, and as he was lowered again his feet touched something solid and rested on it.

‘Look up,’ a voice said, shining the torch beam.

Mungo looked. And saw a metal hoop in the arched brick ceiling, high above him. From it was suspended a length of wire, ending in a noose.

‘Now look down,’ he was commanded.

He did what he was told, his terror increasing as he realized what was happening. His feet were on a block of concrete about two feet high and a little over one foot wide, that was under water. Then his arms, already bound with cord behind his back, were tugged further backwards, as he heard the clanking of a chain.

‘You be OK,’ one man said. ‘Tide going out. Is good. When tide come back in, is not so good.’ He laughed and so did his companion.

Strong hands on Mungo’s shoulders suddenly forced him down, and he sat on the narrow plinth of the cannon, water lapping over his waist. Then, despite his feeble attempt to resist, the noose was pulled down over his head and tightened round his neck. As he moved his head, he felt it sharp against his skin.

‘Like razor wire. You move, you die,’ one of the men said.

The other held up a phone and took a flash photograph. Then they began walking, splashing, away.

‘Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me,’ Mungo tried pleading. But it just came out as a series of muffled grunts. ‘I can’t move my arms. Please.’

He heard more laughter.

Footsteps receding, the bobbing beam of the torch fading away.

Mungo realized if he slipped off the plinth he would either hang or garrotte himself.

He sobbed in terror. He wanted his mother. His father. Aleksander.

Please help me.