Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [64]
This was Old Mrs Yardie's house, Smith had told him. What had happened to Old Mrs Yardie was anybody's guess. Tommy hadn't heard any signs of anyone else living here and he suspected that she wouldn't have willingly allowed someone to be held captive in her own home, so Tommy didn't rate Old Mrs Yardie's chances.
Must be about two weeks Tommy'd been here now.
He'd had time to think. Lots of it. It dragged, day and night. Time to think about Phil, Mum, Fraser, Jordan. Time to wonder how Hannah was coping with life in Johannesburg. Time to wonder how he might have saved their marriage. Time to wonder what he ever saw in her. Time to resolve to call Bella from Napoli just as soon as he was free to do so. But mainly, time to think about how he'd got himself into this mess and to wonder if he was ever going to get out of it.
Spikes of fear punched into his temples. Adrenalin flooded his bloodstream, mixed with the fever.
There was a constant burning in his stomach.
Each day, he grew sicker.
He lowered his eyelids. An image of torchlit blood on glass flashed into his head, vivid enough to make him shudder. If they'd called an ambulance right away, maybe the boy would have made it. Maybe that was Tommy's punishment. Left alone to think about what he'd done.
Tommy dug his nails into his hands. Forced the image to change. After a while, he was back home, sitting at the desk in his office, staring at his computer screen. Ah, yes, he remembered that day. He was checking out the website of a sash and case window specialist.
For one reason or another, half the windows in the house wouldn't open properly. And Mum was fed up with it. Told him he'd never treat one of his business properties the way he treated his own home. And she was right. So he'd been having a look at what was available. He'd thought about modernising, but wanted to keep the traditional look. And these guys came recommended.
He was thinking he should get a quote when there was a knock on the door and Jordan came in.
Tommy looked at his watch. He was surprised to see Jordan this early, then remembered it was the school holidays. And then remembered he was due for a conference call in just under two minutes. He said, "What have you done?"
"Nothing."
"What do you want, then?"
Jordan shrugged. He looked at the floor, scuffed the carpet with his shoe.
"Jordan. I'm busy."
He muttered, "Got to go to Fraser's."
"Good. Be careful on the road."
After a while: "Dad, I think I'm too tired to take my bike. Been playing football all morning."
"You want a lift? Is that it?"
"Suppose."
Tommy nodded. Never liked the idea of Jordan riding a bike. Could have strangled his mother when she bought the damn thing. "Give me twenty minutes?"
"Okay. Can my friend come too?"
"Sure, who's your—?"
Jordan pointed over Tommy's shoulder.
Tommy turned, saw something about the size of a well-fed dog just as it hurtled through the window. Tommy ducked, put his hands over his head.
A crash, a thump. Then silence. He stayed hunched over.
When he dared to look, shards of glass glinted on the floor, littered his desk, glistened like water on the keyboard. There were slivers of glass on the back of his hands. He wiped them off. Somehow, he wasn't cut.
He looked over to the door, asked Jordan, "You okay?"
Jordan nodded.
There was no sign now of the dog, or whatever it was. But it couldn't have just disappeared. Tommy scanned the room, still couldn't see anything. He peered over the edge of his desk.
There was nothing there.
He brushed glass off his chair with his sleeve and sat back down. Jordan smiled again. Tommy smiled back, but realised that his son wasn't looking at him. Jordan was looking to his right.
Tommy snapped his head to the side just as something shoved him, sent him sprawling to the floor. He put out a hand, cut his palm, cried out. Twisted onto his side, gasping. And suddenly he was face to face with someone he never thought he'd see again.
He stared