Sorry the last chapter was so short; I know it's a little confusing now but

everything will start coming together from about chapter 10 onwards I promise! Thanks as ever for your comments, please continue reviewing!

Chapter 7

July 2004, Location unknown.

He was 7 years old again, trapped in that damned cellar. He was sitting against the wall, his hands tied together with a length of old rope that smelled of horses, that strong pungent smell that he got whenever he went to stay on his grandfathers farm.

Except he wasn't 7 years old and he wasn't in a cellar. But where the hell was he?

Dammit.

Martin Fitzgerald cursed his weaknesses, cursed himself for getting into this situation. He should have been more careful, should have watched his back.

He moved slightly but the pain that went coursing through his head told him that wasn't such a good idea. 'Ow, dammit'. He looked down; his ankles were bound with what looked like fishing line only a lot stronger. He suspected the same thing was around his wrists which were behind his back, but he had little circulation to his hands.

For the moment he just lay there in the dark. He couldn't help the little voice in his head what kept screaming at him 'You should have told Jack, told Danny, you know you should have. They would have watched your back, they wouldn't have judged you, not now'

But he hadn't, he hadn't told them about Jameson or his Mom or what happened, and when he found out that Jameson was on parole he hadn't told them that either.

"Why?" Stupid Fitzgerald stubbornness and pride. Not wanting to seem weak. Not again. They already knew too much, too much about this father, about their relationship. He'd messed up too many times and he didn't want them to look at him that way again? That 'what would you expect from a rookie' look, or the 'deputy directors kid, probably asked Daddy for the job' look.

Except they didn't, Jack, Samantha, Vivian, even Danny. They weren't like that anymore. Sure in the beginning they thought he was a fool, that he wouldn't last more than five minutes. But he proved them wrong, didn't he? He got some stuff right and he really felt like, well, one of the team.

Which brought him back to the same question, why didn't he tell them?

Because somehow and somewhere deep inside of him he'd buried it, all of it, the kidnapping, those long weeks being tied up in the small dusty, damp cellar, the endless cold, the hunger, the boredom and the fear. Fear of the dark, fear of the insects the crawled around, fear of the mice that would come out at night to look at him and run over feet.

Fear of the man that came only twice a day with food, the man who didn't speak except when martin had done something wrong, had tried to take of his ropes, or cried so loudly that the man had heard him through the floor.

He'd buried it all, buried it in 2 years of very, very expensive therapy and a lifetime trying to forget. Because that part hadn't even been the worst, the cold, the hunger, the fear, it wasn't the worst. The worst had been coming home in the police car, getting out at this front gate and even though he could barely walk making his way up the driveway as fast as he could, up to the door where she should have been standing there to take pick him up in her arms and tell her she loved him.

Sitting there, all those long weeks, Marty has pictured the scene over and over again, the smell of his Mom's shampoo, the joy of being in her arms, of being safe.

Sitting there now; a grown man, his ribs aching from where they'd connected with Jameson's baseball bat, the grown up Martin Fitzgerald still felt the sadness welling up inside of him when he remembered standing with his father in his study and being told to 'Be Brave', that his Mom simply hadn't been able to wait any longer.

It wasn't my fault, it wasn't my fault. He felt like he'd spent his whole life trying to convince himself of that. Noone blamed him, how could they? No-one. Not even his Dad.

Right?

'Get a grip Fitzgerald, you're losing it' He shook his head and once again banished the memories back into their little box and turned the key. For now he had to get out of here and quick. Stan Jameson was most definitely a man on the edge if the pain in Martin's ribs was anything to judge by. The blood now congealing on the side of his face was courtesy of Jameson too, that time blow to his right eye which was now completely swollen shut.

He wasn't going to lie there for weeks on end though, not this time. He wasn't going to wait to be rescued either. Martin felt the glimmerings of an idea spring into his mind. And then he began to yell as loudly as was possible even with his pounding head.

"HEYYYYY HELLLLP HELP ME PLEASE? IS ANYONE OUT THERE? I'M TRAPPED I'VE BEEN TRAPPED BY A MADMAN! HEEEEEELLLLLLLPPPPPPP" He stopped and listened.

Immediately he was rewarded by the sound of footsteps loud in the corridor outside and the door of his room was flung open violently.

Stan Jameson had not aged well. Only 19 when he had initially kidnapped Martin he was now closer to forty and his receding hairline, missing teeth and a litany of scars running across both cheeks told of prison years that had not been happily spent.

"Shut the fk up Fitzgerald you shit" the words came out accommpanied by a long string of spittle, most of which landed on the trousers of Martin's Calvin Klein suit.

"Hey, that's my best suit, watch it." Martin was trying to sound cocky, confident. He hoped he was pulling it off, because it wasn't at all how he felt,

"I'll show you and your big mouth." Jamson pulled Martin to his feet. "Come on pretty boy, we're going for a walk."

'Perfect' though Martin Fitzgerald to himself as he was dragged out of the room. 'Just perfect'