Captives

SIXTY

She rubbed a thin layer of Vaseline over her lips and smiled, satisfied with the extra lubrication. Zena Murray had seen on television that beauty queens used the trick so she figured it would work for her. After all, she had to do a lot of smiling in her business, too. Contestants in a beauty contest had only judges to impress with their looks and stance. Zena had many other, more trenchant critics to impress. The punters were always demanding.

Jim Scott watched as she finished applying the vaseline, pacing the dressing room as she stood naked before him, slipping on a G-string and a suspender belt.

'And you haven't seen or heard from Carol since last night?' he said agitatedly.

'Scotty, we work together, that's it,' Zena told him, rolling one stocking up her leg.

'She didn't stay with you?'

'There's hardly room in my place for me, let alone bloody guests,' Zena told him.

Scott sighed.

'She's okay, I bet you,' Zena said, trying to sound reassuring. She looked at Scott, something close to pity in her voice. 'Look, Scotty, you shouldn't worry about her so much. She's got her own life to lead, you know.' And you won't be part of it for much longer. 'You'd be better off looking for someone else,' she smiled, her attempts at light banter failing miserably. 'I'm unattached, you know.'

'I don't want anyone else, Zena,' he told her.

She shrugged.

'Just trying to help,' she said. Help, or soften the blow?

Scott opened the door.

'When she comes in, tell her I want to see her, will you?' he said, then he was gone.

Zena pulled on another stocking and heard his footsteps echoing away up the corridor.

***

Scott returned to his office and sat at his desk, glancing at the phone, wondering if he should try calling Carol's flat again. He resisted the temptation, leaning back in his seat, running a hand across his forehead. A confusion of emotions tumbled through his mind: anger, concern, fear. He couldn't seem to settle on one that suited him. It was not knowing where she was that was so unsettling.

Or who she was with?

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

She wouldn't do that to him.

Would she?

He got to his feet and crossed to the window of the office. Below the streets were alive with people, all of them bathed in the neon glow that seemed to fill the very air itself with multi-coloured energy.

Who was she with?

Scott gritted his teeth.

There couldn't be anyone else. He would know. There would be signs he'd have spotted. He sucked in a deep breath. No. There was a rational explanation for all this and, when Carol arrived, he'd discover what it was.

If she arrived.

He returned to his desk and sat down. Even as he did there was a knock on the door and he was on his feet again instantly. The door opened.

John Hitch walked in, smiling at Scott, who merely exhaled wearily.

'Hello, Jim, I'm glad to see you too,' Hitch said, still smiling.

'Sorry, John,' Scott said. 'I was expecting someone else.'

The two men shook hands and Scott offered the other man a seat which he accepted and a drink which he declined.

'Is Ray with you?' Scott wanted to know.

Hitch shook his head.

'I'm allowed out on my own tonight, Jimmy boy,' Hitch grinned.

'This isn't a social call, is it, mate?' Scott said.

'No. Ray sent me. I've got a job for you.'

Scott looked puzzled.

'Tomorrow night,' Hitch continued. 'We're going to hit a shipment of coke that Ralph Connelly's bringing in.' He laced his fingers on the desk top. 'You're supposed to drive one of the getaway cars.'

'Are you fucking serious?' Scott exclaimed. 'That's not my line of work.'

'I know that. I was as surprised as you, but Ray Plummer wants you in on it.' He sat back in his seat, i'm just a messenger, Jim. I do as I'm told, and he told me to include you in this job.'

'Why?'

Hitch shrugged.

'Fuck knows. Like I said, I'm just doing what I was told.'

Scott ran a hand through his hair, bewilderment on his face.

'You'll be picked up from here tomorrow night at twelve,' Hitch told him. 'You'll be briefed on what you've got to do. I don't know what else I can say.' He looked almost apologetic.

'I don't like this, John,' Scott told him.

'Maybe not, mate, but you've got no choice.' Hitch got to his feet and crossed to the door.

'You got a shooter?' he asked.

'Beretta 92S. Why?'

Hitch nodded.

'Bring it.'