Free The Mercy Seat by Martyn Waites

into the hotel room in King’s Cross it had been obvious. Apparently his minidisc player had been stolen, and this seemed to annoy them most. They had stripped and destroyed his laptop, but the loss of the minidisc had left them very, very unhappy. And although Gary knew nothing about that, he had paid the price for it. After heavy persuading, they had reluctantly agreed with him.
    So he waited. He looked at Colin. Sleeping. A fitful, uneasy sleep. His stomach turned over yet again. He winced at the pain, a combination of heartburn from the cheap fast food their captives provided, the beatings and fear.
    Gary sighed. The air left his body in shuddering gasps.
    Fear. He had never truly understood the meaning of the word until this moment. Fear. Just sitting.
    Meant they intended him to live.
    And waiting.
    Meant there would be an end to all this.
    And not knowing.
    That they wouldn’t keep him for long.
    Fear.
    Gary sighed again, felt more than air bubbling up.
    Quickly he grabbed the bucket and, eyes closed and nose blocked, threw up into the mess.
    He kept vomiting until there was nothing left inside him.
    Except fear.

5
    ‘Seventy-seven … seventy-eight … seventy-nine … eighty …’
    With the air exploding from her lungs, Peta Knight flopped back on the floor, sweating. She felt the familiar trembling ache around her lower stomach and down the fronts of her thighs, felt the sweat bead and prickle her hot skin. She breathed deep, her lungs red and raw. Her muscles felt worked, her body burning; she flexed and unflexed, the second skin of black Lycra moving with her.
    She loved that feeling. But it wasn’t enough.
    Seven thirty a.m.: her regular morning exercise session half completed. Four hundred sit-ups, eighty at a time, alternating extended legs. Sixty push-ups, three sets of twenty. Then side bends, stretches. All aerobic. Four sessions with the small weights.
    But it wasn’t enough.
    She missed her bag, the heaviness of it on her foot as she kicked it, the resistance when she punched it. She missed the gym, the machines, her sessions in the dojo. She missed running and cycling. She missed the free exertion, the exhilaration. The release of endorphins into her body, the only chemical change she dared allow herself these days.
    She needed the strict regime, the drug-free self-abnegation. Going back to her old ways was not an option.
    But she hated being stuck in the room with virtually nothing to show for it.
    She checked her watch. Nearly ten to eight. He would be here soon.
    Bending her left leg and straightening the right, holding it six inches off the floor, she breathed deeply once, twice, knotted and locked her fingers behind her head and started again.
    ‘One … two … three …’
    She reached fifty-four when the door opened. He stopped, stood there smirking.
    ‘I heard all that panting on the landing,’ he said. ‘Didn’t know whether to come in or not.’
    ‘Piss off,’ she gasped. ‘Fifty-five … fifty-six …’
    He entered carrying a paper bag, closed the door behind him. Yawned, then smiled.
    ‘You know you should get out more,’ he said. ‘Enjoy yourself for a change.’
    She ignored him, keeping her rate steady, uninhibited by his presence, until she reached eighty and lay flat on the floor, panting again.
    ‘Like you, you mean?’ she managed between gasps. ‘Have fun, did you?’
    The man smiled, took off his jacket, the leather soft and high grain, the tailoring several cuts above standard chain-store sweatshop wear. He draped it carefully over the back of a chair, folded his arms. He was in good shape, but there was narcissism to his actions; for his prone, gymhead partner a good body was an end in itself, but his was only a means to an end. However, he also practised martial arts and as such carried himself well, gracefully even, Peta had to admit.
    He placed the brown-paper bag on the table. ‘Coffee and croissant in there for you,’ he said, taking out his own.