'The heads door slammed shut on Michael's index finger. He was hopping around, cursing, running it under a cold tap. He showed me a few days later a black band right across the nail.' He paused. 'The finger that arrived has a black band. OK?' A hearty plate of avocado, mozzarella and tomatoes arrived for Ashley. And a large bowl of minestrone was set down in front of Mark. When the waiter went away again, Ashley said, 'Do you want to call the police, Mark? Tell the bloodhound Detective Superintendent about this?'
Mark churned that over in his mind, letting his soup cool while Ashley began eating. If they told the police and the man carried out his threat to kill Michael, that was one elegant solution to the situation. Except the bellow of pain from Michael had got to him. None of this had seemed quite real before. All the boys dead in the wreck. Going up to the grave and taking the air tube. Even when Michael had shouted out in the coffin, it hadn't affected him, not really. Not the way the sound of him in pain was affecting him now.
'Michael must have his Palm. If he gets out alive he is going to know that I knew where he was being buried.'
'Since the accident there's never been any question of him getting out alive,' she said. Then after a moment's hesitation added a testy, 'Has there?'
Mark was silent. His mind, normally so orderly and focused, was a messed-up jumble at this moment. They'd never intended to harm Michael with the stag-night prank - that was just the payback for all his jokes. And the original plan he'd hatched With Ashley had never involved hurting Michael either, surely? Ashley was going to many him, and get half his shares in Double-M Properties. When the ink was dry on the certificates, Mark and she would have enough votes between them to take control of the company. They would vote Michael off the Board of Directors, and then he would be a minority shareholder - and wouldn't have much option but to let them buy him out at a low price.
Why the hell had he kept quiet the night he had arrived home from Leeds and heard about the accident. Why? Why?
But of course he knew the real reason why. Pure jealousy. It was because he had never been able to bear the thought of Ashley going off on honeymoon with Michael - and the solution had fallen into his lap.
'Has there, Mark?' Ashley's persistent voice cut through his thoughts.
'Has there what?'
'Duh! Hello! Has there ever been any question of him getting out alive?'
'No, of course not.'
She stared at him, a firm, steady gaze.
He stared back, replaying the terrible screams of pain over and over inside his head, thinking, Ashley, you didn't hear them.
72
ichael lay in the bitumen-black darkness, his heart thudding, his Bad pounding, his index finger throbbing, and excruciating spikes I Of pain from his balls shooting deep up into his belly. It was - he didn't know how long ago, maybe an hour, maybe more, maybe less - from when that hooded bastard had clipped callipers to them and fired electric shocks into them.
But the pain was nothing compared to the dark, cold fear that Stalked his mind. He was remembering the movie, The Silence of the Lambs, which he had seen some years back, and again more recently on television with Ashley. A girl, a senator's daughter, had been kept In the bottom of a well by the serial killer who skinned his victims. He couldn't help it; he was shivering, trying to focus his thoughts, determined, somehow, to survive.
To get back to Ashley. To take her down the aisle. That was all he wanted.
God, how he pined for her!
He couldn't move his arms or his legs. After spooning him tinned stew and bread, his captor had sealed his mouth again with duct tape and he had to breathe just through his nose, which was partially blocked. He sniffed, suddenly panicking that it was getting completely blocked. Sniffed again, harder, deep, rapid sniffs, setting his heart racing.
He tried to work out where he might be. The place smelled dank, musty, there was still a faint reek of engine oil. He was lying on a hard surface and something sharp was digging into the base of his spine, hurting like hell, getting worse by the minute.
He felt stronger, despite the pain, much stronger than he had earlier. The food was having an effect. / am not fucking staying here and dying. I haven't done everything in life to end up here. No way. No absolutely no absolutely no, no no fucking way.
He struggled against his bonds. Breathed in deeply, trying to
shrink his body, then out, trying to expand. And felt something give. Some tiny hint of slack. In again, pulled his arms in tight, tight, tight, out, in, out. Oh sweet Jesus he could move his right arm. Only a tiny amount. But he could move it! He pushed against his bonds, constricted, pushed again, constricted. More slack for his right arm.
Then more still!
He rolled over onto his side, then his stomach. His nostrils filled with the reek of engine oil now; he was lying face down in the slimy stuff, but it didn't matter, because at least the pain in the base of his spine had stopped.
He wriggled his hand round, further round, and then touched something.
OhmyGod!
He was touching the top of his Ericsson mobile!
Got his hand on it, pulled, and it came out of the back pocket of his trousers.
His heart kicked into overdrive. It had been there in the coffin, underwater. Even though it was supposed to be waterproof he doubted it would work. All the same, he ran his fingers over its surfaces as if he was caressing the best friend he had ever had in his life. Found the power button at the top, pushed it. Listened.
There was the faintest beep. Then a dim glow of light, enough that he could see steep walls either side of him. He was in a space about six feet wide and maybe five feet high, covered with a door of some kind. And suddenly he was alert, his brain sharp and focused. He tried to move his hand, to slip it free of the bonds and bring the phone up to his face, but nothing he did succeeded. The bonds were too tight, too well wound around his arms.
Yet.
He had to think this through.
Text.
He could try to send a text.
Think! You switch the phone on and what happens? First is a request for the pin code. Like most people, he used a simple code: 4-4-4-4, his lucky number.
He ran his finger across the key pad - 4 was far left, second row. He tapped it and heard a beep; then another beep each time he
tapped the next three. Incredible! The thing had been submerged in the coffin but it was working. Enough to send a text?
The next part was going to be much harder. He had to work out the letters on the keys. On key number 1 he remembered there were no letters. Key number 2 had ABC. He did some maths in his head the whole alphabet was in groups of three letters except for two numbers, where there were four. Which numbers? Shit, he had used text so much, it must be imprinted in his brain, if he could just access it.
It had to be the least popular letters in the alphabet, Q and - X orZ?
Taking it slowly, counting very carefully, he tried to recall the sequence on his phone. The menu button was top left. One tap took you to messages. The second tap took you to write message. The third tap took you to the blank screen. Then he tapped out what he hoped were the right letters. Alive. Call police.
The next tap, he hoped he remembered correctly, took you to send.
The one after that to phone number.
He tapped in Ashley's number.
The one after that should be send.
He pressed, and to his incredible relief heard a confirmation beep. The message had gone!
Then he felt a stab of panic. Even if the message had gone successfully, what use would it be to her, or the police? How the hell would they be able to find him from a text? Within moments he was engulfed in despair darker than the blackness that surrounded him.
But he refused to give up. There had to be a way. Think! Think!
His fingers moved along the keys, counting, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9.