Chapter 19

Day 5…..

He was beginning to hate cars, and he was especially starting to hate the trunks of cars. Not exactly the most comfortable form of transport, especially when he already felt like he'd gone ten rounds with Tyson.

Being cramped into a dark enclosed space was something he would have been happy to avoid at the best of times. Claustrophobia wasn't something Martin Fitzgerald would ever admit too, but the relief at seeing the trunk pop open, even if it revealed only the slightly demented grin of Michael Jameson, still brought a certain amount of relief.

But that relief was short-lived. He'd tried everything he could to persuade Jameson to stay put, knowing instinctively that eventually they would figure it out; Jack, Danny and the rest. 14 months in MPUE had shown him just how good they were.

Staying in that room, handcuffed to the radiator waiting for his father to show up, he'd had a chance.

But something had happened, something had scared Jameson, Martin knew. He'd left the room, probably to ring and give Fitzgerald senior directions, and when he returned all Martin could see were two eyes darting around the room and he could hear a continuous stream of words….

'Cant stay here, he's watching us, watching us, watching me, they know, they know have to move, have to go away, have to get out of her, have to get away, they know….'

So he'd taken the handcuffs from Martin Fitzgerald, replacing them with the barrel of a gun shoved against his side. A couple of days previously maybe Martin would have tackled him, and probably would have succeeded. However five days of little or no food or water and with his freshly injured hand he was barely able to stand and stumbled several times on his way out to the waiting car. The boot was opened and he was very unceremoniously bundled into it.

And that's where he remained. His hand hurt more than he ever realised it could. It was worse than his aching ribs, worse than the bruises which covered almost all of his body, worse than the cramps caused by lack of food and water, worse than anything.

Lying there in the darkness he tried not to concentrate on the intense throbbing, of the blood which had stopped flowing but which congealed now around the wounded area.

When the knife had entered his hand first, he'd felt nothing, not a thing, it had all happened too quickly, one swift movement and when he looked down he was pinned to the table…But then he's twisted the knife, left and right and all of a sudden a pain so sharp, so absolutely excruciating went right through him and he thought his whole body was going into spasms. It was a gut wrenching nauseating pain that made him want to vomit, but there was nothing left in his stomach except bile.

All in all it wasn't one of his happiest times. He could feel a fog beginning to descend upon him, slowly, slowly coming down in front of his eyes, causing objects to move completely of their own accord…

I mustn't pass out, have to stay awake….It was like a mantra now.

What scared him more than anything was the lack of air. He could feel the sweat gathering on the back of his neck and trickling down his shoulder, seeping through his shirt…

They seemed to be travelling for hours….the heat, and the lack of air grew more and more intense and the fog seemed to settle around him, causing the pain in his hand to dull somewhat...everything just seemed hazy…he was beginning to think that maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing to give in to the fog, to fall asleep for a while….when a rattling noise, followed by a blast of cold air brought him back to life…

The trunk of the car was opening…

He squinted up at Jameson, shielding his eyes from the moonlight with his good hand.

"Get out…"

The truth of it was he couldn't have moved even if he'd wanted to, his whole body was cramped, so he just lay there…

"I said MOVE" There were no half measures now, he was angry, no more than angry Stan Jameson was scared, scared of something. He pulled Martin roughly out of the boot as he spoke jarring bruised ribs and causing pains to shoot through his whole body. He wobbled unsteadily on his feet, holding on to the car for support.

Jameson turned, as if looking to see was anyone around. It wasn't much of an opportunity and in hindsight it was a pretty stupid idea, but it was the only one he had at the time. Martin Fitzgerald lashed out at his captor, kicking him straight in the stomach and causing Jameson to double over in pain, losing his grip on the gun, Martin dove to grab it with his good hand…but the kick hadn't been quite hard enough, Jameson moved quickly, slamming Martin up against the boot of the car.

He punched him viciously in the face "You son of a……"

The rest was lost to Martin as a rain of blows fell to his head, his chest, his stomach...he managed to curl up in a ball in front of the car, trying to shield himself from the worst of the blows…

&&&&&&&&

The first thing he heard when he eventually came too was a scrabbling, scurrying noise…Hw cracked open one eye and then the other…and found that only one would open fully, Even that was enough to realise what was making the noise.

Rats.

"Hope you ain't scared of rodents." Jameson seemed very far away at first, but martin knew he was sitting quite close. "Cos you gonna be playin' house with 'em for a while."

"Just swell…" Martin was surprised by how hoarse and weak his voice sounded. "I'm a regular Doctor Doolittle"…he finished bravely.

Shifting slightly he found himself handcuffed, this time with his hands around the back of a chair in what seemed to once have been an office.

"This used to be the old Walker Sawmill."

Jameson seemed calmer now, he sat across from martin, gun in hand and seemed to be studying the man in front of him

"My Daddy worked here for 10 years, 'fore they laid him off. That was when we was kids, Mike an me and I was only a baby. We had to go to New York then, cos Daddy needed to get work, Mom was dead and there was no one else to help.

"I'm sure he did what he thought…..Martin paused to cough, spitting what he suspected to be blood from his mouth before continuing…"what he thought was best for you?"

"Hell no, he did what he could to get drunk…that was all, didn't do nothing for us…Mike, he used to out and rob food for us and after a couple'a years…and then I did…we had nothing and nobody... only us…don't you see?

He looked over at Martin, his expression now full of pain.

"You, you wouldn't know anything about it, with your high powered Dad drivin' all round the countryside looking for you"

Jameson paused for a moment, and peered down the barrel of his magnum before taking out and reloading the clip…he stood up and walked over to where Martin sat slumped in this chair.

"Daddy's little boy." He pointed the gun directly at Martin's head. "What would daddy do if he could see you now.?"

Tell me what an idiot I am for letting myself get caught Martin thought bitterly, but wisely he chose to say nothing, seeing that Jameson would be easily roused and was none to stable.

Instead he tried to steer the conversation another way.

"Do you think Stan would want this, would want to see you this way?

"Stan didn't give a shit about me either!" Jameson stood up abruptly and began pacing the room…He didn't give a shit about me, else he wouldn't have gone to prison and left me with….with HIM…I told him that, I told him when I went to see him, and he wouldn't listen to me, he just wouldn't listen…that's why I shot him…I just wanted him to listen….I didn't want to…..

"So you did kill him' thought Martin silently. Out loud he said "I'm listening."

"Yeah, well I'm sick of talkin' to you."

Martin coughed again and this time there was no mistaking the metallic taste in this mouth, nor the blood that he spit, grimacing onto the dusty floor…

Closing his eyes Martin pictured each one of his colleagues in his mind…..and prayed for a miracle.

Find me, please…..