Hostage Three Read Online Free
Author: Nick Lake
out. He threw it on to the bed at my feet. A black credit card.
â There you go, he said. Knock yourself out. If you see anything you like, anything thatâs not on the list, get that, too.
I didnât reply because I didnât trust my voice not to go, didnât trust myself not to cry, and that would make me look like such a girl. I just looked down.
When I looked up, he was gone.
We set sail on the fifteenth of July, just like Dad said.
Was I happy to be leaving? I donât know, and thatâs the truth. It was going to be a year in close confinement with Dad and the stepmother, which didnât sound like a festival of fun. But it wasnât school. And though there wasnât much point in packing the Marlboro Lights â Dad hates smoking â at least there were going to be beaches. Mostly, I think I just didnât care that much about the trip. I didnât have anything better to do. It sounds stupid, but itâs true.
And then there was the yacht. It was quite something, and that made it almost worthwhile. Esme would have called it totally a-MAY-zing. Actually, she probably did. After we drove down to Southampton to go aboard, I took a photo of it on my phone and uploaded it to Facebook, and she and Carrie went crazy over it.
It had two sails, which I thought at first were just for show, but which Damian, the captain hired by Dad, said would take us up to a dozen knots when combined with the engine, whatever that meant. It was white and sleek and graceful, despite its size. It looked like a Rolls Royce parked at a broken-down factory against the grey concrete blocks of Southampton. Even the gulls seemed afraid to go near it, to cover it with their droppings.
â This is going to be good, said Dad, as we walked up the gangplank. Some proper time together, as a family.
â Whatever, I said, which was all that little statement merited.
Up top was the bridge, where Damian would steer or drive or whatever, and a kind of bar or dining-room area with remote-controlled roll-up sides, for eating al fresco if you wanted, as the stepmother said with a squeal. Below decks were five en-suite bedrooms, then below those, a cinema room, a games room and access to the diving deck. I already had a Padi licence (I went to that kind of school) and Dad had done his scuba-diving qualification in preparation for the trip.
On the diving deck were a lifeboat and a dinghy with an outboard motor â so we could take sojourns to the shore . Thatâs the stepmother talking again.
Basically, the only thing the Daisy May didnât have was a helipad, and if thereâd been a yacht available with one, Dad would have bought it. But the push for this whole crazy idea came from me leaving school, so he had to take what he could get at the time.
What he could get, in addition to the Daisy May , was:
Damian, the aforementioned captain. Kind of hot, in an old, Brad Pitt kind of way, with sparkling green eyes and an Irish lilt.
Felipe, the cook. Not hot. Spoke English with a very strong accent. And, as Iâd already learned at the cooking auditions Dad had insisted on having, a pretty awesome maker of pancakes.
Tony, the . . . I donât know what youâd call him, really. Guide, maybe, mixed with a bit of security. Not the leader â because that was obviously my dad â but the guy who was meant to know where to go and what to see, and what places to avoid. Dad had worked out some kind of complicated deal when he bought the yacht, and the bank was insuring it. Tony was part of the deal: if Dad wanted to go without him, he would have to pay the insurance himself, and Dad was too smart with money to do that.
In the end, putting Tony on the yacht didnât turn out to be that much of a genius idea on the companyâs part.
Anyway, Tony was sort of a six where hotness is concerned. Neither hot nor not. He was just one of those men who you see all the time â average height,
â There you go, he said. Knock yourself out. If you see anything you like, anything thatâs not on the list, get that, too.
I didnât reply because I didnât trust my voice not to go, didnât trust myself not to cry, and that would make me look like such a girl. I just looked down.
When I looked up, he was gone.
We set sail on the fifteenth of July, just like Dad said.
Was I happy to be leaving? I donât know, and thatâs the truth. It was going to be a year in close confinement with Dad and the stepmother, which didnât sound like a festival of fun. But it wasnât school. And though there wasnât much point in packing the Marlboro Lights â Dad hates smoking â at least there were going to be beaches. Mostly, I think I just didnât care that much about the trip. I didnât have anything better to do. It sounds stupid, but itâs true.
And then there was the yacht. It was quite something, and that made it almost worthwhile. Esme would have called it totally a-MAY-zing. Actually, she probably did. After we drove down to Southampton to go aboard, I took a photo of it on my phone and uploaded it to Facebook, and she and Carrie went crazy over it.
It had two sails, which I thought at first were just for show, but which Damian, the captain hired by Dad, said would take us up to a dozen knots when combined with the engine, whatever that meant. It was white and sleek and graceful, despite its size. It looked like a Rolls Royce parked at a broken-down factory against the grey concrete blocks of Southampton. Even the gulls seemed afraid to go near it, to cover it with their droppings.
â This is going to be good, said Dad, as we walked up the gangplank. Some proper time together, as a family.
â Whatever, I said, which was all that little statement merited.
Up top was the bridge, where Damian would steer or drive or whatever, and a kind of bar or dining-room area with remote-controlled roll-up sides, for eating al fresco if you wanted, as the stepmother said with a squeal. Below decks were five en-suite bedrooms, then below those, a cinema room, a games room and access to the diving deck. I already had a Padi licence (I went to that kind of school) and Dad had done his scuba-diving qualification in preparation for the trip.
On the diving deck were a lifeboat and a dinghy with an outboard motor â so we could take sojourns to the shore . Thatâs the stepmother talking again.
Basically, the only thing the Daisy May didnât have was a helipad, and if thereâd been a yacht available with one, Dad would have bought it. But the push for this whole crazy idea came from me leaving school, so he had to take what he could get at the time.
What he could get, in addition to the Daisy May , was:
Damian, the aforementioned captain. Kind of hot, in an old, Brad Pitt kind of way, with sparkling green eyes and an Irish lilt.
Felipe, the cook. Not hot. Spoke English with a very strong accent. And, as Iâd already learned at the cooking auditions Dad had insisted on having, a pretty awesome maker of pancakes.
Tony, the . . . I donât know what youâd call him, really. Guide, maybe, mixed with a bit of security. Not the leader â because that was obviously my dad â but the guy who was meant to know where to go and what to see, and what places to avoid. Dad had worked out some kind of complicated deal when he bought the yacht, and the bank was insuring it. Tony was part of the deal: if Dad wanted to go without him, he would have to pay the insurance himself, and Dad was too smart with money to do that.
In the end, putting Tony on the yacht didnât turn out to be that much of a genius idea on the companyâs part.
Anyway, Tony was sort of a six where hotness is concerned. Neither hot nor not. He was just one of those men who you see all the time â average height,
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