Captives

THIRTY-THREE

He paused before the mirror and adjusted the knot in his tie, finally satisfied that it was straight. Then Jim Scott took a last look around the room, checking that everything was tidy.

He'd been up since seven-thirty that morning, dusting, picking up any stray pieces of paper from the floor. He even managed to force himself into doing the washing-up, which had been lying in the sink for a couple of days.

Scott polished the handle of the door to the room which used to be his father's. He didn't go inside. There was no need. There was nothing to tidy up in there.

He had rung Carol at 8.30 that morning and asked her if she would see him after work. Would she come back to his flat? They could get a take-away and eat it when they got back. He had found himself gripping the receiver tightly.

Please say yes.

She had agreed without her customary reticence. Scott had put the phone down and shouted triumphantly, punching the air as if he'd just been informed he'd won the pools or come into a vast inheritance. All the anger and disappointment of the past few days was forgotten. She was going to spend the night with him. That was all that mattered.

She'd been to the flat on a number of occasions before, usually staying the night. When they'd first started seeing each other it had been almost every night. He studied his reflection in the mirror again, noticing that his smile had faded slightly. He wished that things could be as they were in the beginning. There had been passion between them then. There had never been any excuses about not being able to see him then.

Not like now.

Scott crossed the bedroom to the cabinet beside the bed.

So much they had to talk about.

He slid open the top drawer.

The Beretta 92S automatic lay beside a pile of handkerchiefs.

He looked at the weapon for long moments.

So much they had to talk about.

Scott slid the drawer shut once more.

***

Carol rolled over in bed and sighed, gazing at the poster of James Dean on her bedroom wall.

Beneath the picture of the film idol were the words: BOULEVARD OF BROKEN DREAMS.

They were the only kind of dreams she knew.

Broken. Wrecked.

Ray Plummer had rung about twenty minutes before Scott to apologise that, again, he couldn't see her. He'd make it up to her, though, he had said. He'd get her something nice. Something expensive.

When Scott had rung she'd said yes to him almost without thinking. Now she began to realise what she had agreed to do. To spend the night with him. By agreeing to spend the night, had she also agreed to sleep with him? They had been lovers, after all, still were occasionally; although the term lovers was redundant as far as Carol was concerned. They had sex occasionally. That was it. In her mind, there was no involvement, nothing other than physical contact.

She knew it was different for Scott.

But she knew that there were other reasons why she must see him tonight. She had no doubt that he was becoming suspicious of her. Of her excuses. She needed to spend time with him to allay those suspicions for a while.

Until when?

Until it was time to tell him that it was all over between them?

Until it was time to move in with Plummer?

Time for the final escape.

Carol rubbed her face with both hands and thought about getting out of bed.

For some reason she looked across at the phone, perhaps expecting it to ring again.

Only this time it might not be either Scott or Plummer.

When it had rung earlier that morning she had hesitated for interminable seconds before picking it up, remembering the call of the previous night. It had taken a monumental effort of will and courage finally to snatch up the receiver. Even in the light of day she felt the fear pricking her as she pressed it to her ear and spoke into it. She had been hugely relieved to hear Plummer's voice.

Should she tell him about the calls?

Perhaps she should tell Scott.

Tell someone, for God's sake. Don't keep it to yourself.

And if she did tell them? What could they do? She herself had no idea who was making them. Or why.

Carol swung herself out of bed and headed towards the toilet, glancing at the phone as she passed. She paused in the doorway, looking down apprehensively at the phone.

He wouldn't ring, she told herself. Whoever he was, he wouldn't ring now. Not so early. He seemed to prefer the hours of darkness.

Whoever he was.

She suddenly reached for the jack plug and. pulled it from the socket in the wall.

She was safe from his calls now.

At least for the time being.