In an abandoned scrapyard in Aethel.
Mr. and Mrs. Thorne knelt wretchedly on the ground, their faces a mess of black and blue. With hands clasped, they pleaded endlessly.
"Please, let our son go!"
"We'll do anything, really!"
"Please, I'm begging you! My older daughter, Shirley Thorne, is the wife of the richest man in the country! She's loaded! You can ask her for money!"
On the roof of a car, one of several burly thugs, his arms covered in tattoos of dragons and tigers, spat contemptuously.
"You think we're idiots? Can't you read? Don't you watch the news?"
"That rich man's wife wants nothing to do with you. She just drops a little pocket money into your account each month. Is that enough to ransom your son?"
Mrs. Thorne was crying so hard she could barely breathe. She lamented her bitter fate. After all the trouble of raising a daughter, she'd turned out to be an ungrateful wretch.
'What's the point of her marrying a rich man?'
'It's not like we can get any of it!'
