Title Page

Rupert, Carla & the General

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Novel by

Paul White

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2013 Paul White

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

(eBook edition 2018)

 

Originally titled 'The Abduction of Rupert DeVille'

Dedication

 

 

 

DEDICATION

 

 

For my wife, Debbie.

Without whose constant encouragement and support I may never have finished this book.

Chapter One - The Plan

 

 

 

Today was to be the most momentous day in the life of Rupert DeVille. It was the day which would forge Rupert’s path to the future or lay waste to the past years of his life.

 

When Rupert DeVille left his home in the morning, the summer sun was peeking above the red rooftops of the town’s houses. The weak rays of bright yellow sunlight cut through the crisp cold dawn air pleasantly warming the skin on Rupert’s face.

Rupert held only the faintest comprehension of how beautiful this morning was, how those weak sunrays gently warmed his skin or how clear, bright and blue the sky was so early in the day.

His mind was elsewhere, far away from such a mundane thing as the weather. Rupert was dwelling on the meticulous plan he had prepared for this day, this very special day. The day he was to propose to his girlfriend, Carla.

 

He was painstakingly self-absorbed with the details and carefully reconsidering each step he was about to undertake, so nothing, absolutely nothing, was left to chance.

The plan was beautiful in its simplicity and Rupert needed each stage to go like clockwork.

 

Stage 1. Catch the 6.50am bus, number 54, from the end of Brook Street. (If the traffic is light this morning breakfast at the Café, if the journey is slow, go straight to work in the bookshop.)

 

Stage 2. Arrive at bookshop/start work as any other day.

 

Stage 3. Make a telephone call to check that wages have been safely deposited into bank account and double check the balance.

 

Stage 4. Go to the Jewellers on the high street at lunchtime & buy the engagement ring. (Ask assistants advice regarding size.)

 

Stage 5. Leave work one hour early. (This has already been agreed with George.)

 

Stage 6. Confirm (telephone) reservation at ‘La Bouche’ with Francois. (Ensure that François will not forget the Champagne or the ice bucket.)

 

 

Stage 7. Phone Carla, (Carla will not be ready on time), to confirm she will be ready on time.

 

 Stage 8. Shower & change into best grey flannel suit. Do not forget to put the engagement ring in the right-hand pocket of suit jacket.

 

Stage 9. Arrive at Carla’s house just before 7.30pm. (Carla will not be ready until 8.00pm at the earliest.)

 

Stage 10. Walk (stroll) with Carla along the riverbank to ‘La Bouche’ Riverside Restaurant. The reservation is made for 8.45pm, (tell Carla it’s for 8.15pm.)

 

Stage 11. Propose, after the main course, while waiting for the dessert. Drink champagne with Carla in celebration, (or alone in commiseration.)

 

Stage 12. The last and final stage will be dependent on the answer to stage 11.

 

Option A. Walk home (alone) along the riverbank and drink copious amounts of whiskey. Sulk all night long. Fall asleep, (eventually) on the couch. The following day begin life as a hermit on a remote, uninhabited Scottish isle until I am too old and wrinkled to remember anything.

 

Option B. Walk along riverbank holding Carla’s hand, to her home and celebrate our engagement by making long, slow, endless, passionate love to fiancé. Until the urge to eat forces us to leave the bed and raid the larder or become cannibalistic and eat each other.

End of plan, (besides living happily ever after.)

 

 

That was it.

 

That was Rupert’s plan. It was plain and simple. Time off work was agreed, the restaurant reservation made. His pay due into his bank account later today. All he needed was buy the ring and summon up the courage to ‘pop-the-question’.

Rupert knew Carla would say yes, wouldn’t she?

 

So, what could possibly go wrong? Absolutely nothing. He reassured himself absolutely nothing could go awry. Rupert smiled inwardly to himself, he had devised the perfect plan.

Whilst waiting at the bus stop for the 6.50am, no. 54 bus. Rupert was, for the moment musing over a less important decision. He was hungry, his stomach was rumbling loudly, he wanted, he needed something to eat for his breakfast.

Rupert was also wondering if he should remain on the bus until he reached the nearest stop to work, arriving at the shop a little too early for his liking and still be hungry, probably starving by then, or should he alight three stops previous and breakfast in the Café, before walking the short distance along the high street to the bookstore?

 

His final decision Rupert knew, would depend on the amount of traffic on the roads. He hoped it would not be too busy a rush hour this morning as the thought of a large sandwich, piled high with crispy fried bacon and plastered with hot English mustard was virtually making him drool. He was sure it was simply nervous tension, regarding the forthcoming events, which was giving him the hunger pangs this morning. Pangs that made Rupert’s stomach rumble astoundingly and embarrassingly loudly.

He was so engrossed with his breakfast musings and the constant nagging of his grumbling stomach that the resolution of which city bus stop he was going to alight from was made for him. Suddenly Rupert was jolted from his contemplations as the bus, the 6.50am, number 54, pulled away from the bus stop.

 

Rupert could do little more than watch as the bus, his bus, the bus he was supposed to have caught, drive away, towards the town. This left him standing at the bus stop a little dazed and confused, if not a little embarrassed by his lack of attentiveness. Even in his stunned state it immediately dawned on him, his plan, his very carefully devised plan, the most important plan of his life had been decimated by the merest thought of a piping hot, crispy bacon sandwich.

Rupert was distraught.

 

Standing at the bus stop, open-mouthed, eyes fixated on the dwindling sight of the bright red bus, as it disappeared into the traffic further along Brook Street, Rupert found himself rocking from side to side in agitated bewilderment and sheer frustration.

This was, for him, unknown territory. How was he to get to work now? How was he to explain his lateness? What would he do for breakfast? Would he lose pay? Who won the by-election?

A trillion panicky thoughts ran amok through Rupert’s head including his date, his proposal date, with his beloved Carla later this evening, should he ever make it to this evening?

 

Would he need to work late? Would he be able to meet Carla on time? Was Shergar sold as dog meat? Could he get home and change in time? Would Carla be upset if he arrived in his working suit? Was the first moon landing a fake? Is there wind on the moon? Could he propose to Carla? How would he present the ring? Does it rain in Pakistan? What is the correct style of an engagement ring? Is there a style? Was he going to be fired? Would ‘La Bouche’ hold his table? What if Carla said no? What if George said no? Who was George? His boss at the bookshop, George Stevenson was his boss, wasn’t he? Was he? Who am I?

 

Panic was an anathema for Rupert. Never had he felt so utterly useless and fickle since the day he was on his way home from school and that big bully, Mike Flaterly mugged him in the snicket near the allotments and destroyed his prize 22-point conker.

Panic.

 

Cold stomach-churning panic is what Rupert was feeling and then it came to him. His Phone. He would call someone. The FBI, CSI, Special branch. PDSA. Pizza Hut. Anyone. He would call Carla and tell her he would be late, but what if he was not late? He would call George, tell George he would be late, but could he avoid being late? He was late. Phil, he would call Phil. Phil with the house in Spain and the silver Mondeo. Phil drove to Spain for his holidays in the Mondeo, he would call Phil and Phil would collect him and he would get to work on time and his very carefully planned day would get back on track. Yes, what a plan.

 

No not a plan. Phil was in Spain. The Mondeo was in Spain. Rupert knew he was going to be late, he had to phone someone. Rupert was looking at his phone trying to decide what to do. The other people at the bus stop were staring directly at him as he unconsciously rocked his body from side to side muttering unintelligibly to himself.

The man in the white van was also staring at him. 

 

The backlight on Rupert’s phone went out.  Although he kept gazing at it with some sort of vague, forlorn expectation. Hoping somehow his phone would extradite him from his current crisis. Rupert could see his face reflecting back from the shiny blank black screen.

He looked up, away from the phone’s screen, the people at the bus stop were still looking at him. The man in the van was still staring at him but now he was not in the van anymore, he was standing very close to Rupert, staring directly into his eyes.

 

This was the point, the defined instant; the precise juncture in time which was to commence the most bizarre experience of Rupert’s entire 43 years of life.

 

Chapter Two - The Van

The side door of the white van slid open with the seemingly obligatory high-pitched squeal of un-oiled rust against metal. Rupert’s head involuntary turned towards the noise. The first thing he noticed was a face peering out from the gloomy recess of the vans interior.
Why was this man looking at him with such an insane grin stretched across his face? Rupert glanced around. The people at the bus stop continued to stare in wonderment at him and his rocking antics. The man in the back of the van was grinning insanely in his direction. The man from the van was still looking at right in Rupert’s eyes. In his bemused state, it all seemed so surreal.
“Why are they all staring at me?” Rupert asked himself.

Before he could even begin to formulate an answer in his befuddled head, the man from the van grabbed his right arm and roughly jerked him towards the grinning man in the back of the van.
Rupert was so shocked by the force and suddenness of being thrust forward by this strange man he did not have the time or inclination to resist, apart from a feeble flapping of his arms.
As he was forced nearer the white van, the man with the insanely wide grin reached out and took hold of his loose, feebly flapping left arm. Before Rupert could react, before he had the opportunity to do anything to prevent these mindless thugs from pulling him about, the pair managed to toss Rupert onto the floor of the white van, where he lay prostrate and spread-eagled amongst a disgusting pile of tatty old, oily rags and degrading newspapers.

Glancing upwards, the only thing Rupert could see was a set of overly large sparkling white teeth set, he was certain, with a permanent grin, or was it a grimace? For some strange reason, in this stunned state, Rupert began to wonder if these teeth were dentures or maybe they were crowns. He fleetingly wondered if he should ask who this man's dentist was.
The sound of steel and rust, as the door was closed, finally jolted Rupert out of his numbed state. The slamming shut of the white van’s door plunged the rear of the van into an almost total darkness, a darkness which seemed, for an instant, to sweep a quite calmness over the chaotic seconds that had proceeded.

Rupert blinked and blinked again, trying to focus his vision, to get his eyes to work in the dimness of the interior of the van. Slowly, the darkness seemed to fade to a murky blackness, before small pinpricks of light began prizing their way through tiny gaps and rusting holes of the vans bodywork.
Rupert sensed a movement to his right. He turned his head to look but could see very little. All he could see was teeth. Those teeth, large white teeth. Grinning teeth, shining.
Rupert struggled amid the oily rags, wriggling himself into a sitting position so he could rest his back on the side wall of the van.
The teeth moved, almost biting the air as they spoke, “Keep still, quiet,” they said.

The teeth spoke with an accent, an accent Rupert thought he should recognise. Quite why he thought that he was unsure. Perhaps if the teeth said more he would be able to distinguish the language. It might even give him a clue as to why he was sitting the back of a white van, with a man who was clearly insane, being driven to god knows where, when he missed his bus, was late for work, had a date, a very important date with Carla this evening and all this on a Friday, an end-of-the-month Friday, a payday Friday, the very carefully planned Friday, the engagement ring buying Friday, the day-he-was-to-propose-to-Carla Friday for God’s sake. What the devil was going on? Rupert had had enough.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Rupert said, in the most officious tone he could muster and started to get to his feet.

The teeth suddenly appeared inches before Rupert’s face, they seemed to have a luminescence quality of their own. “Keep still, quiet,” they barked loudly in their weird accent.

Then, out of the darkness, emerged a rough calloused hand, it smelt of old tobacco and stale urine. The hand smothered Rupert’s mouth stifling any further words he might have spoken. Rupert was as shocked by the appearance of the rough hand, as he was by the sudden sight of those teeth materialising out of the darkness a few inches from his own nose.

In his astonishment, Rupert stumbled on the pile of oily rags and papers under his feet, causing him to topple backwards. The back of his scalp cracked violently against the side of the van making his head to buzz. He felt a dizziness overwhelm him before little flickering dots of light bounced around inside his eyeballs, followed by a deepening buzzing from inside his brain.
As Rupert slid into unconsciousness he could not help wondering if all this was just a dream. If he would wake-up as the sunrise shone through his bedroom window. If he would catch his bus from the Brook Street stop, and if Carla would say “Yes.”

 

It was an instinctive reaction, or rather an instinctive non-action, which was Rupert’s first recollection of returning to consciousness. The non-action was exactly that. He dare not move a single muscle, dare not make even the minutest sound in case he alerted his captor.
After a few moments Rupert plucked up enough courage to very cautiously raise his right eyelid a fraction of a millimetre; he dared not move his head. peering about by revolving his eyeball in its socket to the limits of his peripheral vision. Rupert could see nothing of any consequence from his position on the floor. Apart that is, from a small portion of the pile of greasy rag and a torn page of an old newspaper, which was wedged into a corner, filling a gap in the rusting bodywork of the van. Rupert could, in the silent milliseconds between the almost constant rattling of the dilapidated van, hear muffled breathing from somewhere near his feet.

This breathing sound he assumed was where the teeth, that man with the insane smile, was sitting. Rupert knew his very survival probably depended on his abductors not knowing he was conscious. This was not something Rupert gleaned from watching the Hollywood blockbusters he so enjoyed, but a latent instinct, base nature, a deep primaeval understanding for survival that is infused into the very fabric of every human being.

As he lay motionless, Rupert felt the movements of the van as it travelled, swaying slightly, bumping, accelerating and decelerating, negotiating its way along the roads on its route. Believing he was, for the present at least, relatively safe he stayed still, stayed huddled on the rough floor and started to try and fathom out exactly what the hell was happening.

 

Why had he been abducted? Who were these men and what did they want? What could they want from him? Rupert knew he could not give them anything. He had nothing of value to give. He thought of what he did have. A house, a small two-bedroom terrace, along with a large mortgage. Almost no savings and what savings he did have were being rapidly devoured by his credit card fees. So, they, whoever they were, had picked on the wrong person if they wanted money.

His work? Rupert worked in the second-hand bookstore for almost 15 years. The store did not stock books of any value, no antiquities and no first editions, no signed copies; just run of the mill used books, mostly paperback fiction, pulp fiction, sale or part exchange. These books were the ideal cheap read for students, pensioners and the local community. The bookshop did not stock old comics either, which Rupert knew could hold some value for collectors. No, he could not see how his current predicament could be connected to the bookshop.

Rupert thought of his parents. It was not something he did too often. Not something he liked to do at all if the truth is known. For Rupert to believe or even consider his parents had anything to do with his current quandary was totally absurd.

He had not seen or even spoken to his parents since they left all those years ago. He did not know where his parents were living or even where they might be at this moment in time. Thinking about it, he realised he did not even know if his parents were still alive and should the truth out, he did not actually give a dam.

 

Rupert’s father, Peter, left home when Rupert was ten years old. It was neighbourhood gossip he eloped with a young Filipino girl who was the cleaner at the local morgue. Peter, a Vending Machine engineer, first met the Filipino girl after a cup of oxtail soup became jammed in a dispensing funnel in one of the hot drinks vending machines which Peter serviced.

The girl, it has been alleged, held a penchant for dressing for work in nothing more than a mini skirt fashioned from a single layer of Clingfilm and a pair of nipple tassels made from the tail of a squirrel she had caught and skinned with her bare hands.
Whether it was the young Filipino girls dress sense, her ample bosom or the fact she and Peter copulated on the cold steel of the dissecting table several times during the night, that gave Peter the idea to elope with her has never been made totally clear, but elope they did.

The story continues, some months after Peter and the Filipino girl arrived in the Philippines, Peter was brutally murdered in a back alley in the city of Manila after refusing to give the girl to a local pimp, in return for a ten percent share of a genetically modified Haggis farm located in Swaziland. Peter’s body they said was never found.

Old Harry, the local drunkard at the Rose & Crown, who professed to have been a very close friend of Peters explained to Rupert one evening, for several of pints of best bitter and a few whisky chasers, the pimp in question informed Peter that Wild Scottish Haggis was first introduced to Swaziland in the 1890’s by Jock MacKenna to help control the Japanese Knot-weed which was ravaging unchecked in the northern mountain region.

The problem was Swaziland is in the Southern Hemisphere and the Wild Haggis were from the Northern Hemisphere. The Wild Haggis naturally walked around the mountain clockwise because they had shorter legs on the right side of their bodies. However, being moved to the Southern Hemisphere somehow interfered with the Haggis’s natural sense of direction, causing them to walk anti-clockwise, this led to the Haggis constantly falling, injuring themselves and being unable to sufficiently feed. It also gave them an awful time trying, unsuccessfully, to copulate. Hence their numbers began to decline to a critical point and the Japanese knotweed once again became an ecological disaster.

The genetically modified Haggis were designed with longer legs on their right, allowing them to transverse in an anti-clockwise direction, thus enabling the Haggis to graze without falling. This helped in controlling the problem with the ravages of the Japanese Knot-weed. It also allowed the Haggis to breed most successfully.

The pimp, Harry said, continued to explain to Peter, because of the abundant grazing and constant sun in Swaziland, the Swaziland Haggis were now favoured in Scotland above their own Native Haggis It seems the Swaziland breed are larger, meatier and have a far superior flavour. The Swaziland Haggis export business was now booming and bringing in very large amounts of foreign revenue.

The rumour also had it, Old Harry continued, that although Peter was intrigued by the opportunity of investing and reaping the rewards of the Haggis farm and its export business, he did not wish to be parted from his Filipino lover and wanted to continue his current venture of importing high-quality Clingfilm, destined for the clothing industry, into the Philippines. Hence Peter upset the Pimp and consequently was brutally butchered, his body being hacked into small chunks by machete-wielding gangsters and the meat sold as a delicacy to the kitchens of the local tourist hotels.

 

But rumours are just rumours and Peter returned home on the evening of Rupert’s twelfth birthday.

Rupert enjoyed a wonderful twelfth birthday. He received an abundance of presents from friends and family, a birthday party with his closest mates and a huge sickly double chocolate-fudge cake topped with twelve candles, courtesy of Aunt Carol.

Irene, Rupert’s mother, allowed him to complete his day’s treats with a special Birthday sleepover at Brian’s house. Brian was Rupert’s best friend and lived in a large house on the other side of the town. An overnight stay at Brains was a big adventure for Rupert.
Irene had long given up all hope of ever seeing her husband Peter again. She had not bought Clingfilm for several months and the merest sight of a squirrel sent her into fits of blind rage, usually directed at the poor person stood nearest to her at the time.

However, when that was all said and done, recently Irene felt a little more relaxed about her wayward husband’s absconding. This could be partially attributed to the fact, some months earlier she started a torrid affair with the family butcher's adopted son; a tall skinny Nigerian lad with severe alopecia and a fondness for latex and olive oil.

So, when Peter unexpectedly arrived home around ten o’clock the evening of Rupert’s twelfth birthday, he was more than a little surprised when, on entering the family home he found his wife suspended from the lounge ceiling by a cats-cradle of bungee ropes, clad in a skin-tight, well-oiled red latex catsuit with her breasts exposed and a strange hairless black man, wearing only orange fishnet stockings and a pair of yellow marigold gloves, rhythmically ramming his rather large appendage into Irene’s anus.

Needless to say, because of his sleepover, Rupert remained oblivious of this encounter until some years later when dear Aunt Carol, the family cake maker and Gin soaked inebriate, sat Rupert down for a ‘heart to heart’ chat.
According to Aunt Carol, after the butcher’s lad made a hasty withdrawal and left the house, Peter and Irene sat at the kitchen table with a few bottles of Famous Grouse, 200 duty free cigarettes and discussed the issues of adultery, Filipino girls, butcher’s boys, Clingfilm, olive oil, oxtail soup, alopecia, lubricating gel, dissecting tables, squirrels, gin, Aunt Carol, Chocolate cake, Old Harry, sexual positions, airfares, pimps, the weather and the merits of latex over PVC.

Aunt Carol continued to enlighten Rupert about this bizarre episode by explaining, in the early hours of the following morning, when Peter and Irene had exhausted all the relevant topics of discussion, the forth bottle of grouse was running low and the ashtray needed emptying once again, his Father finally admitted to Irene that eloping with a lightly dressed, large breasted young Filipino nymphomaniac with a fondness for the macabre, who by the way consequentially ran off with all the stock from Peter’s Clingfilm business and one hundred Swaziland Haggis bundled into the back stolen pick-up truck driven by a Texan tourist called Hank, had most probably, in hindsight, not been the best decision Peter ever made in his life.

Irene, in her wisdom, convinced them both the reason for Peter’s conduct was Peter suffered a major mid-life crisis and subconsciously tried to regain his youth by pumping the arse off a much younger, thinner woman with over enhanced breasts and an exotic taste in clothing.
Peter, in return, also forgave Irene for her indiscretions with the butcher’s lad, after accepting that Irene, being in her prime, had certain womanly needs which required satisfying and that, as he, Peter, was not been around to take care of her desires, it was clearly inevitable she would find some form of satisfaction from another source.

Irene confirmed to Peter she only ever let the butcher’s lad in by the tradesman’s entrance, helped Peter to accept what had happened in his absence was almost an irrelevant blip in their relationship, all other things considered of course. Besides, Peter noted the fridge was full of prime steak and the frequent use of olive oil had worked wonders on Irene’s complexion.
The conclusion to all this, said Aunt Carol, was Rupert’s parents agreed to put the entire saga of sorry events behind them, never to be mentioned again. Which they were not.

Except by Aunt Carol to Rupert and Old Harry, who was Aunt Carol’s drinking partner and she told the locals who frequented the snug at the Rose & Crown and to Mrs Arnold, the check-out lady at Lowcost supermarket and at the Rugby Club Christmas Dinner Dance and, of course at the Ladies Bakers Guild.
Although Aunt Carol blamed any imprudence on the Gin or the misinterpretations of the listeners, Rupert knew that Aunt Carol was the neighbourhood gossipmonger, she enjoyed nothing more than enlightening all who would listen to the merest scraps of hearsay, let alone getting her teeth into a genuine scandal. Rupert suspected it was this remarkable talent of Aunt Carols that proved to be the catalyst for his parent’s next move.

 

When Rupert arrived home from school the following Monday he found Aunt Carol sitting at the kitchen table. Whilst this in itself was not an unusual event, what was different is his mother was not at home and Aunt Carol was sober, stone cold sober and she was drinking Tea. Assam Tea without the usual tot of gin, rum or whiskey. Even at his young age Rupert instantly suspected that all was not well in the DeVille household.
Aunt Carol looked at Rupert, patted the seat of the chair next to her and said, “Sit down here Rupert, next to me.”
She then handed him a roughly folded scrap of paper. Rupert’s first thought - was he was in trouble- but the tone of Aunt Carol’s voice instantly dispelled that notion.

Unfolding the scrappy sheet of paper, he saw his Mother's scruffy handwriting. She had scribbled ‘a quick note’, as Aunt Carol put it.
“We have gone to live in Spain. Aunt Carol will look after you from now on. PS. Not coming back. Mum & Dad xx”
That was it. That was Rupert’s lot. Nothing more. No further explanation at all.

This was the last time Rupert heard from his parents. So, he reasoned to himself, it was unlikely, most unlikely, a 99.9% certainty his parents have anything whatsoever to do with his present predicament.
That left only one other possibility, Carla.
His Carla.

Chapter Three - The Airplane

The white van began to lurch and jolt, shaking Rupert out of his reverie and eliciting from him a loud grunt as his body bounced on the filthy floor. Almost instantaneously the man Rupert could only think of as the ‘Teeth’ grunted, as if in reply. The van continued to bounce about as it was driven over rough ground.

 

Rupert managed to slide himself into a sitting position and steady himself against the side panel and the rear door of the van. The Teeth adopted a similar position on the opposite side and was holding onto the rear door handle for support.

Rupert could just make out two pale green discs which, in the half-light of the van’s interior, gave the impression they were floating above those enormous white teeth. He assumed these eerie looking green discs were the man’s eyes.

The van continued to bump and rock as the driver, grinding the gears and constantly over-revving the throttle, wrestled with the steering to keep the vehicle on course.

 

To Rupert it was clear the van was no longer on a smooth tarmac road but was being driven on rough terrain, over a field or along some rutted lane was his guess.

‘Why on earth doesn’t this guy slow down?' He asked himself silently before the question of wondering if he was approaching his final destination popped into his head.

This worrying thought entered Rupert’s mind like someone flicking a light switch.

 

Were these men going to kill him? Was he soon to be at the site of his execution? Rupert did not smoke but he could envisage himself standing in a windswept field, hands bound behind his back, a blindfold resting on his brow waiting to be lowered over his eyes. The man from the van was standing a few feet away, nonchalantly cradling a rifle, whilst he awaited the command to shoot. Meanwhile, the Teeth was offering Rupert a cigarette as a last wish. He accepted it and began to puff away as the Teeth lowered the blindfold over Rupert’s eyes. 

After his execution, these men would dump his body deep in some woodland, bury him in a shallow grave and half cover him in a leaf mould and twigs where he would lay rotting away until some unfortunate dog walker discovered his putrefied corpse several months later?

 

“Quiet, still, be ready,” the Teeth flashed. As the insane man spoke a weird dental rendition of Morse code accompanied his words.

 

“Be ready for what?” Rupert nervously asked, fearing the worst.

 

“To go. Now be quiet.” Was the brusque reply.

 

To go, to go where? He was going somewhere. Rupert sighed with relief as he decided it was not to his death. Well not yet anyway. He was not going to be summarily shot by this pair of goons as he had worried, at least not by the tone of the Teeth’s voice.

These men were taking him somewhere. "Oh, my God," he said, just loudly enough for him to hear his own voice. His mind once again straying into a fantasy of fear.

These men were taking him to a prison. Rupert began to visualise a concentration camp where he would have to break massive granite rocks by constantly pounding them with a heavy sledgehammer, while an evil overseer would ride around on a large horse lashing out with his whip the instant Rupert began to falter.

Each night he would be cast into a dank dungeon inhabited by a horde of strange zombie-like lunatics and violent prison guards, who would continuously subject him to a frenzied plethora of sexual activities. It would be a place where Rupert would have to eat unidentifiable gruel, stale mouldy bread crusts and live cockroaches to survive.

Rupert recalled the deprivations of Henri Charrière, played by Steve Mc Queen in the film Papillion and the horrors that Jay Hernandez portrayed in Hostel, somehow confusing and intertwining both characters and plots into his own fearful amalgamation of hell.

 

Shaking his head to clear away those thoughts, Rupert was about to ask the Teeth where they were taking him when the van lurched and shuddered to a halt. Almost instantly the door slid open, squealing noisily in its typical metallic outrage.

The blinding sunlight suddenly beamed into the back of the van, the impact thumped Rupert’s retina, temporarily blinding him. He raised a hand to shield his from the eyes from the penetrating brightness as he was grabbed by the back of his collar and manhandle forward, another hand clenched his left arm lifting him clear from the floor as he was unceremoniously hoisted out of the van.

 

The heat from the sun instantly bathed him in warmth, a shiver ran through his entire body causing an involuntary tremble and flush with goose-bumps. He had not realised how cold it was in the back of the white van.

After blinking several times Rupert’s eyes slowly began to adjust to the daylight. He could now see he was in a field, a large field, the grass stretching away in all directions as far as he could see. A small grin of smug satisfaction fleetingly pulled at Rupert’s lips; as he had deduced earlier regarding the rough ride, ‘dear Watson’, the van was nowhere near a tarmac road.

Whatever encouraged Rupert in his moment of self-congratulatory pride, regarding his powers of deduction, was instantly brushed away as he became conscious the men from the van were still firmly holding him.

 

The man from the van was to his left, clutching his arm. The insane Teeth man was to his right, clenching the right-hand pocket of Rupert’s jacket, much as a caring mother might hold an unruly child near a busy road. The Teeth was talking on a phone, or was it a radio? Rupert was not sure, in a language he decided he could not define, in fact, he found totally unintelligible.

 

He found himself glancing about once more, surveying the field and assessing his chance of escape. Could he make a run for it?

The men were clearly preoccupied with the voice coming over the radio. This may well be my chance Rupert told himself. If I can outrun them, if I can get out of this field, find a road and stop a car, find some trees or some bushes to hide in, wait until they gave up looking for me, wait until dark and sneak away, find a house or a phone box, find some way to raise the alarm.

The more Rupert chewed over his chances the better they seemed. There had to be a house or a farm somewhere near. Perhaps a school? There may even be a village just the other side of the trees that lined the field.

 

Right now. I must do it right now Rupert told himself. He could feel his heart pumping faster as the adrenalin begin to flood through his body. He summoned up the courage to make a dash for freedom.

Rupert turned sharply and began to run.

At least, that was the command he wished his brain to send to his legs.

Run legs run.

 

But instead of running his body just managed a half turn and toppled forward like an unset jelly. Rupert’s legs disobeyed his wishes. His feet staying firmly planted on the grass where he stood.

Both of Rupert’s abductors steadied him and bore him upright. Their grip was now tighter than before.

 

The man from the van said, “Careful Bookman, you bump your head.”

 

Rupert was gutted.

The rush of adrenaline which was flooding his body a moment before was now iced water in his veins. His chance of escape had been thwarted by his inability to control his legs. ‘Bastard’ Rupert muttered to himself inwardly.

He then realised the man from the van had called him ‘Bookman’. He needed to ask this man a myriad of questions, but when he spoke all that he said was, “Why did you call me Bookman?”

 

‘What a stupid fucking prat you are’ Rupert thought to himself. There were many ways they could know. The most obvious were they could have been to the bookshop, after all, it is open to the public, that why it’s a called a shop you dimwit, Rupert berated himself for asking such an obtuse question.

What he really wanted to ask the men was, what did they want with him? Where were they taking him? And a dozen or so far more pertinent questions. What had his kidnapping got to do with, what was, after all, a seedy little second-hand bookshop in Nowhere Ville?

But then again, why did they call him Bookman? Why not the Bookseller or the man from the Bookshop?

 

Just as Rupert clarified in his own mind the questions he needed to ask, the Teeth said “sit” forcing Rupert unceremoniously to the ground.

Rupert was not best pleased as, despite the bright morning sunshine, the grass was still damp from the morning’s dew.

The man from the van started to walk slowly forward waving his arms above his head. Rupert glanced upwards, looking in the same direction as the men from the van. There was a small plane coming into land the sun glinting off its blue and white paintwork and silver striped livery.

“Now that’s quite enough,” said Rupert, starting to regain his feet. “I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever you’re up to I’ve had enough.”

 

The Teeth stopped Rupert’s rise with a firm hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down onto the damp grass. The Teeth looked straight into his eyes, a slight grimace puckered the man’s forehead. “Still, wait,” he said.

 

It was the tone of this man's voice which shocked Rupert the most. Previously it was full of excitement and somewhat rushed. This time the words were spoken quite harshly, almost angrily, which somehow made the Teeth seem far less insane but far more threatening than before. Insane? Possibly. Violent? Definitely. Deadly? Oh yes, do not mess

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 16.02.2018
ISBN: 978-3-7438-5657-8

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