A Chance Encounter by Rae Shaw (e manga reader TXT) 📗

was a counterpane of fields and a small wooded area. The landscape beyond rose and fell gently; a typical English rural scene and hopelessly unpopulated. Surrounded by equally ruined out-houses, the derelict farmhouse was an angry blot in an otherwise tranquil location.

They pushed her towards the unlocked door with its peeling blue paintwork; one of them kicked it open and the hinges squealed in painful protest. The interior was gloomy except for the streamlined shards of light that penetrated from outside through the thin gaps in the shutters, forming a ghostly pattern on the wall.

Once, years ago, the room had been a cosy kitchen. Now, there were no cupboards or worktops, only a square ceramic sink with no taps. A stained table was littered with crushed beer cans, take-away cartons and a couple of plastic carriers. Cigarette stubs ringed the two wooden chairs and boot prints trampled the dropped ash. There were more than two sets; a rota of guards? Against the back wall was a stack of bottled water and a black bin liner overflowing with rubbish. There was no light bulb attached to the wire hanging from the ceiling.

Details: an abandoned house with no electricity or running water. Which meant there would be no bills or records associated with the property. The place was utterly forgotten.

The dim light was easier to tolerate, and it calmed the rampaging pain behind her eyes. The two assailants who had grabbed her off the street remained her sole captors. Stazki, the man she had beaten in Dublin, was older than she realised and the pockmarked complexion, which was deeply tanned, implied time spent in warm climates. The scar on his neck was a jagged white line. He had carried it for many years, suggesting a long violent past. His companion was younger and impatient; he shifted on his feet and squeezed her arm in his pincer hold.

Stazki dropped something onto the table: her handbag! He had picked it up off the pavement. She allowed herself a tiny amount of optimism.

Stazki rummaged inside it and extracted her mobile. The back cover was off. Why hadn’t he smashed it? He reassembled components, fiddling with the SIM card and battery, then tapped on the screen several times. She held her breath and waited.

Stazki held up her mobile, thrusting it at her face. ‘Open.’

The lock screen was engaged. She shook her head.

The blow to her stomach brought her down onto her knees. Baseball man hoisted her up. Her insides would rupture with more blows like that. Gasping for breath, she unlocked the screen with a trembling finger. He quickly pulled up her contacts list and shoved Jackson Haynes’s name – his business card complete with work address and corporate telephone number – under her nose. She nodded, acknowledging what he had found. However, Jackson’s personal number was listed under a bogus name, as was Hettie’s and a few other key people she chose to keep protected. A contacts list was a valuable commodity in the wrong hands. Her family’s details she had memorised, including Mark and Ellen's.

Yes, details were important. Too important. Keep them safe.

Time to speak, so she cleared her throat a few times. Stazki ripped part of the tape off and she muffled a wince. Her raw lips cracked with thirst. ‘My boss,’ she croaked. ‘I drive his air-head wife to the shops. I work for his security team. Nothing special.’

‘Why send you to Dublin?’

‘Mark Clewer is a sort of friend of his. Mr Haynes has a tendency to take pity on people. I was ordered to go with him to help.’

‘You got the better of me,’ Stazki said. ‘I don’t forget.’

‘Sorry, I was obviously lucky with you. I wanted to get home.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought I might get a promotion out of it. Didn’t get it though.’ She added more distance between her and Jackson, weakening the connection as much as possible.

‘Now he’s your boyfriend, this Clewer,’ Stazki said.

‘He’s good in bed.’ Stay away from him; she bit her tongue. ‘Haynes asked me to keep him out of trouble.’

‘You better be no trouble.’ Stazki smashed the phone on the stone tiles and ground his heel into the screen. He placed the handbag on the table just out of her reach, then stuck the tape back over her mouth, smoothing it across her cheek. She jerked her head away.

She tried not to obsess about the handbag. She shouldn’t draw attention to its contents. Her abductors hadn’t mentioned the little device, and if they had seen it, they hadn’t appreciated what it was. No bigger than her thumb, it resembled a key-fob and was stuffed in a side pocket. The handbag remained her only hope.

The younger man picked up a bottle of water and a carrier bag, the other pushed her towards a door in the corner of the room. Julianna teetered on the brink of a staircase leading down into a murky cellar. She nearly slipped on the uneven steps. The cellar wasn’t cavernous and was partitioned off into rooms with a corridor down one side. A small amount of light seeped in through a ventilation shaft in the end wall. The floor was strewn with rubbish – bits of carpet, mouse droppings and leaves that had blown in through the vent.

They passed the first closed door and stopped next to the second. Stazki drew the bolt back and thrust her inside the room. Perhaps describing it as a room was being generous. It was a squalid space with bare brick walls, a filthy concrete floor and a low ceiling. The only source of light arrived through another small shaft barricaded with metal bars. Rainwater had one time pooled on the floor beneath the opening, leaving behind a dried-out green stain of algae and fungus.

In one corner, the furthest from the door, was a thin mattress, the kind that would typically