Run For Their Lives - Chapter 11 cont
Henry slid over to the vacant barstool between them. His brow was furrowed, as if he were trying to remember something.
Sam took his drink from the returning barmaid and sipped it.
Disconcertingly, Al took up position sitting cross-legged on the bar, momentarily pretending to rest an elbow on a beer pump.
?You might have had some vodka in that! Ha ha ? Bloody Mary!? Al tormented Sam, who glared at him, then pointedly ignored his sidekick.
?Irish?? enquired the kidnapper, rather too bluntly to be conversational.
?Uh-huh,? confirmed Sam, sipping some more of his drink, and trying not to let his hand shake.
?On ?oliday? Sightseeing??
?You could say that.? As cultural exchanges went, this one was standing still. Henry?s lips were working, as if he were practicing his lines before saying them aloud.
?Been on the Bunyan trail, ?ave you??
Sam thought of the landmarks he?d been ordered to remember.
?Oi?ve been around a few.? He replied, ?Loike de house where John Bunyan sought spiritual help from John Gifford in the 1650?s.?
It was evidently the right thing to say. Sam took his time over his drink while waiting for his next cue. Outwardly calm, he was churning inside.
?Yeah, I know it.? Henry took a swig of his own drink, the frothy head clinging to his beard and moustache as snow on pine branches. ?Just over the bridge.? The last word was stressed in far from subtle emphasis.
Sam trotted out his quotation like a well-rehearsed actor, anxious to get to the punch line. Although it was infuriating that this man and his partner had obviously read the script (Hell, they wrote most of it) yet it had been denied to him, forcing him as ever to hone his improvisational talents. Trouble was, he seldom had more than the vaguest outlines of the plot to go on and frequently felt as if he were destined to be forever playing Don Quixote in A Comedy (or Tragedy) of Errors, out of synch with his fellow thespians.
Since English Literature had been the one and only subject he hadn?t really enjoyed at school, he was as sure as could be that none of his degrees had been in theatre skills, and no Oscars vied for position with the Nobel Prize on his mantelshelf. Still, he would act out his part and hope to God that his performance would be good enough to ensure the happy ending that had been missing from the original edition.
The kidnapper beamed triumphantly and drained the rest of his beer in one long self-satisfied gulp. Then he wiped his face-fungus with the back of his hand, smacking his lips appreciatively.
He nodded toward the bag, as if noticing it for the first time.
?That isn?t full of souvenirs, is it?? he asked pointedly, glancing round to make sure no one was paying any attention. He overlooked the White Admiral adorning the countertop, who was perpetually pounding his hand-link in hopes of locating the girls.
Sam stared Henry straight in the eyes:
?Dere?s only two souvenirs Oi?m a-wantin? t? take home from dis trip. If?n Oi gets dem, you can have dis.? As he spoke, he nudged the bag over toward the man with his foot, by way of confirmation.
Henry?s face cracked wide open, showing yellowed, chipped teeth in a parody of a smile. Then he laughed.
?Good. Excellent. Then listen up. Leave that where it is, and walk out. Don?t turn around. Go back into town, to the car park where you left your car. The brats?ll be tied up in the ladies toilets by the time you get there. You can ?ave ?em back and welcome. All I gotta do is make a phone call an? they?re on their way.? To his credit, Henry actually believed he was telling the truth about that.
At last Sam caught Al?s eye, looking to his friend for advice. Predictably, before speaking Al studied - and thumped - his hand-link.
?Sorry, Sam, still not enough of a lock on the girls. Best to keep to what they say for the moment, even though the odds of them keeping their word ain?t worth a say.?
Sam set his jaw and clenched his fist. Why couldn?t Ziggy ever come up with the goods before the eleventh hour? He frowned at Al, who shrugged apologetically, and then they turned and left.
Henry slid over to the vacant barstool between them. His brow was furrowed, as if he were trying to remember something.
Sam took his drink from the returning barmaid and sipped it.
Disconcertingly, Al took up position sitting cross-legged on the bar, momentarily pretending to rest an elbow on a beer pump.
?You might have had some vodka in that! Ha ha ? Bloody Mary!? Al tormented Sam, who glared at him, then pointedly ignored his sidekick.
?Irish?? enquired the kidnapper, rather too bluntly to be conversational.
?Uh-huh,? confirmed Sam, sipping some more of his drink, and trying not to let his hand shake.
?On ?oliday? Sightseeing??
?You could say that.? As cultural exchanges went, this one was standing still. Henry?s lips were working, as if he were practicing his lines before saying them aloud.
?Been on the Bunyan trail, ?ave you??
Sam thought of the landmarks he?d been ordered to remember.
?Oi?ve been around a few.? He replied, ?Loike de house where John Bunyan sought spiritual help from John Gifford in the 1650?s.?
It was evidently the right thing to say. Sam took his time over his drink while waiting for his next cue. Outwardly calm, he was churning inside.
?Yeah, I know it.? Henry took a swig of his own drink, the frothy head clinging to his beard and moustache as snow on pine branches. ?Just over the bridge.? The last word was stressed in far from subtle emphasis.
Sam trotted out his quotation like a well-rehearsed actor, anxious to get to the punch line. Although it was infuriating that this man and his partner had obviously read the script (Hell, they wrote most of it) yet it had been denied to him, forcing him as ever to hone his improvisational talents. Trouble was, he seldom had more than the vaguest outlines of the plot to go on and frequently felt as if he were destined to be forever playing Don Quixote in A Comedy (or Tragedy) of Errors, out of synch with his fellow thespians.
Since English Literature had been the one and only subject he hadn?t really enjoyed at school, he was as sure as could be that none of his degrees had been in theatre skills, and no Oscars vied for position with the Nobel Prize on his mantelshelf. Still, he would act out his part and hope to God that his performance would be good enough to ensure the happy ending that had been missing from the original edition.
The kidnapper beamed triumphantly and drained the rest of his beer in one long self-satisfied gulp. Then he wiped his face-fungus with the back of his hand, smacking his lips appreciatively.
He nodded toward the bag, as if noticing it for the first time.
?That isn?t full of souvenirs, is it?? he asked pointedly, glancing round to make sure no one was paying any attention. He overlooked the White Admiral adorning the countertop, who was perpetually pounding his hand-link in hopes of locating the girls.
Sam stared Henry straight in the eyes:
?Dere?s only two souvenirs Oi?m a-wantin? t? take home from dis trip. If?n Oi gets dem, you can have dis.? As he spoke, he nudged the bag over toward the man with his foot, by way of confirmation.
Henry?s face cracked wide open, showing yellowed, chipped teeth in a parody of a smile. Then he laughed.
?Good. Excellent. Then listen up. Leave that where it is, and walk out. Don?t turn around. Go back into town, to the car park where you left your car. The brats?ll be tied up in the ladies toilets by the time you get there. You can ?ave ?em back and welcome. All I gotta do is make a phone call an? they?re on their way.? To his credit, Henry actually believed he was telling the truth about that.
At last Sam caught Al?s eye, looking to his friend for advice. Predictably, before speaking Al studied - and thumped - his hand-link.
?Sorry, Sam, still not enough of a lock on the girls. Best to keep to what they say for the moment, even though the odds of them keeping their word ain?t worth a say.?
Sam set his jaw and clenched his fist. Why couldn?t Ziggy ever come up with the goods before the eleventh hour? He frowned at Al, who shrugged apologetically, and then they turned and left.