Hostage Three

Hostage Three Read Free Page B

Book: Hostage Three Read Free
Author: Nick Lake
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always, always super-busy. Dad had a fortune, yes, but he was also a slave to the business. People noticed Dad – he was handsome, I have to admit, and had this grey hairstyle that you call distinguished. But what you saw when you looked at Dad was something as much like a wolf as a person. What you saw was hunger. For money, for success. It wasn’t ruthlessness, not precisely – just hunger. I think a lot of people saw that, and they liked it, and that was why Dad was so good at charming everyone.
    At the end of the day, though, it was all about the money and his hunger for the money. No way was Dad going to take a whole year off to go gallivanting around the world, which was the kind of word he used a lot when talking about people with less drive than himself.
    As it turned out, I was wrong about that, too.
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A few days later , on Saturday, there was a knock at my door, and then Dad came into the room.
    â€” You really should open your curtains, Amy, he said. It’s practically the afternoon.
    â€” Good to see you, too, I said.
    He went over to the curtains and threw them open, flooding the room with light.
    I blinked, wincing.
    â€” You need clothes, he said.
    â€” I thought I looked quite nice, I replied, looking down at my pyjamas with ducks on them.
    â€” Ha, ha, said Dad. For the trip. You need clothes for the trip.
    â€” The trip?
    â€” You know – the one around the world . . . the yacht.
    I stared at him . . . I hadn’t actually seen Dad since the cigarette incident. He’d always been at work, and I’d assumed the trip had been forgotten. I hadn’t really thought about it since the weird conversation with the stepmother.
    â€” You’re seriously going to do that? I said. You’re kidding, right?
    He frowned.
    â€” No, I’m not kidding. Why would I kid about this?
    That was a fair point. Dad wasn’t keen on jokes – he felt about them the same way he felt about most things that couldn’t be sold.
    â€” But . . . When are we leaving?
    â€” The fifteenth of July.
    â€” That’s three weeks away!
    â€” I know, he said. That’s why you need to buy some stuff.
    â€” How long will it be, the trip?
    â€” Six months, eight months maybe. We’re still working out the details of the itinerary.
    â€” But what about your job?
    â€” I’m taking a sabbatical, he said.
    â€” Oh, Jesus. You really are serious, I said.
    â€” Yes, of course. So, I told you, you need clothes. There’ll be a range of climates, and we should expect some bad weather at sea. I’ve made you a list.
    He stepped over to my bed, where I was propped up on cushions, watching TV, and handed me a sheet of ruled paper. I looked at the list. There were a lot of things on it. And not just clothes – toiletries, a mosquito net, sunglasses . . .
    â€” Come on, get up, he said. Busy day. I’ve booked you in for your shots, too.
    â€” Shots? I said.
    â€” Immunisations. Cholera, hepatitis, et cetera. Sarah and I have already had them. Then it’s Oxford Street to get the clothes.
    Despite myself, I felt a little squirm of excitement in the pit of my belly. Not about the trip – I still didn’t believe that was going to happen – but about spending a day with my dad. It had been so long since we’d hung out together – since the Event, I guess.
    â€” OK, I said. Just let me have a shower. What time are we leaving?
    â€” We? he said, baffled.
    A falling feeling.
    â€” We . . . me and you. To go shopping. To get the shots. To do everything that you were just talking about.
    â€” Oh, I’m not coming, said Dad. And suddenly I noticed – why hadn’t I noticed before? – that he was wearing one of his better suits, that his shoes were shined. I have to go in, he said. A partners’ meeting.
    Of course, I thought.
    He put his hand in his inside jacket pocket, drew something

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