The Catalyst Chapter Two -The Awakening

Something woke Paul Howard with a start. He was woozy, disoriented, coming back from a long way away. His thought, that a car alarm had woken him, was overwhelmed by panic and fear. He was tied up, gagged and blindfolded, lying on a chair or sofa. He was naked and very cold.

He tried to straighten but the ropes that tied his wrists and ankles were connected and he remained bowed over. The car alarm was loud, seemed right outside, the insistent jarring sound added an edge to his panic. The urge to run welled up inside him and he jerked against the ropes trying to pull free but there was no give in them. He banged his head against the sofa in frustration.

How in the hell did I get here? Where, come to that, am I? Am I on my own?

With the last thought he lay still, heart thumping, not moving a muscle and listened for a sound, anything that would let him know someone else was there. The alarm stopped abruptly, it amplified the silence that followed, and it was silence, no sound of any description.

Continuing to listen he tried to recap last night in his mind. He’d gone to The Green Man. He’d had a few trips up to London over the past month and he’d made it there a few times. He hadn’t been looking to pick anyone up, it was simply good to be there, to be himself, but he’d got talking to a guy sitting at the bar. He was good looking, tall, broad shouldered, greying black hair, pale eyes and a scar running from his cheek almost back to his ear. Uncomfortable as hell, keeping his head down, too scared to look round, they always were when they first came out. He had a deep voice one of those rolling, smooth voices that you could listen to all day. He talked with his hands and he’d noticed the long elegant fingers, and what was his name? Jim, John? No it was Joe.

Joe had invited him back to his place, then the rest was a blank and here he was. Had anyone seen them leave the bar? What had he got himself into?

He rubbed his head against the arm of the sofa grinding his face backwards and forwards and slowly he managed to inch the blindfold up his head. When one eye was freed he tried a yell of victory but only succeeded in pulling out more hairs on his moustache. With his eye watering he took in his surroundings.

Lit by a single standard lamp the almost bare room had the sofa he sat on, a matching chair covered in what he hoped were his clothes, a glass topped coffee table and that was it, nothing else. The curtains were pulled and no light filtered around them. Either a dull day or it’s night time, he thought. Through an open door he could see the kitchen. Now I can see, he thought, let’s see if I can get to the kitchen, find a knife, something sharp.

On his first couple of attempts to stand Paul teetered, bound wrists and ankles restricting his ability to balance, until he lost his equilibrium and fell back. Nil desperandum he told himself. The third time he hauled himself upright, grunting with the effort. He found himself laughing at how ridiculous this was, bound, naked, bent over and bloody cold. Still, some would get quite a kick out it, good job there’s no camera he thought. There isn’t is there? He turned his head to check the room and toppled over. He fell forward and to the side, his head clipped the corner of the coffee table and spun him onto his back as he fell.

The pain was intense. He lay for a few seconds waiting for the pain to subside, cursing his luck and feeling the blood trickling into his ear. How would he explain this to Amy? He was sure she had no idea.

Whether the pain focused his mind or it was a flash of inspiration, an idea, a story, began to form in his mind. He’d slipped on some ice and bashed his head. When he’d woken up it had been morning he’d got back to the hotel and cleaned himself up. She’d buy it, why wouldn’t she? Why was he out walking so late? Well you know hotels, claustrophobic, fancied some fresh air, lost in thought, got off the beaten track. Yeh, he thought, it would do.

He rolled onto his knees and elbows. His bonds prevented him from straightening out and in this supplicant pose he tried to shuffle towards the kitchen. All he got for his effort was carpet burns on his knees. He turned himself sideways on to the door and rolled over and over until he bumped against the door frame. He manipulated himself through the doorway. The tiled floor was like ice against his skin, he realised again how cold he was. He needed to hurry and get his clothes back on.

He wondered again whether anyone had seen him leave with Joe, if anyone in the bar knew him or knew where he lived? What had happened to Joe?

Using the handles on the drawers he pulled himself upright and slid open the top drawer. Empty, nothing, slowly he opened all of them, all empty except for one wooden spoon. Bollocks! His muscles were protesting he tried to straighten up as best he could. He raised his head and saw far back in a dark corner a knife block with at least one knife. He reached down and grasped the wooden spoon, passed it back up to his mouth. Holding the spoon between his teeth he leant forward and pushed the block across the work surface onto the floor. The clatter in the silence seemed like firecrackers going off. He felt the blood pounding in his ears, his hands trembled.

He lowered himself to the ground and fumbled around in the dark for a knife, he found an old bread knife, as soon as he had it, it didn’t take long. He cut the rope at his feet stood up, straight, the freedom was exhilarating. He reached up and pulled the tape from his mouth in one swift movement. He left a good chunk of his moustache on that tape but he enjoyed being able to yell.

He went back into the other room and got dressed. With dismay he realised his watch had gone, his wallet and his rings. He couldn’t find his phone. A bastard robber, he thought, what a fool he’d been.

He sat there thinking his story to Amy still held up, he only had to add, “It was gone all gone, wallet, watch, rings, but what really upset me was the lost photographs”. Had he called the police? No he hadn’t. Why not? Because there was nothing to tell, he’d seen no one, no one had come to his aid.

He reached down and pulled the liner out from his left shoe, to his relief the emergency twenty pound note was still there.

The big problem was the ring, he’d been presented with it a year ago, they were not going to be happy, he was not sure what it meant to lose it but it couldn’t be good.

He checked upstairs, the rooms were empty except for token pieces of furniture. He looked out of the front bedroom window the sky was partly a vivid orange sunset and the other half dark clouds moving in. It was a street of terraced houses, outside his a To Let board.

He went back downstairs. At the sink he cleaned the cut on his head, put the knife block back and collected the pieces of rope and tape.

Checking first that there was no one in the street he left the house. The street was quiet, a pool of light from the one lamppost halfway down the street the only break in the darkness. At the far end, at the junction with what looked like a main road another flickering pool of light from a faulty lamp spasmed and then died.

He raised the collar of his jacket and shivered, the main road had to be his best bet. The uncleared snow had turned to ice on the pavement and the street. It was treacherous underfoot his feet sliding away from him like a drunk. He scanned the houses trying to locate anything familiar, anything to jog his memory but nothing registered.

He had reached the halfway point under the light when, with a yell, he lost his footing landing heavily on his back. Winded he stared up directly into the light, the smell of dog shit was close perhaps too close and it was at this moment that Paul Howard decided he would find Joe. And do what? He had no idea yet, but he would make sure it was something deeply unpleasant, memorable enough to keep the bastard’s mouth shut.