Paul woke with a start and became instantly aware of a shooting pain through his shoulder and the fairly putrid yet unpleasantly familiar smell of a hotel carpet which he’d suddenly slammed into. “Ow,” he groaned as he rolled over, squinting his eyes closed and narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the frame of the bed. “Too early,” he mumbled to the bedspread. He ran a hand over his face. It was then he noticed the scratchy eyes — he’d fallen asleep with his contacts in again. Interestingly, he’d also fallen asleep fully clothed and with a herd of tap dancing rhinoceroses in his head, if the odd vibrating sort of pain was anything to go by. “God, what did I drink last night,” he groaned.

Suddenly he remembered going to bed early and, amidst much teasing from his friends at the bar, laying off the alcohol a bit the night before so that he’d make it to the airport on time and in a fairly decent condition. Getting home without a hangover for a change would mean being able to do more enjoyable things with Gina than sleep. Things that involved fruity shower gel, maybe. He smiled at the thought, then leapt up off the floor and caught sight of the clock on the bedside table. It was after eleven, his plane would have already left. Before he could even swear in frustration, his head swam sickeningly and he sunk heavily onto the bed. “I’ve got to stop letting Cam and Mick mix drinks for me,” he grumbled once convinced his head would not explode.

He blinked a few times before raising his head to cautiously glance around the room. This was not the room he’d fallen asleep in.

With his heart suddenly beating a thousand times faster, a leaden feeling in his stomach and a sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t going to like what he saw, Paul wandered to the window and pulled back the threadbare curtains. Nope, not Melbourne. It was flat. And still. And dull. Apart from the strip club across the road with a sign that declared, in fading paint, to be the home of ‘McDermott’s Finest Fillies’ which amused him a bit.

Throbbing headache, missed plane, a series of vague, fractured memories that were more dreamlike than real, and a hick town could mean only one thing. It had happened again.

He bolted for the door to his hotel room and grabbed at the handle. Just as locked as he figured it would be. “Bastards,” he snapped. As he collapsed against the wall in pain and defeat, he kicked the dresser in frustration. His bag — considerate for the kidnappers to bring my luggage, he thought to himself — slid off and emptied its contents to the floor. Paul walked over, careful of his spinning head, and rifled through his things. Although he didn’t find his cell phone or anything else of any real use, he did find Troy and clutched him protectively to his chest as he went back to the bed and waited for some big ugly man to come and threaten him. “Don’t know how you put up with these stupid kidnapping fuckers as long as you did,” he mumbled to Troy, annoyed that there wasn’t a television or bottle of aspirin anywhere in sight, not even a heavy to yell at. “Being kidnapped sucks,” he pouted, and stroked the mongoose’s fur.

Brad floated gently into consciousness, becoming first aware of the feeling of soft cotton sheets against naked skin, then the strain in his shoulders and the itching of wrists tied to the headboard. He wasn’t sure if it was still a pleasant dream or if Bess had been reading women’s magazines again and had decided to wake him up in an innovative fashion. Either way he decided he’d just lay back and enjoy it.

It was only then that his brain managed to clear a bit more, and he heard the soft sound of a voice. Bess in lingerie, he hoped. Or maybe Anna Kournikova in her short little tennis outfit if he was lucky and it really was a dream.

“I think he’s waking up,” the voice said hurriedly and louder. Not Bess. Not Anna. Not Fenny. “Me too, could’ve been bad. Of course. Right.” A harsh beep and he opened his eyes, then promptly wished he hadn’t.

The room was paneled in dark wood, or at least wallpapered to look that way, he couldn’t tell through the pain in his head that swirled his vision a bit. Four-poster bed with a slightly moth-eaten canopy of heavy red material. A bow and three arrows were arranged on the far wall, and two swords crossed each other over an ornately carved yet cheaply antiqued wardrobe. In the center of the room hung the gaudiest, heaviest chandelier he’d ever seen.

A woman stepped up to him and he jumped. She was dressed up like someone who’d missed the bus to the Renaissance Faire, and he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d just been dropped onto the set of a really bad Robin Hood flick.

It was then he remembered he was still naked and tied to the bed.

“What the hell is going on?” he snapped at her.

“You’ve been kidnapped,” the woman said in a crisp English accent that couldn’t be entirely genuine.

“Right, fine, good, so why am I naked?”

“You had an adverse reaction to the drugs.”

Brad waited for more of an explanation but didn’t get one. He tried raising an eyebrow questioningly, and she still stared at him. “What kind of reaction, my clothes melted? I freaked out, tore them off and made monkey noises and decided to rejoin nature?”

“No, you soiled them.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure in what capacity he’d ‘soiled’ his clothes, but he figured the image of him pissing himself was something best not confirmed. He wanted to pull the blankets up over his head but he was still tied to the bed and his hands were falling asleep. “Drugs?”

“It’s how we got you here. Don’t you remember?”

“Should I?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Why did you kidnap me?”

The woman shrugged. “Because my boss told me to. Oh look, your hands are turning purple. Let me help you with that.” She disappeared into the en suite, which he suddenly noticed had an absurd leafy forest theme, and came back with a revolver, which she tucked into the side of her bodice. A moment later she was straddling his hips, her breasts inches from his face, and untying his wrists.

“Mmm, never seen a woman heavy before,” he mused as she finished and slowly crawled off him, allowing him to rub some feeling back into his swelling hands. “Which is saying something, this is, let me count, the um, sixth time I think having to deal with kidnappers and crime bosses. It’s a nice change I think, to have some variety for once.”

“My boss is something of a feminist,” she declared and moved to the wardrobe. “Not in any classical sense like the suffragettes or Gloria Steinem or anything. Amy just thinks women are better at this sort of thing than men. Here, you can wear this.” She handed him a wad of material. As he spread it out on the bed, it was quite obvious the Sherwood Forest theme went further than the décor and the accents.

“Where’s my real clothes?” he whined, not prepared to don tights, much less the full scale Robin Hood outfit. This had to be a terrible nightmare. He wanted Anna back.

“Being cleaned.”

“Why the hell do I have to put on this?”

“Cause I think it’s cute. And I’ve got the gun.”

He scowled at the gun in question as she pulled it out and stroked its barrel a bit more than he thought necessary. “What, now, with you here?”

“I don’t see why not,” she chirped.

“You know, normally I at least know a woman’s name before she gets to see me naked, maybe dinner, a bit of conversation…?”

“Gemma, nice to meet you, I already saw you naked when I stripped you, now get dressed.”

“I think I liked it better when the heavies didn’t want to see my naughty bits,” he grumbled, but begrudgingly did as he was told, trying awkwardly to get dressed under the covers as Gemma leaned against the wall and watched.

Greg opened one eye, then closed it again. He felt like his head was trying to chew through the back of his skull. It was a vaguely familiar sort of pain that took him a minute or two to remember. Memories of that damned windmill floated through his mind and he rolled onto his back.

“Hi Amy,” he grunted.

He didn’t receive an answer, but he felt something poke him in the chest. He cautiously opened his eyes and squinted to see Amy standing over him, proffering his glasses.

“No new tricks then?” he asked, took the specs, and reluctantly slipped them on. “Still drugging people, huh?”

“If it ain’t broke,” she mused.

“Where are we?” Greg closed his eyes again, trying not to aggravate his growing nausea. That would teach him to drink the coffee he thought his wife had left for him when she’d gone out with Aunt Jean. He should have known better, at least when there were insane women out there who wanted him dead.

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise, do I?” Amy sneered. “Where do you think you are?”

Without opening his eyes, he sighed, “Some really cheap hotel where you’ve managed to lock me in the room, with a couple henchmen in the next room over, you won’t feed me anything worthwhile, I’ll insult you for a while, then Gina will show up and beat the crap out of you again. Just a guess, y’know, judging by prior experiences.”

“Close, but no cigar,” Amy sneered.

That triggered a deep ache inside Greg, and he sat up to reach into his pocket. Coming up empty, he glowered at her as she leaned against the nightstand. “What have you done with my cigarettes you stupid little—” He was halted by a slap across the face that set his glasses askew.

“Someone’s going to have to teach you some manners,” Amy hissed. “Don might have put up with your shit, but that’s why he’s dead. You cocky bastards. Act like a fucking victim already or I’ll kill you now and just go get the others myself.”

“So that’s what I’m here for, huh?” Greg asked smugly. “You cute little seething mass of incompetent rage, you can’t figure out how to get the others so you’re using me as the bait. Cute, but it won’t work. We outnumber you, and we certainly outsmart you. That’s why Don’s dead,” he mocked in a high falsetto.

“Not if I’ve got three of you, you don’t,” she said with a nonchalant gesture of her hand.

“Three?” Greg echoed, trying not to let the little bit of panic that rose in him show. “Which three?”

“Well you first, obviously, because you really piss me off, did the job myself. I must remember to compliment your wife on her coffee making skills.” Greg sneered but decided against yelling at her. “And the little Australian guy. He was pretty easy, slipped some stuff in his drink at the bar, he barely made it to his room before he collapsed, piece of cake to pick him up. And your big stupid friend. He was a little harder, he’s got this nurse hanging off him, not the kinda chick you want around when you’re trying to drug a guy. Had to slip it into his ice cream. Dude eats a lot of ice cream when his woman’s not around.”

“Well that’s great,” Greg perked, feeling genuinely relieved. “You got Brad, who’s pretty useless anyway, and Paul, who’s just going to give whoever you’ve got watching him a tirade of abuse that’ll send your poor heavy crying, and me. All I ever do is drive the getaway car, anyway. But you left Gina and Ritza. You might as well surrender your guns and let us go now, because you’re not gonna win.”

“You think I’m afraid of those two?” Amy snapped.

“If you were smart you would be. They’ve gotten us through more shit than you think. And don’t forget, we did kill your boss.” Greg didn’t dare mention the fact they’d had a bit of help from Danny and a lot from Beven, or that Fenny was pretty much only good at being a victim or creating an ill-timed diversion.

“What did I tell you about the arrogance,” Amy growled, grabbing her gun from the dresser.

“Ooh help, won’t somebody save me, I want my mommy, whatever am I going to do,” he mumbled dryly.

With an odd strangled noise of frustration, she holstered the gun and marched to the door.

“Could you pick me up some cigarettes while you’re out?!” The door slammed closed. “Guess not,” he grumbled, kicked off his shoes and flopped back onto the bed to take what he felt to be a well-deserved nap. It’d take his mind off the nicotine cravings, anyway.

Gina stood in the kitchen, dejectedly leaning against the breakfast bar and sipping at her mug of tea. It was one thing for Paul to go off on his own for a few weeks because he was completely mad and had things to think through. She was used to that sort of thing. But for them to have talked things through, for him to have agreed to come home, for him to have been so pleased to have seen her and so disappointed for her to leave, for him to have declared that he was ready to have children with her for Christ’s sake, and then just not come home, that was just heartbreaking.

When she’d woken up to find herself still alone, that Paul hadn’t slipped in during the night, exhausted from some late flight home, Gina had started running through possible scenarios. Maybe he’d gotten drunk with another group of comedians and had spent the day passed out on a pool table somewhere. Maybe he’d gotten on the wrong plane and was at that moment halfway to Brazil. Maybe he’d been mugged. Maybe he’d come to his senses and decided against procreation and couldn’t bear to face Gina. Maybe he’d run off with Freya again.

Gina had had to stop watching the Channel 10 News. The very sight of the studio made her remember the events that had ended in the loss of her job. Danny’s reports only served to remind her of the friendships that had been so damaged. And Freya just made her want to hurt things. And without Gina carefully monitoring her actions, Freya may well have taken a vacation over the last three weeks and had been in Melbourne with Paul doing kinky things to each other, and Gina never would have been the wiser.

With a final gulp of tea and a deep breath, she told herself that she was overreacting and there had to be a reasonable explanation, and headed into the bedroom to get dressed. She picked up her mobile phone and checked it one more time in a vain hope that Paul had called, and was surprised to find a text message waiting for her. Her heart leapt up in excitement, but upon reading it, her blood ran cold.

as the Japanese say ohio. shame if such a big name as your hubby died. you’ve got the same name mcdermott. work it out yourself. Amy.

Fenny briefly wondered if it was actually possible for a human body to explode from tension as she felt certain hers was about to do. She’d tried occupying herself with typing up a sheet of basic rules of proportion for her class and listening to very loud music, but still she couldn’t quell the need to run down the street screaming just to alleviate some of the stress that had been growing exponentially since the evening before.

So what if Greg and Brad had both turned up missing. They’d probably gone out drinking together, had a few too many shots of tequila, and they’d turn up any time with sizable hangovers and quite possibly another tattoo or something equally asinine to attest to their stupidity.

But no matter how much she told herself that, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something disastrously bad was going to happen, and in the back of her mind she heard Greg telling her about Amy’s threatening phone message. He had seemed so nonchalant about it all when he’d told her, maybe she was overreacting.

What did she care about Brad anyway, she tried to tell herself. He’d practically said he was through with her. Okay, so that wasn’t entirely true, he’d just pointedly avoided saying that he wasn’t through with her.

She gave up trying to write anything useful – the last three times she’d tried to type “chin to nipple line = one head” from her notes, it came out on the screen as “gun at finish line you’re dead” which was really freaking her out. Her phone rang, or at least that’s what she assumed the noise was, it had been so long since anyone had called her she didn’t immediately recognize the sound. Grateful for the distraction, whatever it was, she dashed into the living room and dug into her purse. “All that for a text message,” she grumbled to herself as she flumped onto the couch and read it.

you stole from the rich and I’ll kill the poor. love from your hubbys forest. Amy

“Shit,” Fenny whined, closing her eyes against tears and dropping the phone heavily to the floor.

“Gus, honey, I asked you to put up your toys,” Ritza called down the hall. “The man from the gas company will be here any minute and I don’t want him tripping over your things.”

“Just a sec, Mummy,” he yelled back.

“No Gussy, now.”

She heard him grumble all the way into the front room where he gathered up his action figures and toy cars. She finished watering the last of the plants and sat herself at the dining room table. Apart from a temperamental stove that would alternately spout flame and refuse to light entirely, which the gas company had assured her would be a five minute fix, everything was going surprisingly smoothly for her. She had her son, they had a home, she had a few promising prospects for a new job, Gus would be starting school soon, and she was happy. Or would be once she could boil an egg without fearing she’d set the house on fire.

Closing her eyes and leaning her chin against her hand, Ritza sat and listened to Gus’s animated playing in his room. From the sound of things, Spiderman was saving a Power Ranger from a plush dog. He called it “Monster Dogasaurus” which she assumed was the new name for his cherished “Noodles the Puppy” of a few years ago. It was cliché but true, kids really do grow up too fast.

With a smile she checked her watch. The gasman was half an hour late. She leaned over and grabbed her bag, pulling out her cell phone to call and complain. The phone chimed to life as she turned it on, and she opened the text message she’d missed earlier.

thought you got rid of me bitch? me and greg greg are having a ball if you want to join us and try again but you wont be so lucky this time. Amy

“Fuck, not again,” she groaned.

“What’s wrong, Mummy?”

“Nothing Gus,” she called hurriedly back down the hall. “Just the usual,” she sighed to herself.