Rentboy

phone
    number if they didn’t want anyone to phone them? Why hadn’t Eddie been in touch; had he taken a turn
    for the worse? Or had he decided after all that he could not be involved with someone who lied, stole
    from him, and involved him in international terrorism? Who could blame him, for God’s sake. True
    love could survive a lot, but maybe not lies and betrayal and torture.
    At the sound of his father’s boots on the landing, Fox crept to the door and opened it a crack.
    Baillie stood outside the twins’ bedroom grasping the door handle. “Good night, sir.”
    Obviously slightly shocked at being caught, Baillie looked at him and then grinned. “You’ll be in
    the jungle soon, and then there’ll be no one to watch me.”
    He wasn’t even ashamed or trying to hide it. Fox closed the door, waiting until he heard
    Baillie’s footsteps recede to his bedroom and the door close. Everyone in the house pussyfooted
    around, except him. They always knew where he was, because he made sure they did.
    Fox waited half an hour and then, barefoot, left the room to walk with well-practiced silence
    down the stairs. Without putting the lights on he knew where every creak in the house was and
    avoided them like land mines. Glancing up the stairs to ensure he was not being watched, he tried the
    office door. It was locked. All the guns were in there. Did his father suspect something? He never
    locked the office door.
    Clenching his fists, Fox wanted to scream. A gunshot would be fast and clean. With a knife he
    might not be able to kill him with the first blow, and if they got into hand-to-hand combat, Fox would
    lose.
    On tiptoe he made his way to the darkened kitchen. The floodlights outside were sufficient to see
    what he was doing without risking switching a light on. Just inside the door Fox leaned his back
    against the wall and looked around. He needed a knife or a blunt object heavy enough to kill with one
    blow. That crowbar Eddie had been struck with would be handy right now. There must be one in the
    garage. Halfway to the door he remembered the utility room. There was a toolbox in there with a
    large spanner and a couple of hammers. He went in and with shaking hands hefted a large claw-foot
    hammer and the heavy steel spanner. Panting with fear and anticipation, Fox wielded the weapons,
    throwing a few practice blows at the air.
    Make sure he’s asleep, then one swift blow with the hammer to whichever part of his head is
    most easily accessible. That will knock him out, and then deliver the finishing blow.
    The memory of the last attempt returned. What if his father was awake this time too? What if he
    grabbed the hammer as it descended and got it out of Fox’s much weaker grasp? Imagining the
    scenario, he raised the hammer, swung it down, envisioned it connecting with his father’s head, the
    crack, the blood spurting out. Then he raised the spanner and brought that down quickly, seeing the
    skull crack as he watched. When it was done, he would bury the weapons in the flower beds and
    break a window to make a point of entry.
    Do it. Do it.
    Silently he ran up the stairs and paused to listen outside his father’s door. Every other second,
    doubt seized him just long enough for him to remember the towel and the bin bag, drowning, dying of
    suffocation, but more important than anything, Arden, and what she would do when her father started
    to rape her.
    Not a sound came from inside the room. Fox opened the door and stood just inside, watching the
    bed as if a cobra lay there waiting to spring. William Baillie lay utterly still in the darkness, seeming
    to sleep so deeply that Fox could not hear him breathe. Was it a ruse like last time? His father was an
    experienced soldier trained by Special Forces, used to living, sleeping, and surviving in deserts and
    jungles. He must always be on alert, sleeping with one eye open, always listening.
    With carefully placed steps, Fox approached the bed.
    Do it now. Do it! He raised the hammer high, at the same time getting ready to swing the spanner
    next. Two blows in quick succession.
    “Don’t ruin my handiwork, boy.”
    “Ahh!” Fox screamed, dropping the hammer. On the other side of the bed someone flipped on the
    bedside lamp. It was him, the big man from Eddie’s kitchen who had killed the Mad Hatter’s tea party
    guests.
    “Were you going to kill him, boy?”
    “Yes, sir.” Fox had no idea why he called the bloke sir. It just seemed appropriate, maybe