The Billionaire’s Curse by Richard Newsome Page A

by the arm.
    “Watch out for that guy with the camera,” Gerald said to the bewildered guard, pointing a finger toward the photographer. “He doesn’t look like a tourist to me.”
    Gerald bolted. He glanced over his shoulder just as the photographer spotted him, just as the photographer shouted a loud “Oi!” and broke into a run. And just as the museum attendant stepped forward, extending his hand with a firm, “Not so fast, sir,” they collided in an awkward embrace of arms, legs, and tangled camera straps.
    Gerald slid sideways through a doorway and almost tripped as his feet met a floor of uneven wooden boards.
    At the end of a long narrow room he saw an exit sign and made for it. Galleries flashed past as Gerald bounced and weaved his way between exhibits and people. He rounded a corner and ran down a flight of stairs. He flung himself against a wall inside a small alcove on a landing, pressing his back into the bricks and gulping in air. He waited. A few tourists wandered by, as well as a cleaner pushing a trolley loaded with mops and brooms. But there was no sign of the photographer.
    Gerald’s breathing eased and he bent down to rest his hands on his knees. He wasn’t even sure why he was bothering to run away. It was only some guy wanting to take a few photos for a newspaper. It wasn’t like any real harm was being done. But it bugged him. No one cared who he was last week. He hadn’t done anything special. So why should anyone care who he was this week? He couldn’t put his finger on it. It just bugged him.
    The cleaner rolled his trolley past again and Gerald caught a whiff of cleaning fluid. That smell, he thought. Where have I…?
    Four bony fingers and a thumb dug deep into the flesh of Gerald’s left shoulder. A strong hand wrenched him upright, almost yanking him off his feet. A searing pain shot down Gerald’s side. The acrid stench of bleach burned into his throat. Through the pain jolting into his shoulder, Gerald felt something brush against his cheek.
    “Mr. Wilkins,” a voice hissed into his ear. “We need to talk.”



C HAPTER E IGHT

    G erald could barely open his eyes. His shoulder felt like it would dislocate. He balanced on the tips of his toes, desperate to stop the torture. But the agony was relentless, hot like a blowtorch.
    “Would you like me to stop?” the voice rasped.
    Gerald nodded through his pain.
    “Very well. But do not make a sound or try to run. Or things will get very much worse.”
    The thin man twirled Gerald around with his gloved hand, like a spider spinning its prey in a web. Gerald danced on his toes, unable to fight back. The thin man’s head was almost touching Gerald’s face.
    “Do you understand?” he whispered. With each syllable his thumb twisted deeper into Gerald’s shoulder.
    Gerald gasped and nodded. At last, the thin man released his grip. Gerald’s knees buckled and he stumbled forward. He grabbed at his shoulder with his right hand. His left arm hung, useless.
    Gerald looked up. The thin man’s eyes were hidden behind the same sunglasses that he was wearing at the airfield a few days before.
    “You are in very real danger, Mr. Wilkins,” the man said softly. “No one knows where you are. No one has seen us here. And even if they had, to a casual observer we are just another pair of museum patrons. There have been no raised voices, no outlandish struggles. I have merely been talking with you whilst laying a caring hand on your shoulder.” He paused, tipping his head. “How is your shoulder?”
    Gerald peered into the sunglasses.
    “Who the hell are you?” he spat. “What do you want?”
    The thin man stooped and looked Gerald in the eyes.
    “The same thing I wanted from your great-aunt.” His strange voice raised the hairs on the back of Gerald’s neck. “Information. The information that she refused to give me.”
    The thin man stretched out a hand and ran his index finger over Gerald’s throbbing shoulder. “And look