Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

‘Kyle—’

He kicks me in the face.

My head snaps back and bangs against the wall. The slaughterhouse swings around me and suddenly I’m on the floor, one arm up in the air, still suspended from the cuff, like I want permission to ask a question.

Sideways, I watch Kyle storm back out. He slams the door.

He’s forgotten to lock it. It creaks back and forth in the cold breeze. A slice of freedom is visible, but none of us can get to it.

Can’t get to the stir-fry, either. Kyle left the bowl just out of reach.

‘Hey, push that over here with your foot,’ Amar says.

‘Kyle’s a piece of shit,’ Hailey says, maybe trying to endear herself to me and get the food for herself.

‘Goddamn it, Blake.’ Thistle shifts on the floor, her chains jingling. ‘He was within range. You could have knocked him over. He had the keys.’

I work my jaw from side to side. Kyle’s kick has loosened it. I think of the snake in the woods, opening wide to swallow a rat—and nevertheless starving to death.

‘He might be my son,’ I say.

Thistle stares at me, baffled. ‘What?’

I’m still dizzy. Blinking like I’m high. ‘I think I’m Kyle’s father.’

Thistle’s mouth falls open. ‘I thought you were a virgin. Before.’

‘From a sperm donation. He’s about the right age, and he looks just like me. Acts like me, too.’ I spit some blood on the floor and look out the half-open door, where Kyle disappeared. Silence outside. ‘Is it possible to love someone you don’t even like?’

Thistle doesn’t respond.

‘That’s deep,’ Amar says. ‘Now pass the fucking food already.’

I stretch out with my foot, but I can’t reach it. I try to prop myself up on my elbow, forgetting that my elbow is gone. For a split second my weight is on the bandaged stump. I collapse, groaning with agony.

‘Cry me a river,’ Hailey says. ‘You don’t know what hurting is.’

‘Your son.’ Thistle coughs, and then the cough turns into a laugh. A demented chuckle, bouncing around the walls in the gloom.

I feel my stump. It’s bleeding again. The sharp edge of bone isn’t tender anymore. It’s like the nerves around it have died.

The sharp edge of bone.

The sharp edge.

Sharp.

Thistle gives up on me. ‘Amar? How are you going with that nail?’

I rest my stump on the concrete, deliberately this time, and roll onto it. The pain is like lava, not just in the stump but everywhere, flowing up from my stomach towards my oesophagus. I stifle a sick moan.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ someone says. Could be Hailey, could be Amar. Could be me.

‘Grrargh!’ For a second, all my weight is on the stump. It’s agony. And then—

Snap! The curved piece of bone splinters off. I gasp through chattering teeth. I’m suddenly freezing.

‘Jesus,’ someone says.

Can’t black out. It’s all for nothing if I do.

The broken shard of bone is in a puddle of blood on the floor. I can’t reach it with my cuffed hand. Instead I wriggle around on the floor like a fish, using my chest to push the shard up towards my head. It leaves deep scratches all over my torso. At least it’s sharp enough.

I rest my face in the puddle of blood for a second, and pick up the bone shard with my lips.

I’ll only get one shot at this. Don’t fuck up, Timothy.

I take a deep breath and spit the bone towards Thistle. It lands right next to her hips.

‘Can you pick the lock with that?’ I wheeze.

Maybe she says something back. Maybe not. The world goes grey and fluid, and I collapse back into the puddle.

Some time later, I feel Thistle grabbing my four-fingered hand. Fiddling with the lock and finally popping it open with my homemade skeleton key. My arm flops to the floor. The blood pumps in and out of it. It feels like I’m holding a beating heart in my fist.

‘Leave me behind,’ I mumble. ‘You can come back and arrest me later.’

‘Shut up. Drink this.’ Thistle pushes something into my mouth. The water bottle. I slurp greedily at it, and choke.

‘Quiet,’ she says. ‘We don’t know how far away they are. We have to go—now.’

I swallow. Some of the nausea eases. The dark fog recedes, leaving a moment of clarity. Just long enough for me to realise something.

‘Don’t unlock Ivy,’ I say.

Thistle frowns. ‘What?’

I turn my head and see that she’s already freed the others. All of them. Ivy looks at me, eyes wide.

I meet her gaze. ‘She’s been spying on you all. For Fred.’

CHAPTER 38

Smoke us, play us, fill us with water—what are we?

The other prisoners all just frown. No one believes me—until Ivy bolts towards the open door.

‘Grab her!’ Thistle hisses.

Amar manages to snatch Ivy’s wrist. She trips, and they both hit the concrete floor. She screams, ‘Help!’

Thistle slaps a hand over her mouth, muffling the sound. She and Amar keep Ivy pinned to the floor. Thistle’s knee is on her back.

We all wait. The dogs moan and wail outside. No one comes out of the house. Hopefully the Guards didn’t hear us.

Thistle looks at me. ‘Start talking.’

‘She didn’t have visible injuries like everyone else.’ I try to stand. My legs shake. It’s not just exhaustion, or blood loss—having only one arm has thrown off my balance. ‘Someone gave her thermal underwear. She looked like she had been eating better, too. Fred doesn’t let the other Guards touch her. And when I pretended to torture her, she played along too well. She was used to it.’

Ivy makes angry noises, maybe objecting to the word pretended. She would still be sore from that final punch. I remember her screaming, Help me! Not to