Captives

TWENTY-NINE

He'd stolen the car an hour earlier.

The automatic transmission on the Datsun had taken a bit of getting used to and when he'd first slipped behind the steering wheel he'd cursed his luck. But, fuck it, he needed a car. He'd manage. Now Mathew Bryce slowed up as he approached the traffic lights in Shaftesbury Avenue, his eyes scanning the hordes of people that filled the bustling thoroughfare. So intently was he studying the throng that he didn't notice the lights slip onto green. The blast of a hooter behind alerted him to the situation.

Bryce swung the car right, peering round at the driver behind, raising two fingers. The man mouthed his own insult back and drove past.

'Cunt,' muttered Bryce, his eyes still flicking back and forth. He saw couples. Old, young. Girls in groups. Sometimes alone. Some people hurried along, others strolled through the night. A young man was running along, trying to stop a taxi before it pulled away, but he was unsuccessful and stood, hands on hips, glaring at the vehicle as it moved off. Bryce passed him and grinned out at the man.

All around the neon signs from clubs, pubs and restaurants filled the night, creating a kind of artificial twilight. With the window wound down, Bryce could hear the crackle of so much static electricity. He slowed down as he saw a woman crossing the road ahead of him, watching her breasts bouncing in her tight fitting top. Her silver-coloured hair trailed over her shoulders, blown by the wind that whipped through the narrow streets. It also disturbed the litter that lay in the gutters and on the pavements. An empty can was sent rattling across the concrete like a kind of bizarre tumbleweed. A youth passing by took a kick at it and sent it skittering into the road. Further along an old man, bundled up in a thick overcoat, was sorting through one of the overflowing dustbins, picking out portions of half-eaten food and carefully dropping them into the plastic bag he carried, making his choice as fastidiously as any gourmet at a buffet table.

Bryce swung the car right again, then sharp left into Rupert Street. Again he slowed down, peering at a young woman standing in a doorway talking to a tall man in a suit. Bryce stared at her with interest. She couldn't have been more than twenty, her shapely legs revealed by the short mini-skirt she wore. She was puffing contentedly on a cigarette as she spoke. Bryce stopped the car, the engine idling.

It was a couple of minutes before the man finally noticed and looked questioningly across at Bryce, who was now leaning on the windowframe, looking more closely at the girl.

'You lost, mate?' the man in the faded suit called.

Bryce didn't answer.

The girl also turned to face him now, brushing a stray hair from her mouth.

He looked at her features, his own face expressionless.

'What do you want?' the man called.

A car turned into the road behind Bryce, the driver braking to avoid a collision.

The man in the faded suit moved towards the car.

'You got a fucking problem, or what?' he said, irritably.

Bryce pressed down on the accelerator and the car moved off, leaving the girl to stare after him. He turned another corner and saw a car pulling out of a parking space. Bryce guided the Datsun into it, cursing when it juddered slightly. He switched off the engine and sat there for a moment, his window down, the noises of the night filling his ears. He leant forward, his forehead resting on the steering wheel. From across the street he could hear music and, all around him, voices and the ever-present crackle of neon. He put both hands over his ears as if to shut out the noise. Theh, slowly, he sat up again, looking around him, catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the rear view mirror. It stared back at him accusingly. His face was pale, the dark rings beneath his eyes all the more prominent because of his pallor. His hair was thick but combed back severely from his prominent forehead. As he ran a hand over his chin he heard the rasp of his bristles against his fingertips.

Bryce grunted, gripped the rear-view mirror and tore it off.

He hurled it onto the back seat and sat there, panting. Then he turned slowly and looked at the blanket that lay across the rear seat.

The blanket had belonged to the owner of the car.

The can of petrol and the hunting knife it concealed belonged to Bryce.