“Holy effing Christ,’ I heard in accents and voices familiar to me; opened my eyes to see a pair of men staring down at me. Dressed all in black leather, they crinkled as they moved and held their bike helmets by the straps against their legs. I knew those narrow, foxy faces, even if they were in their forties.
“Aidan. Aidan Bloody Smyth,” Schnee and his brother Harry unhooked me and held me up.
“Christ, Aidan!” Schnee bleated. “You’re still a kid! We’re old!”
“I died, Harry,” I said faintly. “Again. The Moor Murderer got me.”
“That was you? Suzy looked for you for years. We all did. Never found a trace of you. Tom even put up a reward. Are you hurt, cold?” He pulled off his leather jacket and tucked it round me, careful when he came to my bloody wrists.
“What are you doing here, Harry, Schnee?”
“We run drugs for Tom. We’re delivering some special shit to the wacko that lives here. He’s got some kind of cult going, has orgies and wild parties. Buys lots of ecstasy and shit from us. Told us he had something special in the cellar and we decided to see what it was. Never expected you.”
His brow furrowed. “Aidan, you’re supposed to be like thirty something. How come you look like twelve?”
“I’m fourteen. Dunno, Schnee. I woke up only a few months ago in hospital. I knew my name and everything. Remembered when and where I was born, tried to go home but I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” Schnee asked.
“There was like a…barrier I couldn’t cross the closer I got to home. I couldn’t breathe, walk past it. Or go to town. I turned round and tried to come back. Walked to the next town, asked directions at a petrol station for the depot. The teenager who worked there gave me a ride to his flat and drugged me. I woke up in here. They said they’re going to fuck me up the arse and sacrifice me to the devil.” My voice quivered and Schnee cursed, hoisted me in his arms, and followed his brother up the narrow wooden stairs. I saw the glint of a big black gun in his hand and tucked my head into his neck.
“Bro,” Harry said once we were in the kitchen of an old house. “Find something to cover his bollocks.”
He ripped the tablecloth off and tied it around my waist and we three slipped out the kitchen door into a back lot with a high stockade fence. It was noisy outside, the sound of heavy lorries and planes coming and going. “We’re in Swansea, Aidan. About an hour from the city. We’ll take you to Tom’s. You’ll be safe there. Okay?” I nodded. “Schnee, you stay, take care of this asshole when he gets back?”
His brother jerked his head once, checked his gun, grinned wolfishly and disappeared into the garage.
Harry carried me out the gate, set me on the bike and lifted himself carefully behind me. His breath tickled my neck, lifted the hairs on it. “Okay, Aidan boy?”
“Yes,” I said faintly.
“Hang on then.” He kicked and the bike growled, leaped forward and he tucked me under his chin. We roared through the narrow streets and out of this semi-rural area until he reached the motorway through a roundabout and onto the M390, cranking it up until we were passing everything on the macadam. The motion lulled me, his warmth and muttered questions on my welfare making me feel at ease until I remembered the last episode. He felt me stiffen and whispered into my ear.
“Relax, Aidan. Suzy would haunt me if I didn’t help you. You’re safe. Tom never forgot you, always tried to look out for you. He’s a good ‘un, even if he’s bad.”
“Bad?”
“He’s the number one drug boss on the East side. Don’t do whores, though. Hates any scumbag that buggers little boys, because of what happened to him. Schnee will cut the bastard’s bollocks off and bring ‘em to Tom. Got quite a collection. Hang on now, sharp turn.”
I felt him lean and we went whipping around the curve onto an exit ramp and down a road bordered by stately old elms and long driveways. He slowed drastically. “Hyde Park’s not far. Tom has a nice Mayfair flat in an old town house. Used to belong to some rich nabob named Lord Paisley. Lost his life in WWI. Family sold it for a million pounds to Tom ten years back. Got him a butler, French chef, house maids and valet. A Personal trainer.”
“Personal trainer?”
“Bloke what keeps him in shape. He can bench press 400 kilograms.” He slowed, turned up a blue graveled drive towards fancy steel gates painted shiny black. They were locked and a guardhouse was just inside with a man in a gray uniform, armed with a huge handgun and a radio. There were cameras mounted at the gate and the man didn’t blink at the sight of me in a white lace tablecloth or black leather.
“Tell Tom I have a surprise for him,” Harry said and drove on. It took five minutes to reach the estate. It was in what he called a gated community and his flat was the top one of the Mayfair mansion.
Harry paused in front and another man came out of the Palladian portico and took the bike from him as he carried me inside.
The hallway was the size of a room with green marble floors, the staircase up was like two graceful wings, but he walked to a lift on the right and stepped inside. The doors opened on the fourth floor and a hallway broad as an avenue, elegant tables, and chairs lined both sides. He headed for the double doors at the end and licked it with his heavy boots. His buckles jingled.
The door opened slowly and a grand butler stood in it, behind him was another man with his hand on a gun. When he saw Harry, he holstered it, turned round, and said, “It’s Harry, Mr. Watson.”
Harry walked into a Salon like the one I remembered from my childhood, beautifully furnished, windows floor to ceiling with wispy curtains, hand waxed floors and priceless antiques. The home of a rich, cultured gentleman.
Before a white marble fireplace that was lit even this early in the fall sat a gentleman in well-tailored tweeds and drinking from a brandy snifter. His head was balding, his eyes hooded and dark but I knew him instantly.
He stood up, his eyes drawn to me in Harry’s arms and when he set me in the nearest chair, he looked astonished, his mouth hanging open in shock. “Aidan?” he asked, unbelieving.
“I found him naked, handcuffed in the Beast’s cellar, Tom,” Harry said. “They were going to bugger him and kill him in some bloody sacrifice rite.”
“Aidan,” he repeated helplessly.
“Tom,” I managed, holding the jacket around me. He dropped to his knees before me and touched my face. To my horror, I burst into tears and the two grown men hugged and comforted me. When I had bawled myself dry, Tom ordered Harry to get the butler and arrange for a doctor, clothes, and food for me.
An hour later, I was fed, clothed and sedated in bed and guarded by no less than two of my childhood friends.
I slept peacefully, no dreams, no fears. When I woke, Schnee was there and his grin told me I had nothing left to fear from the Queen’s barrister.
“Gave Tom his bollocks,” he smiled. “And a few other pairs, too. Fellow name of Zane. Go back to sleep, Aidan. Sleep tight. Tom’s got your back.”
I slept until late next afternoon and Tom was sitting by the bed in the spare bedroom with a beautiful redhead. Her eyes were green and made up with smoky brown shadow, coral lipstick and she had big diamonds in her ears. Her smile was sweet, her teeth white and even.
“Hullo,” she greeted. Tom smiled and I saw he still had that crooked eye-tooth that made his smile predatory.
“Hi, Aidan,” he grinned. “This is my lady, Cammy. Camilla Mowbray-Watson.”
“You’re married?”
“Well, yeah. I’m not fourteen like you, Aidan. I grew up. Been married for five years.”
“Kids?” I asked my eyes wide. The thought of Tom changing nappies made me goggle.
“No, no kids. Cammy can’t have ‘em. Are you hungry? You’ve been out for nearly 16 hours.”
“Starving. Fair knackered,” I admitted and he yelled behind him and she tutted him, got up and went in search of the butler. She came back with the upstairs maid pushing a lunch cart with covered tureens.
We ate delicate French entrees and gourmet fare until I was finally full. They begged me to tell them what I’d been doing and I spent the next few hours regaling them with my tales of horror.