Hey everyone, sorry for the delay in posting, I warn you I might have gone a little overboard on the angst in this chapter, but I couldn't help myself..As ever review, review!

Chapter 10

July 2004 Location still unknown

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all.

Martin Fitzgerald winced as he stumbled over yet another fallen branch, causing his bruised and possibly cracked ribs to hurt even more than they had previously. It was dark and a slight drizzle had started to fall. The cloudy sky was moonless and Martin, his hands tied behind his back was finding it almost impossible to keep his balance as he made his way through the densely wooded darkness…

'Typical, I always get the scary movie storyline. Stuck in the middle of the woods. If this guy wasn't such a total psychopath he would be a total cliché'. Martin was trying to bolster his by now severely waning courage. But it wasn't working.

All this time Jameson was behind him, pushing Martin ahead, his gun in one hand. He was taller than Martin although slightly bulkier; his upper body spoke of many years spent in a prison gym. His brown hair, now streaked with grey came down almost to his shoulders and his eyes, the few glimpses Martin had of them, were a strange luminescent green.

His idea earlier had been to goad Jameson, to use the man's anger to his advantage. Martin Fitzgerald knew that he was being kept alive for a purpose, but at this moment in time he was no closer to figuring out what that is. He'd hoped that by goading Jameson the man would let something slip.

'It was a good idea at the time,' he thought. But now…maybe not so much. Now he was stuck in the middle of god knows where and with a gun toting psychopath who was pushing him through the woods. And all this simply to get revenge?

"Is that what this is about? Revenge" Martin ventured out loud, turning as best he could to look at his captor. "Is that your big plan? Get out of jail and wreak havoc on the people that you think ruined your life"

But there was no reply; in fact Martin couldn't remember hearing the man speak once all this time. Three days and not one word.

"I was only a kid for god's sake." He ventured. "What did I know?"

Nothing.

Just like the last time.

So Martin gave up, and concentrated on not falling over. His suit jacket and cream shirt were both soaked through and he could feel the cold wind that whipped around him. Despite his best efforts to stay calm, to try and not let the fear creep back inside of him, still it came.

He'd forgotten what it felt like to be so totally helpless. And to know it was mostly his own doing. Stubborn pride. What good was that? He'd been thought never to fear, that fear was foolish. But trudging through that forest, with his head throbbing and his lungs feeling like they were on fire, Martin Fitzgerald felt a lot like 7 year old Marty all over again.

Within a few minutes, Martin could see the outline of a van parked in a small clearing. He felt the pressure on his back lessen and turned his head around just in time to see a fist connecting with his left cheek. Slumping to the ground helplessly, Martin couldn't help wondering, as the blackness invaded him, just how wrong he'd been.

&&&&&&&

'Marty' had been gone for almost five weeks. Five weeks of…what? Of always being just that bit too hungry and too cold, never really cold, never starving, but never comfortable, five weeks of sitting or standing or walking around that little cellar room when he was allowed. Five weeks of being alone. Totally and utterly alone except for insects and rodents, except for his own thoughts.

Five weeks and he hadn't spoken one word, not one. Not to anyone. The man who came down to him once a day never spoke; he just looked, glared, pinched and shoved. Marty wouldn't have even minded if the man had shouted at him. His father shouted a lot and he'd gotten used to it, it didn't even scare him anymore.

Silence didn't scare him either, usually. When he was playing in the garden, or up in his room and there were visitors downstairs he had to be quiet. Being quiet was important in the Fitzgerald house. Speak when spoken too, answer all questions politely and then disappear. That was the rule most of the time.

Except when Mom was in charge, then they could play, one day she took the grand mahogany dining table and eight matching chairs and made them a fort, with a heavy damask table cloth providing shelter from the rains, and a shiny silver tray that could be used to slide along the dining room floor if you needed to escape quickly. They played cowboys and Indians. She didn't mind the mess or the noise, so long as it was all cleaned up before seven o clock. He'd chatter away to his Mom non-stop all day long.

That day, the last day of the fifth week, when they came and they found him he couldn't speak, his throat was dry and his voice hoarse. They said that he was in shock and they took him to hospital and kept him there for three days. The nurses fussed over him, told him what a brave boy he was and gave him ice-cream instead of dinner. He couldn't understand though, why his mom didn't come to visit him.

And then he went home and still he couldn't understand why his Mom wasn't at the door and why all those reporters kept shouting and trying to take his picture

And so, he left the hospital and came home, and that day his Dad took him into the study to tell him what had happened……

……the reporters stayed around the house for almost a week. His father did his best to get rid of them, talked to every lawyer in the land, tried to get injunctions to stop them printing stories about Martin about…what had happened. But he couldn't, no one could Soon everyone knew, everyone knew that Little Marty Fitz had killed his mommy. For that's what he thought, that was the only way he could rationalise it in his head. His mom was dead because he didn't come home.

His mom was dead because of him