8.
Sienna
John’s fridge had been inadequately stocked, at best, and between the t-shirt I was now wearing that proclaimed Kytt’s allegiance to some (presumably) UK band named (I am not, as Dave Barry would say, making this up) “The Stranglers,” and the near-lack of anything life-giving available to eat in this house, I started to suspect this chick’s judgment was off.
John himself didn’t help that suspicion. He was, as one might expect from a hostage, by turns sullen, and scared, and then verbose in that I’m-a-nervous-Scot-and-you-can’t-understand-a-thing-I’m-saying sort of way. For the last half hour, as I’d alternated watching Sky News and the BBC, John had favored me with a hash of his opinions of various topics, including how America was getting it wrong in so many ways. Even though I couldn’t disagree with him in many regards, it was still a perpetual irritation to hear your country run down in front of you, and I wondered if he thought he was ingratiating himself to me or was just too nervously stupid to know he was pissing me off by the second.
I was chewing the last meat off a chicken bone, and my patience was wearing thinner than my Stranglers t-shirt, which I suspected had been made by infants in a sweat shop somewhere, such was the quality. Still, of all Kytt’s clothing, it fit me the best, probably because it fit her the worst, if I had to guess. All her jeans had holes in the knees for some reason, and, thinking back, I recalled seeing twenty-something girls with exactly that look in Edinburgh. Apparently the American eighties had come late to Scotland.
“I just don’t know why you Americans don’t—” John started to say.
“Shut up, John,” I said, not as lightly as I might have on a truly full stomach. The one leg of chicken and a few slices of stale bread hadn’t done much to alleviate my stomach’s pissiness. I was about two steps away from opening a can from the pantry described as “Spotted Dick,” because there wasn’t much in there other than that, and the fridge was now bare save for a bottle of HP sauce, which I had honestly contemplated drinking just for the calories. I gave it a sniff and decided it wasn’t worth it. “If you don’t stop shit-talking my country,” I said, giving John my full attention again, “you’re going to see what Merle Haggard called, aptly, ‘The Fightin’ Side of Me.’” His eyes swelled, and he swallowed visibly at that threat, then nodded. “I need a map,” I said, staring him down.
“In the car,” he said.
“Great,” I said. “Cash?”
“Wallet in the bedroom.”
I was ticking through my mental list. “How much?”
“Fifty pounds, maybe?”
That’d do. It would have been better if it had been thousands, but I was beggaring, not choosering. “How full is your gas tank?”
He stared at me curiously for a second, then got it. “It’s about half full of petrol. I should warn you—it’s not a new car.”
“I don’t care,” I said, because I didn’t, insofar as if it moved, I’d work with it. The UK had some sort of rigorous emissions testing standard anyway, so if the car was a giant piece of crap, it probably wouldn’t have passed that, leaving me feeling confident it wasn’t a total garbage bucket. “I’ll try and keep it intact so that the police are able to return it to you whole after I’m done with it.” If he took solace in that, he didn’t give any sign, still looking like a frog I’d squeezed too tight in the holding.
“Are…are you leaving soon, then?” he asked, doing a little fishing when he found his voice.
“Soon enough,” I said, and flipped on the TV in the corner of the living room. It came on to the news, and I was treated to a man staring right into the camera, dressed up in a suit and looking quite coiffed.
“—again, announcing that Police Scotland—” his accent wasn’t too bad “—are seeking assistance with their manhunt for Sienna Nealon.” He paused, looked at the camera and said, “Err…I mean…womanhunt? Personhunt?” He tried ‘em all out, apparently worried about offending someone, presumably not criminal me. He blushed, and went right back to reading.
“Hmph,” I said, paying little attention to what was going on now that he was just blathering. “Let’s hope they don’t find her.” I flipped the TV off and looked at John. Archie came up to my ankle again, breathing heavily. “Does he need food before I go?” I dropped down and gave Archie a good petting on the back of the neck. “Who’s a good boy? You are. Yes, you are.”
“Uh, no, he’s fine,” John said. “You can go anytime, no worries about us.” He smiled, the most forced, plasticine thing I’d ever seen.
“All right,” I said. “You’re sure about that map in the car?”
“It’s in the glove compartment,” John said with a swift nod. I meandered over to him as he talked, and he watched me with a wary eye like I was going to strike him dead or something.
I checked the knots and bindings. “You sit your ass in this chair until Kytt gets home tonight,” I said, yanking a little harder than was strictly necessary on one of the flannel shirts I’d bound his feet to the chair legs with. It was snug; he might have to cut through it, which he’d have a hell of a time doing given his hands were now bound behind him and anchored to the chair independently. I’d used the clothes, and duct tape, trying to achieve some measure of binding that wouldn’t cause him to lose a limb to lack of blood but still keep him tied up for a while as I made my escape from Scotland. “In that time, if I were you, I’d think about how great she is, and how lucky you are to have her, and how many other women in this world are ever so much worse and more fearsome.” I threw that last part in because what the hell, he needed to occupy his mind on gratitude, and drawing a contrast between hellish me and his lovely significant other seemed like a safe way to do so.
“Oh, yes, I’m a lucky man indeed,” he said, nodding his head fiercely.
“Damned right,” I said, and gave Archie another pet as he wobbled up to me. “All right, boy. Stay. Both of you.” And Archie dutifully plopped down next to John as I headed for the exit, grabbing the car keys off the ring by the door as I plunged out into the daylight. “Making friends everywhere I go,” I muttered, mostly to myself, as I swept out into the weak summer sunshine.