She’s still got Mr Bibble-Bobble with her, hugging him to her chest. The sight of it makes something inside Sally burst, stinging, causing the cattle court to swim as tears run down her cheeks. Hidden by the mask.
‘Lot number two: Rebecca Oliver! Rebecca’s five and, if you’re local, you’ll know there’s been a good furore whipped up in the media about her disappearance. Ooh, exciting!’
Number One shoves her into the semicircle, where she glares at all the animal masks. A defiant set to her chin and shoulders.
‘Rebecca plays the recorder and wants to be a famous footballer when she grows up. Assuming her new owner lets her live that long.’
That draws a couple of chuckles from Tiger and Dog.
Sally stands there, staring at the girl she abducted. Blinking through the tears.
‘Given the media interest, ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to start the bidding at fifteen thousand. Who’ll give me—’
‘I will!’ Rabbit’s first: ‘Fifteen thousand.’
Bull steps forward, circling Becky. ‘Seventeen.’
‘Thank you, Ox. I have seventeen, any advance on seventeen?’
‘Eighteen.’
Becky bares her teeth, snarling it out. ‘My mummy will kill all of you tits!’
‘Well, aren’t you feisty?’ Horse’s voice drips with hunger. ‘I bid twenty!’
44
‘Mmmmmnnnnghph!’ Logan’s eyes snapped open on darkness.
Still alive. Still alive...
Something cottony filled his mouth and a hard rectangle pulled at the skin of his cheeks and lips — holding the cottony thing in. A gag. He wriggled and cramp twisted its way up his arms and across his shoulders.
Gah... Sodding... Oh that hurt.
Then it did the same with his legs.
‘Mmmmmmmnngnggphhh!’ With bells on.
He screwed his eyes shut again. Deep breaths through his nose. Deep breaths. Relax. Let it pass. Let the cramp—
It surged back for another go.
‘Mmmmgn fggggnnn mmmgggsssttmmmmnd!’
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
And at last it passed.
He rested his head against something crinkly that smelled of fresh bin-bags. Reached up with his right elbow and clunked into something solid and hollow sounding. Wood? He gave it another thump, but it wouldn’t move. Legs next: but he couldn’t straighten them more than halfway without his feet bashing into... metal? Sounded like metal anyway.
Rocking back and forth and back and forth set the whole thing bouncing. Not a lot, but enough to know there were springs involved. Big ones, because as soon as he stopped rocking the world settled down again.
Well, there you were then: he was in a car boot. A car boot lined with bin-bags.
Yeah, not a good sign.
And as if that wasn’t bad enough: his ankles were fastened together, wrists too — something thin and hard. Not handcuffs. Not rope. Cable ties?
Today just got better and better.
OK. He could do this.
He took another deep breath and curled up into as small a ball as he could, reaching with both arms at full stretch... down his back, thighs, knees, calves... feet!
And now his hands were at the front of his body instead of behind him.
He sagged against the bin-bags and panted for a bit. Then scrabbled his fingers at whatever it was holding the gag in. Duct tape. Definitely duct tape. Logan found the edge and ripped it off his mouth then dug out the cotton wad and spat. Coughed. Gasped for air.
The world rotated around him once, twice, three times...
He screwed his eyes shut again, slowing his breathing until everything stopped spinning.
OK. Two things down. Three to go. Four, if you counted getting out of the boot.
Next up: whatever it was holding his wrists together.
He raised them to his stinging lips, feeling his way along them. Definitely cable ties. Question was, were they the industrial heavy-duty max-strength ones, or your common-or-garden domestic variety?
Only one way to find out.
He twisted his wrists to the side and gnawed on the ties like a hungry rat. Teeth clicking and clacking as they slipped over the tough plastic.
God, this was going to take forever.
‘Lot number four is an old Livestock Mart favourite: Vernon Booker!’ The Auctioneer sweeps an arm out as Number Five shoves a skinny boy into the circle.
He’s older than the first three children, dressed in nothing but pyjama bottoms, with heavy bags under his sunken eyes. Shoulders hunched, head low, not looking at anyone. Shivering. His bare arms and chest are peppered with tiny circular scars — the skin puckered, pink, and shiny against his pale skin. Like someone’s stubbed a million cigarettes out on him.
‘Back for his fifth auction, eight-year-old Vernon has been fully housebroken. Who’ll start the bidding at three thousand pounds?’
Silence.
‘Three thousand pounds for this compliant, well-trained young man.’
No one moves.
‘Two thousand?’
No one speaks.
‘Well, one thousand then.’
Vernon’s bare feet scuff on the straw-covered floor as he shrinks a bit more with every drop in price.
‘Come on, people, this is a perfectly serviceable boy here! A bit worn, but there’s life in him yet.’
He’s so thin, so terrified...
Sally licks her lips. Maybe she should buy him? It’s only a thousand pounds. She’ll still have more than sixty-two thousand to spend on Aiden, plus the money Horse bid for Becky.
And Vernon’s so small and cowed. So broken.
She can save him. Hand him over to the police, or social services. Anonymously, of course. Raymond will know how to do it so they don’t get into trouble.
‘OK, do I hear five hundred?’
But what if she doesn’t have enough left afterwards? What if she needs every penny to get Aiden back and she can’t because she’s spent this money on Vernon?
‘Two fifty? Come on, I’m practically giving him away!’
The breath catches in her throat.
What if Aiden gets sold to one of these horrible perverts and she — can’t — stop — it?
Why, because she feels sorry for this boy? This stranger? What makes him more deserving than her own flesh and blood?
‘Going once, going twice...’ The Auctioneer sighs. Shrugs. ‘Bad luck, Vernon. Never mind, I’m sure you did your best.’ He turns his grey mask to the Animals. ‘This lot is officially withdrawn.’ Then snaps his fingers and points. ‘Number Five? Ex-stock.’
Number Five grabs the boy by the arm and hauls him away.
‘No!’ Vernon looks at them for the first time since he was brought in. Eyes darting from one bestial mask to the next as he’s dragged out. ‘I’ll be good, I promise! I swear I’ll be a good boy!’
He breaks free of Number Five and runs towards the Animals. Throws himself at Rat’s feet, hands clasped together in prayer. ‘Please! I’m a good boy, I’ll do whatever you—’
‘Urgh!’ Rat backs away. ‘Get off me!’
‘Please, I can—’
Number Five backhands him, sending him sprawling across the straw. Then grabs a handful of Vernon’s hair and starts towards the door again.
‘PLEASE! I’M A GOOD BOY! I AM! DON’T LET THEM KILL ME! DON’T—’
Blood sprays from his nose as Number Five smashes a fist into it.