Light Up the Dark Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s weird imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Light Up the Dark

  © 2016 Suki Fleet

  Cover Design by Natasha Snow

  All rights reserved.

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favourite authorised retailer. Thank you for your support.

  Also by Suki Fleet:

  This is Not a Love Story

  Wild Summer

  Skeleton

  Innocence

  The Glass House

  Falling

  Lima Oscar Victor Echo and The Truth About Everything

  Foxes

  Te Quiero

  Just Like Heaven

  Wildflowers

  for m and elf

  always

  Light Up the Dark

  Prologue

  01 October 2010

  With half a bottle of whiskey churning around in his stomach and whatever Viv had tipped into his hand from her little box of pills, Nicky was anyone’s.

  “He’s taken nukes. Watch him,” he heard Viv say to Gary before she left for the night—click-clacking across the strip club and out into the night in her shiny red high heels.

  Like either of them really cared about the well-being of some fucked-up dancer. All they really wanted were satisfied customers, not a decent rep for their dingy club.

  Nicky was up on his tiny stage, dancing practically naked apart from his white feathery thong, and feeling so fucking out of it. If he closed his eyes to the leering—to the whole seedy club with its yellowed lighting and greasy furniture—and if he shut out everything but the hard trancy beat of the music, he could almost pretend he was eighteen again and out clubbing with the friends he’d long since lost touch with. If he was really lucky, he’d flashback even further to the draughty dance hall where he’d learned to plié and pirouette across the dusty wooden floor, finding a joy in movement that nothing else gave him.

  The metal of the pole was cold beneath his sweaty fingertips as he twisted and twirled, arching his body into elastic catlike stretches. Tilting so very close to the edge of the stage and teasingly withdrawing. The world swayed. A punter’s wandering hand reached out to fondle his bare arse. He slapped the hand away, knowing they wanted a feel of a little more than that.

  Sometimes he wondered just how far they wanted his stage show to go. Did they want to touch him up on stage, lay him bare, fuck him in front of a horny audience? And if they did, would he let them? In his fantasies being watched turned him on. Being fucked by some random guy did not.

  But he needed the money. Whiskey wasn’t free.

  Had his final sliver of integrity been left backstage with his clothes? The thought turned his blood cold. When had wanting to be out of his head turned into this insatiable need to stay out of it? He didn’t know himself any more. He had nothing left to sell but his body. Onstage or off.

  “I don’t think you’ve been taking me seriously…. You know I don’t like to be messed around, don’t you?” The voice was loud and commanding enough to cut through the bass throbbing from the speakers behind. Vowels crisp, with an edge sharp enough to cut yourself on. “Wait….”

  Nicky sensed the voice’s owner moving closer to the edge of the stage. He’d always had a thing for posh accents. Keeping his eyes closed he backed off, picturing the voice belonging to one of those guys he fancied off the telly—Sherlock Holmes or…. His drugged-up brain failed to supply him with any other names. Sherlock it was. He slid lewdly down the pole. He was dancing for Sherlock Holmes. The thought made him laugh unexpectedly.

  “What’s he taken?” Sherlock asked.

  “Nothing. Probably just a bit drunk. It’s his first time dancing here. Sometimes they get nervous.” The nasally whine belonged to Gary, the club owner, and he was lying—though that wasn’t unusual. Nicky had danced here lots of times, for weeks now. Maybe Sherlock had a kink for newbies.

  “Kill the music.” Sherlock sounded used to giving orders. Someone clicked their fingers and the music died. Letting go of the pole, Nicky swooped dramatically to the floor, his long hair fanning around him. He was a swan. A dying fucking swan.

  Still lying on the floor, his head swimming, he cracked an eye open. A tall, broad-shouldered guy in a suit was talking quietly to Gary. Sherlock. They had their backs to him. The guy’s three-quarter-length wine-coloured coat was beautifully cut. Guys who liked to look good turned Nicky’s crank.

  From his voice, he didn’t sound old enough to hit the daddy kink Nicky had not yet worked out of his system. But his strong-looking build was a plus. Nicky snorted. Even if Sherlock was about to buy his attention, Nicky had managed to come up with a positive feature. It wasn’t quite enough to give him the illusion he’d chosen this guy, but still, it was better than nothing and Nicky was… what was the word… a pragmatist? Yeah, he was definitely one of those.

  He glanced around. All the chairs near the stage were empty. Every punter who’d been watching the stage stroking their hard-ons had vanished.

  Ugh, a sudden sharp pain in his stomach made him want to curl up on his side. He was starting to feel a bit funny.

  Sober, said a small voice in his head. It’d been a while.

  Eyes closed, he dragged himself forwards with his arms until he reached the edge of the stage. The mingled stench of spilt beer, stale smoke and the overly sweet perfume he’d borrowed off Jamie’s dressing table backstage was too much. Nicky clamped a hand over his mouth. Nope. Throwing up was not an option. No way.

  Any body fluids, apart from sweat, left on stage and Gary threatened to void the culprit’s pay for the night. Everyone knew the rules. Plus, he doubted the rich guy would want to play if Nicky threw up on him. That was probably one fetish too far.

  But Nicky’s stomach was roiling—whatever was inside him wanted out, out, out. He barely had time to shift over to a less visible section of the stage and hold his hair back before he vomited over the edge onto the sticky floor below. The hum from the club’s other stages was enough to disguise any noise he’d made. His throat burned and his head ached. Throwing up was disgusting. He was disgusting. Discreetly he shifted back. Sherlock and Gary were still talking and didn’t seem to have noticed.

  God, what the fuck had been in Viv’s pills? Charcoal? Some evil substance that cancelled out the effects of alcohol and made you sick? He groaned quietly to himself. It wasn’t as if all the whiskey he’d downed would make him feel so ill on its own—on a regular night Nicky could drink half a bottle of any spirit and barely sway. Impressive for someone barely over five foot five who probably weighed less than a hundred and twenty pounds. It was a tolerance that had built up over time. And Nicky was suddenly far too sober to blame it on tolerance.

  At some point someone had drawn the long black curtain around the stage area. The curtain was only drawn for intimate shows. Punters paid extra for full nudity but still no touching. Masturbate with them and they tipped like billy-o. Any extras were strictly back room only. He assumed Sherlock wanted a private dance.

  With his stomach cramping like this, standing up was going to be a bitch. It would be easier if Sherlock wanted extras only. Nicky had gone as far as giving a few blow jobs. Some guys had tried to push for more but Nicky had always said no. The way he was feeling right then, he wouldn’t put up much of a fight if Sherlock wanted him to lie down, submissive and s
ilent, while he pounded into him. Nicky had no doubt about this guy’s preferences.

  A few metres away, Sherlock tipped his head back and laughed at something Gary had said. And although Gary laughed in response, he appeared perplexed, as though he didn’t know what was funny. Nicky dropped his head to the side, trying to get a glimpse of Sherlock’s face, but the shadows made everything swimmy and indistinct. It looked like Sherlock was holding a pair of scuba diving goggles. Perhaps that was his fetish.

  He stretched out on the stage, trying to appear languid as a cat rather than sick as a dog. Still hidden in the shadows, Sherlock turned slightly. Nicky sensed he was being watched and shivered.

  Someone touched his elbow. Nicky flinched before he could stop himself. It was only Gary. Gary gave him a weak, yellow-toothed smile. Everything about Gary was weak and yellow—his skin was a sickly shade that looked worse under the fluorescents, and the way he was glistening with sweat made him seem oiled. Even his eyes swam greasily in their sockets.

  Gary leaned forwards as he whispered, “The Duke’s a good payer if you do what he asks.” His breath smelled rank as always—part digested pickled onions, part beer, part stomach acid. Nicky held his breath. “Might want to give you a few bruises, but he’ll make it worth your while.”

  “What?” A fucking punch bag? No way. Nicky’s awareness had become pretty close to stone-cold sober, and apparently sober he wasn’t that desperate or unsure of his limits at all. Sometimes he really did surprise himself. “Fuck off. I told you I’m not into that shit.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Gary hissed. “The Duke doesn’t take no for an answer. Though I’m told he does like feisty.”

  A few of the others sometimes came back from jobs all the worse for wear—black eyes, broken fingers, bruised ribs. Nicky had felt sorry for them.

  “No.” Nicky pushed against his hands needing to get up and get out of there, but unbelievably Gary kicked his elbow out from under him and Nicky fell forwards, smacking his face against the stage and splitting his lip. For a moment, Nicky was too shocked to move, stunned that Gary would go this far.

  “You don’t get to say no,” Gary snapped.

  Anger and indignation flared through Nicky so hard he bit into his tongue. Who the fuck did Gary think he was? He was nothing to Nicky. He had no say in what Nicky did or didn’t do. In fact, Gary could go fuck himself. This club was shit anyway. Nicky was done.

  Glaring, Nicky wiped the blood from his mouth. “Fuck. You.”

  His arms were shaky but Nicky was determined not to show Gary any weakness. He’d almost struggled to his knees when a cold hand fastened around his throat from behind, cutting off his airway. If the threat in the gesture hadn’t completely immobilized him, the words in his ear did.

  “Fight me and first I will cut off your hair, and then I will cut your throat.”

  Nicky’s heart thudded against his ribs. The Duke.

  Gary backed away. Out of nowhere came a memory of Viv kneeling down in a bathroom cubicle with him, earlier this evening. He’d already been blasted out of his skull drunk, and her words as she fed him the pills hadn’t made sense then. These will give you a chance if he comes. Take it. He’d forgotten everything in his rush to get trashed. Had Viv known this would happen? Had she thought sobering him up would help? If she had, she was wrong. Nicky didn’t have a chance. He couldn’t fight against whoever was holding him. Fear was holding him in better check than any restraints ever would. He’d rather have been so dosed up he felt nothing.

  The hand left his throat and fastened in his hair. With a yank he was dragged backwards across the stage towards the door that led to the changing rooms. The Duke kicked the door open and pulled Nicky through it. Nicky half fell, half stumbled down the short concrete steps into the dark corridor beyond. The hand left his hair, and disorientated, Nicky blindly threw out his arms, searching for a wall, for something other than the floor. He got to his knees and propelled himself forwards and away, knowing this might be his only chance to escape. He tried to visualize the corridor but everything was so unfamiliar in the dark, as though he’d had been transported a far greater distance than across the stage.

  Pain exploded across his ribs as something came out of the dark and slammed into him. Instinctively he curled into himself.

  “Oh dear, did that hurt?” Footsteps circled.

  Panicked, Nicky prayed to a god he’d never believed in that he was going to wake up from this nightmare. This couldn’t be happening—there were people out in the club. If he screamed wouldn’t they hear him over the music?

  The sharp scent of leather filled his nostrils a millisecond before the shoe connected with his jaw and sent him sprawling into the wall.

  “Don’t ignore me when I’m speaking to you.”

  A hand grabbed his hair again. Nicky didn’t know how the Duke could see in the dark, but then he recalled the strange goggles he’d been holding as he spoke to Gary. Night vision.

  “We’re going to play a game.”

  “Please no.” Nicky hated the way his voice wavered. Hated that he could be forced to beg. Hated that he sounded weak like Gary—that he was weak like Gary—and scared, so fucking scared of being completely at this guy’s mercy.

  Nicky closed his eyes, held his breath and prayed for oblivion.

  But oblivion didn’t come.

  10 October 2010

  Strong hands hauled Nicky’s body out of the small space he’d been packed into. Nicky braced himself. But they were his own hands scrabbling and pulling him through the dirt. All the fight had gone out of him a long time ago, along with all the hope. But still his hands dragged him on. Nothing was real any more. Panic and fear was all he’d felt for so long. Everything hurt. The bright sunlight burned through his closed eyelids, and every muscle in his body ached from being held in a restricted position for so long. Some of his wounds and bruises from that hellish night had become infected and hadn’t healed. He’d gone through withdrawal in that tiny space. He’d had no food. Water had been poured on him twice a day and he’d licked it off the walls. He was naked and he’d been lying in his own filth for days.

  All Nicky wanted was an end to everything. A quick end. Not this dragged-out hell. If a knife had been put in his hand he would have done it. But there was no knife.

  The world smelled of dust and tarmac. The cold air bit into his skin. It wasn’t a knife but it could be as good as one. He passed in and out of consciousness.

  An engine rumbled nearby. A car. It stopped. Nicky was so disorientated he couldn’t process where he was.

  Someone was speaking. “It’s lucky that I found you. Come on, I’ll get you home and clean you up.”

  Nicky believed nothing. No one. But he didn’t struggle.

  He felt himself lowered into a cushioned seat, covered in fabric. The air was warm and it smelled like he was in a car. He opened one eye. It was a car. An expensive one. His heart stuttered—he wasn’t dreaming. The world zoomed sharply into focus.

  The door next to him closed with a heavy thunk, and the gravel crunched as someone walked around the back of the car. Nicky glanced out of the windscreen and saw the car was parked in a narrow lay-by by the side of a country lane flanked by skeletal hedges. Behind the car there was a faded red metal gate leading to the field beyond. Nicky had no idea where he was and he didn’t care—the cold was the knife he needed.

  Either the door was heavy or his muscles were very weak, but after a struggle he managed to open it. He had to be quick. The gravel had stopped crunching. His legs refused to take his weight and he fell onto the ground and started to crawl with a fierce determination that obliterated his fear. It obliterated everything.

  No one called out or ran after him. He made it to the gate, reached out and touched one icy rusty rung, before the world narrowed at the edges, then went utterly black.

  14 October 2010

  Nicky’s dreams had always been strange, but this one was one of the strangest. He dreamed he was lying
in a four-poster bed surrounded by dark wood-panelled walls in a room large enough to swallow a small house.

  A grey-haired guy dressed in a faded wax jacket sat in the squat armchair next to the bed. Sometimes in the dream the guy seemed to be sleeping. Sometimes he was staring out the huge rectangular window, looking thoughtful. Other times he looked sad.

  The room smelled old. Musty dusty as a museum.

  Nicky opened his eyes and looked around. This time the dream room didn’t feel quite so dreamlike, though Nicky couldn’t quite put his finger on why not. He was still lying in the four-poster bed, lily-white cotton sheets tucked under his armpits, and a poofy plum-coloured satin eiderdown that reminded him painfully of the one his gran used to have on her bed at home lay on top, like icing on a bizarre cake. The walls were still dark with honey-coloured wood. The ceiling was still so far away.

  Sensations—that was what was bothering him that hadn’t been bothering him in this dream before. His big toe was snagged in a loop of thread and he couldn’t quite find the strength to lift his leg and free it, and the skin of his arm itched as though something was stuck to it. Nicky looked down and saw the tube sellotaped to his inner arm, holding in place a needle that was burrowed under his skin. His first instinct was to rip it out. Which he did. The pain was sudden and shocking, and blood welled up, beading on his skin. He gasped, his heart thundering. Dragging himself upright, he accidentally tugged the tube, causing the metal stand it was attached to to fall noisily to the floor. The noise shattered the stillness of the room. He wasn’t dreaming any more.

  Out the corner of his eye, Nicky noticed the guy in the wax jacket was in the armchair looking at him. His large hands were planted on the arms of the chair in a position that suggested he was ready for action. Some response deep inside told Nicky he should be panicking, but he couldn’t, right that second, remember why. His memory was a squashed, faded thing, so out of shape that things no longer made sense.

  “Where am I?”

  Instead of answering him the guy said, “You’ve been resting. Someone tried to harm you. You’re safe here.” He didn’t smile at Nicky but his sober certainty was reassuring, as was the guy’s very clear level of exhaustion, visible in the bruise-coloured skin beneath his eyes and the way his body was sagged into the chair. His hands weren’t getting ready for action—they were holding him upright. “You’re safe here,” he said again as if he could read Nicky’s mind. “You’ll always be safe here.”