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Waiting…

by Margaret Beverland

The clock struck three, jolting the Minister from a dream. He shuddered, his skin crawling at the thought of rats scrambling over his body as he sat tied to a hard, plastic chair. Not a good position to be in when a huge red-eyed rodent is staring you in the face, teeth bared. The image was so vivid he could still smell its acrid breath. Damn! Get a grip. He realised the odour rose from the release of his urine, its warmth a passing comfort. God it was cold in here. He longed to massage his aching neck and be rid of the ropes that cut into his legs and wrists. He wouldn't have to wait much longer. They said they'd be back at four.

The rain drummed on the iron roof. The Minister surmised he was in a shed on a remote farm because not once in the past twenty hours had he heard the hum and snarl of traffic, or people going about their work. There was only the scuffle and squeaks of rodents, the rain, and the tick, tick, tick of the clock broken by the chiming of the hours.

When he was freed, he would take that clock and grind its face into the concrete floor until its irritating tick was silenced. The chimes, however, did relieve the monotony of waiting as he sat unable to move and unable to see, his blindfold occluding every ray of light.

He passed the time trying to work out who his kidnappers were. Everything had happened so quickly. He'd leaned forward to tell the cab driver he had taken a wrong turn. "Sorry, sorry," the driver muttered. "I'll turn back."

But a van pulled alongside, swerved, and forced the taxi over the kerb. "Idiot," yelled the driver, shaking his fist. The van squealed to a stop. Two men dressed in boiler suits and balaclavas leapt out and wrenched open the taxi door.

"Out. Now. Move!"

The minister did not protest. You don't when you are staring into the steel eye of a gun. The driver was dragged out and forced to lie face down on the ground. The cab radio was smashed, and the ignition keys were thrown into the night.

The Minister was bundled into the van, handcuffed and pushed to the floor. "Don't make a sound," his kidnapper growled. As if he would with the cold circumference of a gun barrel pushed against his spine.

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