Bring Him Back

  This eBook novella is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed therein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by Claymore Publishing

  An eBook Original 2013

  Copyright © Scott Mariani 2013

  www.scottmariani.com

  Scott Mariani asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Claymore Publishing in 2013.

  A CIP Catalogue of this book is available from the British Library

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9569226-4-9

  Mobi ISBN: 978-0-9569226-5-6

  EPub ISBN: 978-0-9569226-6-3

  Design and layout by Chandler Design Associates Ltd.

  All rights reserved. This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way without the prior permission of the copyright holder.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  Prologue

  Somewhere in Europe

  3rd December 2003

  DEEP IN THE snowy pine forest, a young girl was running barefoot for her life.

  She was almost fifteen. Her name was Kristina Braun, but for the last several months, she’d barely been aware of her own identity.

  They had taken it from her.

  They would strip your soul away, if you let them. They would steal your mind.

  They. She had no idea who it was who’d been holding her captive for so long and doing all these horrible things to her. She only knew that she must get away – and now, suddenly, after all these months of pretending to go along with them while secretly planning her escape, her one chance had finally come.

  Except that they had no intention of letting her get away so easily. As she stumbled wildly through the snow, tree branches whipping her face and her bare arms torn by brambles and thorns, she could hear the voices of her pursuers close behind.

  ‘I see her!’ yelled one of them. An instant later, there was a muffled crack and something thwacked into a pine trunk just a few inches from her. Not a bullet, but some kind of dart. All she could do was keep on running. The trees seemed to thin out ahead. Could there be a road? Could there be a village?

  Then, suddenly, there was nowhere to run. She skidded to a halt, teetered on the edge and almost fell, sending a shower of powdery snow down the sheer face of the ravine to the wooded valley far below. There was no road. No village. Just the stark, wintry emptiness of the mountains and forests all around her.

  Shuddering with cold and fear, Kristina glanced desperately around her for another escape route. It was too late. The voices of her pursuers seemed to come from all sides. They’d cut her off.

  She turned back to face the edge of the ravine. The freezing mountain wind whistled about her.

  She knew what these people would do to her if they caught her, if she let them take her back to that awful place. The same thing they’d done to Angie. Perhaps something even worse.

  No. She wasn’t going to let that happen.

  Kristina closed her eyes. Visualised the faces of her parents. These last months she’d often thought about how frantic and desperate they must be, wondering where she was, sometimes hoping she’d come back, perhaps sometimes thinking they’d never see her again.

  And now she knew for sure they never would.

  Kristina said goodbye and stepped out into the void.

  1

  Near St Helier, Isle of Jersey

  May 7th, 2004

  THE SUN WAS melting into a golden shimmer on the water as another long, warm May day came to an end. As usual, the family who lived in the big house overlooking the bay were eating a late dinner at the long table in the conservatory dining room. As usual, too, these days, the fair-haired boy had said little during the meal. His mother sat opposite him, frowning as he toyed listlessly with the food on his plate.

  The boy was twelve, and his name was Carl Hunter. The man sitting to his right with his back to the window wasn’t his real father. And as the boy saw it, this wasn’t a real family. It was a stupid pretend family and it wasn’t the same any more. In all kinds of ways.

  Carl laid down his cutlery and shoved his half-empty plate away from him. ‘Finished. I want to go and watch TV.’

  ‘You’re not finished, Carl,’ his mother said. ‘And there’s pudding to come. I made apple crumble.’

  Carl shook his head and started getting up. ‘Don’t want any.’

  ‘You should ask your mother properly if you can leave the table,’ said the man who wasn’t Carl’s father.

  ‘Please can I leave the table?’ the boy muttered sullenly.

  ‘No,’ his mother said. ‘You can’t. This family sits down to eat together.’

  Carl let out a short laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘You keep on like that, young man, and you won’t have a TV to watch,’ his mother warned him. Her face was turning paler, like it always did when she was about to erupt.

  The man laid down his fork and gently touched her arm. ‘Jessica, it’s okay.’ Turning to Carl, he smiled and said, ‘Hey, you know what I did today? Fixed the plug on your Novag. There was a broken connection inside. I’ve soldered it all up, so it should work fine now. How about that, eh?’

  The Novag chess computer was one of Carl’s favourite things, but he’d accidentally damaged the plug a few days earlier. If he was pleased it was fixed, he didn’t show it.

  ‘What do we say, Carl?’ his mother said. ‘That was very nice of Mike, wasn’t it? Carl, what do we say?’

  The boy gave Mike the frostiest scowl he could manage. ‘Thanks, Mike.’

  ‘It’s on the table in the study,’ Mike said in the same soft tone. ‘Maybe you’d like to go and try it out, hmm? On you go, then.’

  The boy left the room without a word. They heard him go stumping off towards the study to retrieve the repaired plug, then a moment later his footsteps on the stairs as he hurried up to his room. The door banged shut.

  ‘Thanks so much for undermining me like that,’ Jessica Hunter said tersely.

  ‘I didn’t mean to undermine you,’ Mike told her. ‘And I don’t mean to spoil him, either. But he’s been through a lot, you know? All the changes he’s had to adapt to. Can’t be easy for him.’

  Jessica sighed and laid her hand on his. ‘And you’re trying so hard. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too. I’m just trying to be a dad to him, that’s all. I love him as if he was mine.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, and smiled.

  From two floors above, they could hear Carl’s music playing.

  ‘Oh, I just remembered,’ Jessica said, brightening up. ‘Alison called earlier. We’re invited to a party at their place next Saturday. I said we were free. Already booked the sitter. That okay?’

  ‘Sounds great,’ Mike said as he started clearing the plates. ‘I’ll fetch the pudding, shall I? You want cream or custard?’

  ‘Better go easy on the cream,’ she said. ‘Have to get into a size eight by next week.’

  He was about to make his usual ‘you’re not fat, Jessica,’ remark when the sudden noise cut him short.

  They both froze. Mike dropped the
plates on the table. ‘What the—?’

  It had come from down the hall.

  ‘That was the front door,’ Jessica said in alarm, looking at him with big eyes. It was a thick, heavy door. Despite the almost nonexistent crime rate on Jersey, they kept it locked and bolted.

  Carl’s music was still blaring upstairs.

  Before Mike and Jessica could say anything more, they heard the sound again.

  A heavy thump. The splintering of glass. Someone was smashing their way inside the house.

  They exchanged horrified glances, then Mike rushed out of the dining room and into the hallway. ‘Stay there,’ he yelled back at her. The crashing had stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

  ‘Mike! No!’ For a second she stayed in her chair, paralysed by fear. Then she leapt to her feet and ran out of the room after him. ‘Mike?’

  Mike was standing in the hallway, staring towards the wrecked front door. There was a man in the entrance. A ragged figure. Crazed-looking. His beard and hair were long and straggly, like a tramp’s. His eyes were wild and his fists were tight around the handle of the sledgehammer he’d used to break the door in.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Jessica gasped. ‘Drew!’

  The sound of music from Carl’s room stopped.

  The intruder let the sledgehammer drop from his hands. It hit the shiny hardwood floor with a clang. ‘Hello, Jessica,’ he said in a strangled voice.

  Jessica gaped at the figure of her ex-husband. He was barely recognisable. His clothes were dirty and unkempt. He’d gained a huge amount of weight since she’d last seen him, that day in court when the restraining order had been put in place.

  Shocked disbelief was quickly turning to rage. ‘Have you gone out of your mind?’ she screamed at him.

  ‘What do you want, Drew?’ Mike asked, his voice low and steady.

  ‘I’ve come for Carl,’ Drew replied.

  Jessica drew a stunned breath. ‘What do you mean, you’ve come for Carl?’

  ‘You heard me,’ Drew said. ‘I’ve come to fetch him.’

  ‘Have you been drinking? Are you completely insane? You can’t come here like this. You can’t come anywhere near Carl. The restraining order, remember?’

  ‘Dad!’ It was Carl. He was standing rigidly at the top of the stairs. Gripping the banister rail.

  ‘Come down, son,’ Drew said. ‘I’m taking you away from this place.’

  ‘Go back to your room, Carl!’ Jessica shouted in a panicky quaver. ‘You hear me? Right now!’

  Carl hesitated. Then started making his way anxiously down the stairs. Drew nodded to him. He gave a twisted kind of smile through his messy beard.

  ‘Carl! Jessica yelled. ‘What did I just tell you?’

  The boy glanced at her, then at Mike, then back at his father. He paused nervously on the stairs.

  ‘You’re upset, Drew,’ Mike said, moving warily towards him. ‘We understand how much it’s hurt you that you couldn’t see Carl any more. But maybe it doesn’t have to be forever. Let’s talk it through like civilized people. Maybe we can come to an agreement.’

  ‘Agreement,’ Drew snorted in disgust. ‘Like hell we will. Like I’d make an agreement with you.’

  ‘You’re frightening the boy,’ Mike said. ‘Don’t you care about that, Drew? About his feelings?’ He took another step forward.

  ‘Don’t you come any closer,’ Drew warned. From the pocket of his jeans, he pulled a gun. It was a small semi-automatic pistol, black, ugly and purposeful, and its stubby barrel was pointing at Mike’s chest. Jessica let out a cry.

  ‘One more step,’ Drew said to Mike. ‘I’ll blow a hole right through you. I mean it.’

  Mike went very still. His gaze fixed on the muzzle of the small pistol in Drew’s hand. It was trembling slightly. Drew was sweating and his breathing was rapid and ragged, clearly teetering on the verge of panic. Mike was very afraid of what might happen if he tipped over that edge.

  ‘Come here, Carl,’ Drew said, holding out his free hand. The boy paused, then slowly descended the rest of the stairs. ‘Dad—’ he murmured. Drew grasped him by the arm and held him close. Whispered something in his ear. The boy looked up at him.

  ‘Let him go!’ Jessica screamed. ‘Drew! Please! Why are you doing this?’

  Drew wagged the barrel of the gun down the passage that led past the stairs. The door on the right led down to the cellar. It was an old door, solid oak. The ring of a large iron key protruded from the lock. ‘The two of you,’ Drew said. ‘Get in there.’

  ‘You don’t want to do this,’ Mike said as Drew herded them towards the cellar. ‘You know what’s going to happen. Drop the gun. I said, drop the gun, Drew.’ He spoke softly, calmly.

  Drew blinked. He clasped the boy even more tightly to his side. ‘Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Get in there now! You first, you piece of shit. I’m not joking. You get in there now or I’ll shoot you. I mean it. I will.’

  ‘I’m begging you, Drew . . .’ Jessica sobbed.

  ‘Open the door.’

  Mike turned the key with a sigh. The lock clunked. The door creaked open. Cool, slightly dank air wafted up from the dark space below. He reached slowly up to the light switch and turned it on to reveal the flight of concrete steps leading down to the cellar. There were packing cases and boxes, an old table, stacked chairs. Against one rough whitewashed wall leaned the two bikes that Drew and Jessica had once enjoyed cycling around the island on. Happier times. Now they were gone.

  Jessica was frantically weeping as she and Mike descended the cellar steps. Drew watched them from the doorway, still pointing the gun, his arm around Carl’s shoulders.

  ‘Mummy loves you, Carl,’ Jessica sobbed. ‘You hear me? Mummy loves you!’

  ‘You harm him,’ Mike warned Drew, ‘and I swear you’ll pay dearly for it.’

  Drew made no reply. He slammed the cellar door, shutting off the anguished cry from Jessica. He turned the lock. Left the key in place, sideways so that it couldn’t be pushed through from inside. There were wire coat hangers and all kinds of things in the cellar that could be used to pick the lock.

  ‘Dad—’ Carl said in a shaky voice.

  Drew slipped the gun back into his pocket. He squeezed his boy’s arm tightly. ‘Let’s get your things, Carl. We’re leaving.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ the boy asked, staring up at him. He could remember all the times in the past when his father had been drunk, sometimes hopelessly inebriated, incoherent, reeking of booze, hardly able to stand. A miserable, heartbreaking sight that Carl had almost become used to.

  But not now. Now he could see his father was completely sober.

  ‘I have it all planned,’ Drew said. ‘Everything.’

  2

  Fifteen days later

  Saturday, May 22nd

  BEN HOPE STEPPED out of the rented Ford Mondeo and looked up at the house. The warm sea breeze ruffled his thick blond hair, which he wore a little longer now that he’d been out of the military for almost a year. In the background, he could hear the waves crashing against the rocks. It was a sound that made him think of home.

  The house looked just the way it had on the TV news, big and expensive. Not for the first time since he’d got the call, he wondered what would make a well-known, comfortably-off professional photographer decide to break into his former home, hold up his ex-wife and her new man at gunpoint and kidnap his own twelve-year-old son. Ben was keeping an open mind.

  He took out his cigarettes, the blue pack of French Gauloises that he was smoking these days. He lit one from the fat orange flame of his Zippo, shielding it from the wind. Clanged the lighter shut, dropped the warm metal in the pocket of his leather jacket and started walking up the winding path between crisp expanses of manicured lawn towards the house.

  The last desultory-looking stragglers left over from the army of media who’d been besieging the place since the news had broken two weeks ago were wrapping up their gear to go home. One of them, a wiry guy i
n a baseball cap and a Velvet Revolver T-shirt, was trying to ignite a cigarette with a match but getting nowhere in the wind. ‘Got a light, mate?’ he asked, seeing Ben’s Gauloise. Ben paused, fished out the Zippo and helped him out.

  ‘So, you a relative of the Hunters, then?’ the guy asked eagerly, puffing smoke. ‘Friend of the family, maybe? Care to make any comments?’

  Ben just looked at him. He could see from the hungry glow in his eyes that he was desperate to milk a few more drops out of the two-week-old story that had already started fading from the news.

  ‘Or are you with the cops?’ the guy added hopefully. ‘Come on, give us something.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘I’m just here to clean the swimming pool,’ he said. He walked on. From behind him he heard one of them say, ‘But they don’t have a swimming pool, do they?’ By then Ben was already climbing the steps to the front door. He flicked away the part-smoked Gauloise and rang the bell twice.

  The woman who answered the door was tall, about five-nine, with long chestnut hair. Ben recognised her as Jessica Hunter. He knew she was only thirty-five, but the strain of the last two weeks had made her look older than her years, haggard with worry.

  ‘Mr Hope?’ she said, peering anxiously at him.

  ‘Call me Ben,’ Ben said.

  Jessica Hunter’s shoulders sagged with relief. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come. Please, come in.’

  Ben followed her into a large, plush entrance hall. It was funny how money had its own smell that always imbued these kinds of places. Jessica walked briskly across to the foot of a broad flight of stairs and called upwards, ‘Mike! Mr Hope is here.’ She turned back to Ben. ‘He’ll join us in a minute. Please, won’t you come into the kitchen? I was just about to make a coffee.’

  She led the way into a large L-shaped space that was half kitchen, half breakfast room. Patio windows overlooked a well-tended garden with a tennis court in the distance. At one end of the room, deep wicker sofas covered in cushions faced one another across a low table. At the opposite end, an espresso maker was burbling on a shiny Aga range.

  ‘So you live in Ireland?’ she said with an effort to smile, just to make conversation and break the ice a little.