Chapter 16

July 2005, Location unknown, Day 5.

It had taken a while for Martin Fitzgerald to realise that the man standing in front of him wasn't Stan Jameson as he initially had thought.

He hadn't much to go on in the first place, a couple of newspaper photographs, some vague memories that he'd long since tried to block out. Even his voice seemed similar, and in the end it wasn't Michael, Jameson's tone so much as what he was saying that led Martin Fitzgerald to believe that he'd been blaming the wrong brother for his current circumstance.

He'd known Stan had a brother. Of course he knew, he knew everything there was to know about that family, Mother dead, father an alcoholic, oh Martin had done his research, in the past few weeks, he'd read all the newspaper articles, even made a couple of phone calls, trying to stay one step ahead whilst at the same time trying not to remember, to remember what had happened, to remember how it had changed everything.

His ribs ached and burned, especially a couple on the right hand side that he was pretty sure were cracked, if not broken, and his head and ears pounded incessantly, he could feel the loss of blood affecting him, dizzy spells threatened to overcome him on more than one occasion. He thought of Danny, the look in his eyes when he'd dropped him off just a few days previously.

Danny knew, he'd wanted to help. 'If I get out of here alive' Martin thought ' I swear I'm going to buy that man the biggest pizza that money can buy anchovies and all, and I'll tell him everything, he deserves that much at least. Just hope he comes charging in soon along with the cavalry so I get that chance.

Looking around him, from the corner where he lay bound and handcuffed it seemed almost like before. Another damp cellar, with no light save a tiny slit window on the opposite wall. The only difference lay in his captor.

Stan Jameson had been clever, one of those kids that could have done something with his life had he been given the chance, but he never had, and he seemed to resent the young Marty Fitzgerald all the more for having those opportunities, he'd taunted the boy, sitting in that damp basement, ridiculed his washed out skinny body and his lack of friendship.

This man wasn't as clever, Martin began to realise that the man really hadn't thought through what he was doing. Stealing the car, moving location again, it all seemed rushed, a response to something. Fear? He was pacing up and down now, gun in hand and he kept muttering to himself, almost constantly.

The strangest thing was that this was the same Michael who'd befriended little Marty all those years ago when he and his sister had moved for the fifth time in three years and he knew no-one.

The same Michael who looked out for him, telling him whom to avoid in school and how to avoid losing his lunch money to bullies. Their gardens joined at one point about half way down, separated by a tall laurel hedge and Martin would crawl through in the evenings and play football or cowboys and Indians. It was good to have a friend, someone to talk to and laugh with.

One evening Michael had introduced Marty to his older brother Stan, whom he worshipped and adored, not long after he'd stood and cried when Stan had clamped a damp strong sweet smelling rag over Marty's nose and mouth. He could see it still, as clear as day, Michael crying, the smell of the chloroform and then nothing.

He'd never seen Michael Jameson again. Never even thought about him, he'd been a kid, an unwitting participant in the whole thing.

But obviously something changed along the way.

"Michael" He finally spoke. "Michael, why are you doing this? Was it you all the time?"

The man stopped pacing long enough to fix Martin Fitzgerald with a long unseeing stare, as if he were looking right through him.

"Michael where is Stan, what's going on?. Is this for him, are you doing this for him?"

This time he was rewarded with a blow to the side of the head, a blow which came from the butt of a gun. He felt the warm blood trickling down his forehead and mixing with that which had congealed from earlier punches. The right side of his face was started to swell up immediately and for a moment spots appeared in front of his eyes.

He shook his head slightly and willed himself to stay conscious.

"Don't mention him" Michael spoke slowly, with a slight drawl.

"Why?" Martin's voice was slightly hoarse. "Where is he?"

"He's gone." Michael's voice was high pitched and he gave a nervous laugh, a sure sign that he was very unstable.

"It was his entire fault; he told me to be friends with you, he told me we'd get lots of money, he told me we'd go away together. And then he went away without me, and when he came back he didn't want to know me……didn't want to know his own brother…

his voice trailed off slightly….."I tried to talk to him, but he didn't want anything to do with me, said I reminded him to much of what he was then. What kind of BS is that? Huh?" I took you, I took you to show him that I cared, that I wanted to get revenge for….for what happened, for his going to jail. I thought he's come round eventually, but he didn't.

"What happened?" Martin coaxed. He wanted to get on Michael's side, to pretend sympathy with the man, maybe get his defences down, his head was throbbing so much that he was only getting every other sentence.

"What happened?" Jameson's voice rose slightly again. "He told me to let you go, said he's call the cops. Can you believe it? I told him not too, I warned him, but……

Here he trailed off again.

"You had a fight." Martin prompted gently.

"Yeah, we had a fight."

"Where's Stan now?" Martin shifted slightly in his seat as he spoke, trying to ride out another wave of dizziness that was making him extremely nauseous.

"Dead. Okay. He's dead." Michael stood up and walked over to Martin, his eyes suddenly steely grey. "I killed my own brother and pretty soon I'm gonna kill you too cop, after all its all your fault really, you and that precious father of yours." As he spoke he grabbed Martin roughly by the hair, yanking his head upwards. The sudden movement was too much for the already ill man, and he brought back up the contents of what little Stan Jameson had given him to eat over the previous 4 days, landing on the floor and on his captor's trousers and shoes.

Martin couldn't help smiling inwardly, although he had a feeling that it wouldn't be for long.

Sure enough he found himself jerked upwards from the chair and thrown on the floor, his already jarred ribs hitting against the concrete causing almost excruciating pain. Martin shifted himself up against one corner, hands still tied behind his back and his forehead now gleaming with pain and sweat.

"So that's it?" Martin panted trying to overcome the waves of pain shooting through both his head and his ribs. "You're just gonna kill me, its not going to bring Stan back."

"I know that. But I want Mr Victor Fitzgerald to know what he's done. He has to know, he has to see it done to him and feel the same way that I do all the time…its his fault that Stan's dead, not mine, if he hadn't put my brother in jail this would all never have happened."

"Don't you see?" Michael Jameson walked over and squatted in front of the FBI agent, pushing his face into Martins. "Don't you see that it just has to be this way, Marty?"

And with that he patted 'Marty' on the head and stood up. "Now I gotta go find Daddy, be a good boy till I get back…."

And with that he walked out of the room, locking the heavy door behind him, leaving Martin Fitzgerald sitting alone.

Just like the last time.