Captured by Neil Cross

 Kenny left the campsite again at teatime, just as it was reaching its most relaxed and convivial.

      

He drove the Combi to the suburbs, pulling over once or twice to access Google Maps. He drove round until he found what he believed to be the optimum street, given what he had to work with.

      

After parking there was a lot of time to kill so he went for an exploratory wander, during which he came across a yellow skip. Inside the skip, along with a great deal of builder’s waste, was half a brick. He picked it up, examined it, and walked on, clutching the brick loosely in his hand.

      

He kept walking. Loitering might draw attention to him – to this youngish man with hair so white it seemed to glow in the twilight. Kenny took a circular route past the chip shops and the curry houses and the corner shops and the shut-down newsagents. His eyesight was bright and true; the darkness was not really darkness, just a deep summer purple.

      

After midnight, he walked to Number 25 Coney Lane. 

 

He stopped across the road, facing it, bouncing the half-brick in his hand like a cricket ball. Then he pitched it through Jonathan Reese’s living-room window. 

      

The noise was brilliant and urgent, shattered glass cascading like a waterfall; Kenny imagined it echoing over the city, waking everyone in their safe beds.

      

He wanted to call something, to scream an obscenity. But the words jammed in his throat as Jonathan pulled back the curtain and stood at the living-room window.

      

He saw Kenny.

      

There was a shock of connection.

      

Then Jonathan moved. Kenny watched the weird, angular shadows he cast as he hurried into his shoes. 

      

He heard Jonathan thundering down the hallway, fumbling the chain from the latch, opening the front door.

      

He waited until Jonathan came outside and shouted: ‘Oi!’

      

Then Kenny ran – not too fast at first. Not until he knew for sure that Jonathan was following.

Jonathan’s footfalls echoed from the pavements and the low garden walls as he chased Kenny to the dark end of the street. 

      

Kenny rounded the corner and stopped. 

      

This road was straight and long, edged on both sides with parked cars. At the far end it crossed a main road, brightly lit, still busy enough with traffic. 

      

There were gardens to hide in and passages between houses, shadowy back gardens. Behind him, a left turn would lead him to the local train station – it was closed; chained and bolted for the night. There were many places to hide. 

      

But Kenny didn’t hide. He pushed on, nursing a stitch, until he reached the Combi. 

      

He stepped between the front grille of the Combi and the boot of the Vauxhall Astra parked in front of it. He rummaged until he found the crowbar where he’d left it, tucked behind the front wheel.

      

Then he flattened his spine to the cold metal and waited. His breathing was too loud, rasping and painful. 

      

He made a promise to himself: if Jonathan had given up and gone home, then Kenny would give up, too. 

 

But then Jonathan passed by, having slowed his sprint to a laboured jog.

      

Kenny stepped out from his hiding place, lifting the crowbar high, bringing it down. Jonathan dropped like a slaughtered cow.

      

The impact jarred Kenny’s wrist. Carried by his own momentum, he stumbled over Jonathan and fell. 

 

As Jonathan tried to climb to his knees, Kenny scrabbled round for the crowbar, found it, took it in two hands, got to his feet and hit Jonathan with it. 

      

Jonathan fell down again, tried to raise himself, crawl away. 

      

Kenny stamped on his kidneys, kicked him in the guts, the ribs. 

 

He stamped and kicked until Jonathan stopped moving. Then, gulping for air, he said: ‘Get in the van.’

 

‘What are you doing?’

 

Kenny raised the crowbar, breathing through his teeth.

 

‘Please,’ said Jonathan.

 

Kenny kicked him in the head.

 

Jonathan raised a hand in submission and, mumbling please, dragged himself towards the Combi – Kenny prodding and goading him with the crowbar. 

 

      

When Jonathan had reached the Combi, Kenny shoved him into the front passenger footwell. ‘Curl up and shut up.’ 

      

He lay down where Kenny told him. Kenny had to push the passenger seat back to its fullest extent. Then Kenny got behind the wheel, tossed a blanket over Jonathan and drove away, the crowbar on the seat next to him. 

      

He drove under the limit until he reached the darkness on the edge of town, parking in a gravel lay-by on the perimeter of a cow field. The Combi was sheltered by an immense overhanging oak. 

      

Kenny darted round to the front passenger seat and dragged Jonathan out by the hair, making him walk with comically bent knees, like a trained chimpanzee. He opened the Combi’s sliding side door and shoved Jonathan inside. 

      

He wrapped duct tape round Jonathan’s ankles, then his wrists, then his mouth. 

      

This was done in night-silence, with heavy, laboured breathing.

 

The unspooling of the duct tape was cinematically loud.

   

Then, hurrying, Kenny lay Jonathan on the floor of the rear compartment and threw the blanket over him again.

      

He drove Jonathan to the cottage