Captives

NINETY-THREE

There were two Scania trucks parked in the car park of the petrol station. Apart from the two juggernauts, Scott could see no other vehicles.

He drove past them once, trying to see into the cabins, but there was no sign of their drivers. He winced as the pain struck him again, even more forcefully, like a physical blow. The Renault went out of control momentarily but he brought it into line and drove on, slowing down as he reached the covered area that formed a canopy leading up to the door of the service station entrance.

There was one figure in a red overall inside the building. A man in his early twenties. Scott could see that he was reading a newspaper.

Scott parked the Renault around the corner and sat behind the wheel for a moment, waiting for the pain inside his head to diminish.

It didn't.

On shaking legs he forced himself out of the car, ensuring that the knife was hidden as he approached the double doors that led into the service area. Like many along motorways it sold not just books, papers and magazines but also food, drink and even clothing. Scott could see several pairs of jeans hanging up inside, as well as some shirts.

He approached the double doors and pulled at one.

They were locked.

The young man in the red overalls looked up and ran appraising eyes over Scott.

'Use the night window,' he called, indicating the small hatch where he sat.

Cursing under his breath, Scott ambled along to the window, reaching behind him once to touch the hilt of the carving knife.

The young man was looking intently at him, or, more to the point, at his clothes. The grey, blood-flecked, reeking prison overalls made Scott ridiculously conspicuous. He may as well have worn a day-glo sign on his chest proclaiming 'Escaped Convict'.

'What do you want?' the young man asked, his eyes constantly drawn to Scott's overalls.

'I need to use your toilet,' he said.

'We lock it at night. I'll have to give you the key,' the young man told him.

Scott nodded, watching as he retrieved a bunch of keys from the counter.

'I need some things too,' Scott said. 'I want to come inside.'

'Sorry, but it's company policy. This place has been robbed too often in the past year or so. You tell me what you want and I'll get it for you.'

Scott gritted his teeth, both in pain and also frustration. Even if he could get the jeans, the shirt and the pain-killers he wanted, how the hell was he going to pay for them?

'The keys for the toilet,' said the young man, extending his hand, the keys lying on his palm.

Scott stepped back slightly, forcing the young man to extend his hand through the narrow gap at the bottom of the cash window.

'Take them,' said the attendant warily.

Scott looked deeply into his eyes, those bloodshot orbs blazing with intent.

He moved so quickly the youth had no chance to pull away.

Scott grabbed his arm just above the wrist, simultaneously yanking the youth forward, slamming his face into the glass with such force that it dazed him. Then, with his free hand, he pulled the knife from his belt and brought it down with terrifying force onto the young man's outstretched wrist.

The blow severed the hand with one cut.

The appendage fell to the ground, blood spurting from the torn arteries, jetting onto the forecourt as Scott held his victim up against the glass, gripping on above the stump of the wrist that was spewing crimson violently into the air. He jerked the boy forward again and again, each time slamming his head against the thick glass, until he also opened up a hairline cut along his scalp. The glass was smeared with crimson.

Scott continued to hang on to the handless arm, tugging with such force that it seemed he must rip the youth's arm from its socket. He allowed him to lean back a few inches then pulled savagely on the arm forcing the young man's head against the glass with sickening and powerful force.

A crack appeared in the glass.

Then another.

The fingers of the severed hand at Scott's feet were jerking as if in time to the impacts of the boy's head against the glass, which had now spider-webbed. Crimson poured down the attendant's face; Scott fancied he could see bone gleaming whitely through the pulped and torn flesh on his face and forehead. He finally let go of his victim's arm, allowing the body to sag to the floor. Then he gripped the hilt of the knife in his fist and drove it hard against the splintered glass.

It broke immediately, pieces of glass flying inwards, showering the prone body of the attendant.

Scott looked around, then pulled himself up into the frame of the small window. It was a tight squeeze. He groaned as he tried to pull himself through, yelping in pain as he cut his calf on a chunk of broken glass. Blood began to soak through the overalls as he fell into the motorway shop, sprawling onto the unconscious attendant.

Scott struggled to his feet and hurried over to the rack of jeans and shirts. He pulled half a dozen pairs off the hangers, grabbed an armful of shirts. Then he hurried back behind the counter, picking up a large bottle of lemonade, his eyes scanning the shelves for pain-killers. He stuffed packets of aspirin, paracetamol and any other pill he could find into his pocket. He grabbed two tins of Elastoplast. Then, carrying his haul, he clambered back over the unconscious attendant and out of the broken window, dropping two pairs of the jeans in the process. One pair fell across the pulped face of the attendant, hiding his terrible injuries. Blood began to soak through the denim.

Scott fell onto the concrete of the forecourt and sprinted for the Renault, cursing as he looked down to see blood from his torn calf seeping through the material of his overalls. He tossed the jeans and shirts into the back of the car, slid behind the wheel and drove off, struggling one-handed to free some paracetamol from their container. He shook two out and pushed them into his mouth, chewing them dry, almost gagging at the bitter taste. Then he swallowed another two, washing them down with a swig from the lemonade bottle.

In a short while he would pull in somewhere and change into a pair of the jeans and a shirt. It would give him a little more camouflage for his journey.

He gripped the wheel tightly, closing his eyes momentarily against the pain.

On the opposite carriageway a police car hurtled past him, lights flashing.

Scott drove on, past a sign which proclaimed: LONDON 143 MILES.

He looked at his watch, wincing once again at the unbearable pain inside his head. He swallowed two more tablets, wondering how long they would take to work. If indeed they did.

He drove on.