Page 11 of Caught in the Middle

If she accepted something to eat, there's a good chance he could slip something into her food. There's no way she could use a gun if she was unconscious.

'No,' she lied.

'Of course you are, you're hungover and we've been on the road all day!'

'I'm not hungover-'

'Ha!' He peered over the fridge door at her, 'are you kidding me? I can smell the alcohol from here.'

Her face flushed red, and she felt disgusting. She thought about asking to have a shower, but the thought of even seeing the state of the bathroom made her empty stomach churn.

'I'm making you food, if you don't want to eat it that's your choice.'

She sat on one of the rickety chairs as she watched him make do with whatever was in the fridge and cupboards, which turned out to more or less be the ingredients for spaghetti bolognaise.

He looked remarkably out of place cooking, she noticed, his gold rolex glistening as he stirred one of the pans on the hob. He hadn't even taken off his suit jacket.

Lucy wondered what his life was like, who he was, what he did. Apart from taking young women to scary council flats, of course. He looked incredibly rich, but she couldn't pinpoint why. Of course the suit and the watch looked expensive, but anybody can wear expensive clothes. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself. Like he was... entitled. He didn't have to answer to anyone. She couldn't imagine him having an office job, answering to a boss.

Then she realised, as he was dishing up the food on two chipped plates, that she hadn't even asked him.

'Who are you?' she asked.

He laughed the question, a little too hard. 'What do you mean, who am I? I'm Oliver, you know that.'

But she knew that he knew what she meant.

'But who are you? Why are you 'helping' me, what do you do?'

He plonked a plate in front of her on the stained table. 'Eat first, get your strength up, and I'll explain after.'

She sighed loudly, much to Oliver's amusement. She began to wonder if she would ever get any answers off of him. Maybe after dinner he would tell her he'd tell her after she had a shower, and then maybe after her shower he'd tell her that he'll let her know tomorrow.

She glared at him as he stabbed a bent fork into his food and shovelled a heap of pasta noodles into his mouth. Perhaps she should just shoot him in the head now. But she knew she wasn't brave enough to do that. She had never even been in a fight, let alone shoot someone! She looked at the gun she had set on the table next to her plate, and hoped that she never had to use it.

'Come on, you've got to eat something,' Oliver said.

Lucy looked down at the messy plate of spaghetti in front of her. He definitely didn't cook his own meals at home. She wondered if he had a wife who did it for him. She glanced at his ring finger.

Empty. Guess he must have a maid then.

Still, it wasn't his dodgy cooking skills that made her not want to eat, despite her stomach rumbling in protest. Even though he made it all in front of her, she still didn't full trust that he hadn't poisoned it.

Oliver let out a loud sigh. 'You're not one of them girls who don't eat, are you? Or worse, one of them vegetarians?!' He crinkled his nose up in disgust, 'When I was a boy back in Ireland, I'd get a clip around the ear if I didn't eat everything that was on my plate. And not eating meat? That would be a laugh. I grew up on a farm, see, and every day I'd go out and milk the cows -'

'I don't give a fuck about your childhood!' Lucy snapped. She hadn't meant to say it, but it just popped out.

Here she was, sitting in a dungeon of a kitchen, and this man who won't even tell her why she was here is waffling on about shit she didn’t care about.

Oliver raised his eyebrows. 'Jesus, woman. You're a right miserable one.' He let his fork clatter to his plate. 'I'm just making polite conversation. You're not exactly bubbling with personality, are you?'

'Bubbling with personality?' Lucy spat, incredulous. 'I'm very pleasant and fun, thank you, but I have absolutely no reason to be nice to you. You won't even tell me why I'm here.'

Oliver suddenly scraped back his chair and leaped to his feet, fury plastered across his face. He grabbed Lucy's untouched plate and hurled it in the direction of the bin, making a deafening clattering noise as it hit the lino, tomato sauce and pasta noodles sloshing against the yellowing wall.

Lucy flinched and instinctively went for the gun.

'You know what, Miss Lucy Davies, you should be more fucking grateful,' his temple throbbed with anger, 'I've saved quite a few girls lives over the years, and I think you're the first one who I half wished I didn't bother trying to help.'

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