Читать книгу State Of Honour - Gary Haynes - Страница 19

The car had taken a series of tight curves before slowing down to maybe fifteen miles an hour. Linda guessed she’d been in the car for an hour or more. She’d heard sirens and people shouting and screaming at first, but now there was just the sound of the radio. Her captors still hadn’t spoken a word. No contact, either, save for the boots on her neck and ankles, as if they were restraining a bad-tempered dog.

The car stopped and the music died, but the engine remained ticking over. She heard what sounded like a chain being drawn across metal, the creaking of a door opening. The car moved forward slowly before coming to a halt once more, but this time the engine was switched off. The boots were removed from her neck and ankles. She felt the plasticuffs restraint on her lower shins being cut, and was manhandled out of the rear footwell. The cramp in her legs made her wobble at first, but strong hands grasped her upper arms, helping her to stand upright.

Apart from her pantyhose, her feet were bare, and as she inched over the gravel the edges dug into her heels. No one spoke. The hood still covered her head. Will they kill me now? she thought, the gag preventing her from pleading for her life even if she’d succumbed to the urge. She decided not to struggle, to maintain her dignity and continue to comply, just as Tom had told her to. Then she thought that that was a pathetic thought. What choice do I have?

She sensed she was going to retch, but gulped a couple of times and the bile eased back down her slender throat. If I get out of this, things will change, she thought. I will spend more time with John and the girls. Maybe retire from public life and take up a teaching post at a university. She realized then that she had to tell herself these things, because the alternative was to start to go ever so slightly mad.

She was led a few steps forward before her hands were cut free, and she rotated her wrists to help the blood flow freely there. A hand clasped her left wrist, and moved it to something cold and smooth, which she realized was a handrail. An arm linked hers, and she was led down a flight of steps. Underground, she thought. Dear God, why are they taking me underground?

At the bottom of the steps, she heard the same sounds of a chain being removed and a door opening, the crunch of more footsteps on gravel. A tug of her arm prompted her to move again, and she realized that she was going inside, because the sun had stopped beating on her head. It was cool now, a smell redolent of blocked drains.

She went through three more doors, hearing the hinges creak and the doors shut behind her. She suddenly sensed that her feet were moving across something that felt like tiles. Yes, tiles, she thought, feeling the line of grout with her toes as she shuffled along.

Finally, she was held still.

When the hood was removed and she registered the contents of the room, tears welled in her eyes.