Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [68]
The blanket stank. Or maybe it was his arm. Or the bucket. Although he'd not had anything to deposit in it recently.
Tommy looked at the laptop screen. "Can I call home?" he asked.
"Fuck off and eat something."
"Let me call my mother. I want to speak to Jordan."
"Eat."
"If I eat something, will you let me make that call?"
"Okay."
Tommy scooped up a bar of chocolate. Unwrapped it. His fingers were puffy and tender. He bit into the bar. Chewed twice, swallowed. Had a second bite. Finished it with his third. Licked his upper front teeth but couldn't stop them throbbing.
"Can I phone now?"
"No," Smith said. "I think you've spoken quite enough."
***
NIGHTTIME. LIGHTS WERE out. The image on the computer was dark. He'd gone to bed too.
The quiet made Tommy's ears hum. His skin prickled all over, he felt lightheaded, his eyelids were solid weights, his eyeballs throbbed but he couldn't sleep. Didn't want to.
Asked himself the question he'd asked a hundred times since Smith had plugged in the laptop.
Why was there a live video feed into Fraser's sitting room?
***
"PINHOLE CAMERA," SMITH had explained once the image was working. "Set it up while he was out. On the mantelpiece peeking through the gap between a couple of picture frames. Hard to see, even if you know it's there. Bit worried about Fraser dusting, but luckily he doesn't seem to be that houseproud."
The colour image was clear enough to make out the pattern of the carpet.
The room was empty at the moment. A dead place.
"Like a nanny cam," Smith said. "Heard of them?"
Tommy said nothing.
"You'd think they cost a fortune." Smith paused. "Less than a grand, that one. Anyway, I've got a fortune, remember?"
Tommy didn't give a shit about the fifty grand Smith had stolen from him. He was welcome to it.
"Battery powered," Smith carried on. "They'll last much longer than needed. Wireless, of course. And some fancy software loads it to a website where I can play it in real time. Bit jerky. But it does the trick."
"What's all this for?" Tommy said. "What's it for? Tell me that."
Smith said, "Patience."
***
UNTIL HE SAW Fraser, he hadn't believed the camera was in his son's home. Thought the image was a fake. But when Fraser walked into the frame, Tommy knew it was real. There was no sound, and Tommy watched as his son silently passed out of sight.
Tommy's hand moved towards the screen, clutched at the air, dropped to his side.
Fraser came back a few minutes later, wiping his nose like he'd just been snorting coke. Tommy smiled, couldn't help himself.
***
SMITH'S CRISP PACKET rustled.
Tommy dragged his gaze away from the screen. He blinked repeatedly, his eyes irritated as if they were full of grit. His forehead was hot and damp.
Smith had brought a chair in about ten minutes ago, and he sat there six feet away, eating his crisps, smug behind his ski mask, occasionally glancing at the screen, but mainly just sticking crisps in his mouth, salt dusting the mouthhole of his ski mask, watching Tommy watching the monitor.
"Let me see your face," Tommy said. He'd never forgotten Smith telling the waiter that his face was horribly scarred. He was sure it was a lie, but it wasn't proof he was after. Just wanted to see what Smith looked like behind the mask.
"I don't think so," Smith said.
"You're Grant's father. I can identify you that way. Seeing your face won't make any difference."
"I'm keeping the mask on. So fuck you."
Tommy sipped some water from a plastic beaker. Wiped his brow. His forehead was slick with sweat but he was shivering.
"I need another blanket," he said.
Smith crunched another crisp.
"I'm running a fever."
"So you might die," Smith said. "I'll dig a grave for you in the garden. Dance on it afterwards."
"That's your plan? Let my cut go septic and watch me die?"
"Stop fucking bleating about a scratch."
"Is it?" Tommy said. "Is that the plan?"
"No, Savage. But the way you keep