by Edwin Dasso
He looked around the room, gazing at the furniture, the bed and the tallboy. The carpet was littered with her clothes and other possessions he had flung out of the drawers and off the hangers in the wardrobe.
He darted back into the wardrobe, and his sudden movement made her start. This time he swept out all her shoes which he sent flying in all directions.
What was he looking for? What did he hope to find?
They were both startled by the ringtone of her phone in his pocket. For a second neither of them moved.
He pulled out her phone and glanced at the screen. “Monica’s calling darling. Do you want to take it?” His voice had lost its rough, uneducated accent, and reminded her of the way the Queen spoke in her Christmas Day message.
“Yes,” her voice cracked and she felt a knot in her stomach. He wouldn‘t let her talk would he? She swallowed the bile which rose at the back of her throat; the taste of acid was unpleasant and burned. She took a deep breath. “If I don’t answer it, she will keep ringing. Monica is persistent. She’ll guess something is wrong.”
Still the raucous ring tone shrieked from the vibrating phone in his hand.
He smiled, and taking two steps forward, he offered it to her.
“Keep it brief, Darling!” While he passed over the mobile with his left hand, with his right he withdrew a knife from his belt and waved it like a conductor. He stepped closer.
Helen pressed the green button, unable to stop herself from shaking.
“Put it on speaker,” he hissed at her.
She did as she was told. Monica’s voice at the other end sounded so normal, so ordinary, like a light in the middle of a nightmare.
“Hello darling. Sorry, did I wake you?”
For a moment Helen was unable to utter a sound. “Uh, no.” She sounded breathless.
Monica’s peals of laughter echoed through the ether. “Ooooo sorry I disturbed you. I did, didn’t I?”
“Uh, no, not at all.”
“Is he sleeping over then?”
“No.”
“But it went well? The date with the hunk I mean.” She chuckled.
“As, well, as, could, be expected.” Helen forced out one word after the other.
The intruder was drawing his finger across his throat, indicating she should terminate the call. He moved the knife closer to Helen’s neck, she could feel the tip scratching at her skin. Her brain was frozen. There must be a way of alerting Monica. How could she send out a cry for help?
“Will you be in a fit state for tennis in the morning?” Monica sounded so cheerful, so normal.
“Yes of course. Usual ten o’clock at Green Acres.”
She had no time to say more before his hand shot out and grabbed the phone from her, cutting off the call. She waited to see what he was going to say and do next.
8
Several streets away Monica stared at her mobile and frowned. She turned to Mike. “Did you hear that?”
“Hm?” He looked up from the book he was reading. “Hear what?”
“Helen, on the phone.”
“No, why?” He turned to look at her, curled up beside him on the sofa. He smiled at the teddy bears running riot on her lounging jump suit, and the bunny slippers she was so fond of wearing.
“She sounded strange. Her voice was strangled. Weird. Not herself.”
“Maybe you woke her up, it’s not far off midnight.” He glanced at his watch.
“No, not a sleepy response, more a worried, frightened tone. And that’s not all. She said tennis tomorrow at ten and we always meet at eleven. And Green Acres? I’ve never heard of the place.”
Mike put his book down and frowned. “You think she was trying to send you a message. A secret code?” He chuckled.
“It’s not funny Mike! I think she’s in trouble. That was a cry for help.”
“And what do you want us to do about it?”
“Go round there, see if she is okay.”
“Don’t be so daft. You’d look a right idiot driving all the way across Kingston only to ring her doorbell, wake her and the twins just on some silly hunch.”
“It’s not silly. She could be in real trouble and we are the only ones who know. And too, there’s a murderer lurking in the borough, and we could be the ones to save her.”
Mike sighed as he stood up. He pointed to the book she’d left on the coffee table. “You read too many crime novels. Be sensible Monica. This is real life, and coded phone calls conveying secret messages are only in spy novels. Do you honestly think that this criminal sits and chats with his victims before doing them in? And the twins are there remember. If, and only if…” he called over his shoulder as he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet and poured two drinks, “he had managed to get into the lobby and then in through her front door, he wouldn’t hang about. He’d be in there with his weapon of choice and kill all three of them and be out of there before anyone saw him. That’s the way a real murderer would operate.”
Helen sipped from the glass he handed her. “And you’d know, would you? How some deranged, perverted, unstable person thinks?”
Mike pushed his face towards Monica and growled at her.
She laughed, put down her glass and threw her arms around his neck. “Come here you big teddy bear. How I love you.”
He slid down beside her on the sofa and kissed her gently, making animal grunting noises which sent her into a fit of giggles. “Hey stop, I’m trying to be serious here.” She pulled away and rescued her drink. “I have this worrying feeling, right here in the pit of my stomach.”
Now in an amorous mood, Mike picked her up and, ignoring the drink spilling from her glass onto the rug, whisked her off into the bedroom and laid her on the bed.
Despite a long intimate session, Mike was a great lover, active and inventive, but when he rolled over and began to snore gently, Monica couldn’t sleep. She kept fretting about the phone call, going over it again and again in her mind, dissecting every word, trying to make sense of it. She looked at Mike, lying next to her, out cold. She was so tempted to get dressed and go over to Helen’s although she was probably over the legal drink limit. They’d had a bottle of wine with dinner and then two glasses of whiskey after that. On one hand she imagined acting like a total idiot, waking the twins and causing Helen lots more grief. Maybe she’d not liked to say her new man was there and she would disrupt a night of passion. Was that the reason for the strange message? Arriving on the doorstep well after midnight might convince him Helen’s friends were strange and dump her on the spot.
Yet, at the same time, Monica couldn’t get rid of the sick feeling in her stomach, and her instinct that was telling her there was something terribly wrong. She lay there, tossing and turning trying to decide what to do.
9
The intruder’s nails scratched Helen’s hand as he lurched forward and snatched the phone from her. He stared at the screen for a moment, checked it was disconnected and slipped it back into his pocket.
Inside, Helen’s emotions were all over the place. One moment she wanted to crumple up on the floor, close her eyes, surrender and pray for it all to be over. The other part of her was a boiling morass of anger, pure rage. This wasn’t happening to her and she would not let it. She was a self-sufficient woman, intelligent, articulate, and she was either going to talk her way out of this appalling situation or hurt him so badly he was no longer a threat.
She eyed him up. He wasn’t a lot taller than her, and his soft hands showed he was not a labourer or into manual work. Come on, I should be able to get the better of you and make you pay, for everything.
She took a step backwards, this time she was closest to the bedroom door. She walked briskly into the kitchen and reached into the cupboard.
He followed her, still waving the knife in the air. Was she imagining it, or had he lost a little of his confidence? She swung around suddenly to face him, close enough to smell the sour taste of his breath.
“Would you like a dr
ink?” she asked sweetly, as if he wasn’t waving a weapon inches from her face. Without waiting for a reply, she hurried on. “I’ve got brandy, whisky, vodka and gin. Which would you prefer?”
He stared at her and frowned. She wasn’t following the script. She should be cowering in fear, begging for her life. Yet just now she had changed tack, acting as if everything was normal. As if this was just a visit from an old friend.
Helen ignored the knife as she moved away to open the cupboard where she kept the glasses. She paused, her hand inches away from them and looked at him. “Silly me, you might prefer wine? I have some in the fridge.”
He stared at her. Shocked. Uncertain. Silent.
“Come on,” Helen allowed a little impatience to creep into her voice, “I need to know so I can give you the right sort of glass.”
He cleared his throat. “Give me a beer.”
“I may only have a couple of cans left. My brother drank one and I need to keep one for my husband when he gets home from work.” She flung open the fridge door and the interior light illuminated her face for a moment as she reached in for the beer. She used her arm to close the door and was about to rip the tab open when he barked at her.
“Leave it bitch, I’ll open it.” He’d reverted to gangster mode.
“Suit yourself.” Helen replied with a shrug of her shoulders. She thrust the can into his free hand, and watched as he struggled to open it and hold the knife at the same time. He paused and peered at her. “And you can shut the fuck up about your fairy-tale husband coming through the door any moment. I know he ain’t coming, ever!”
His remarks only strengthened Helen’s reserve. While he played the tough guy act it helped her to remain tough as well. It strengthened her resolve to appear strong, and fuelled her anger. She poured herself a generous measure of vodka and took a huge swig before waving towards the lounge.
“Let’s sit down and make ourselves comfortable. Come, tell me all about yourself. I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Andy,” he blurted out without thinking.
“Andy, that’s a nice name. Is it short for Andrew?” She swept past him out of the kitchen and settled herself on the sofa. She pointed to the chair set at right angles to the coffee table.
“Come, you’ve not sat and relaxed since you came through the door. It’s late and your feet must be killing you.”
He hovered in the archway between the kitchen and main room. He looked around. The lounge was larger than in most apartments, maybe to compensate for no outside space, no balcony. He walked over to the table to the left of the front door. He sorted through the jumble on the top. He picked up a piece of Lego and turned to look at her. “Toys?”
Helen hesitated, her eyes flickered towards the one closed door to the right of the kitchen. He’d just walked past it.
“You have a child? Single mum?” He sneered.
Helen leapt to her feet, raced across the room and stood in front of the bedroom door. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed.
Four strides and he was by her side. He flung her to one side and grabbed the door knob.
Helen stepped back, opened her dressing gown and let the towel drop. “Leave them alone and you can have me,” she offered, putting her head to one side and pouting.
His mouth and the knife dropped at the same time. A look of horror crossed his face. “Cover yourself, you’re a disgrace,” he snarled.
“No more than any other mother would in the wild, to save her babies,” Helen shot back. She picked up the towel and wrapped it back around herself and pulled the dressing gown belt tightly in a knot.
She turned on her heel and sat back down on the couch.
Her behaviour puzzled Andy. He stared at the closed door for a moment and then back at Helen. One moment she was there to defend her child, no, children, she said ‘them’, plural, and the next she walks away. How sane was she?
“Drink up,” Helen instructed. “You’ve not even touched your beer it’ll be getting warm.”
With both hands free he opened the can and drank. Her erratic behaviour had unsettled him. He needed to regroup his attack.
This time she patted the empty space on the sofa where she was sitting, smiling, inviting him to sit next to her.
He ignored her smiles and perched on the chair at right angles to the coffee table. He slammed his beer can down and Helen immediately leaned forward, picked it up and slid a coaster underneath it. “Wet stuff makes terrible rings on the polish which are almost impossible to get out.”
He glanced around the lounge. Apart from the table by the door, Helen had a Welsh dresser, piled with bits and pieces. She had put decorative plates along the shelves, between which was an assortment of tacky ornaments from seaside towns. The cheap plaster of Paris knick-knacks labelled Blackpool, Margate, Brighton and Skegness looked incongruous nestling by the antique serving plates that, to his untrained eyes, might be genuine Famille Rose and Famille Verte porcelain. Maybe she had inherited them, that must be the answer.
Helen observed him staring at the plates. “Ah, you like my plates. Are you a collector as well?”
His reply was a filthy look.
She ignored his expression and chattered on as if he’d been invited for tea and this was a benign everyday social call.
“So, you were going to tell me a little about yourself.”
“No, I fucking wasn’t,” he snarled. “None of your sodding business.”
“Oh, my mistake.” Helen took another sip of her drink, put it down and dug her hands into the pockets of her dressing gown.
“Keep yer hands where I can see them,” he growled.
She obeyed, but took her time. She was desperate to maintain the high ground. Inside, she was quaking, but she had to steel herself to show strength. That was the only way to deal with bullies, even murderous ones. She watched as he leaned back in the chair. His behaviour puzzled her. Why was he wasting so much time? Every minute he remained here he was more likely to get caught. She glanced at the clock on the wall over by the dining table. It was already 2 o’clock. In another couple of hours Fred, who lived a few doors down along the corridor, would be leaving for work in the bakery. There was a new milk delivery service that arrived around six, and there were always the joggers, up at dawn on their way to and from the park. She tried to remember what time the sun rose, but she’d not been up that early in weeks, and she couldn‘t focus.
Was it the vodka, or the time of night? She could feel her body fighting sleep. The alcohol was a mistake. It had relaxed her and made her sleepy, but the beer had not had the same effect on Andy. He remained as alert as ever.
He startled her as he switched personality yet again.
“Your Highness, I pray thou willst allow me to escort you to your chamber. Forsooth thou showest me you are weary of the day’s events and do desire to lay your fair head on a soft pillow and seek pleasure in the arms of Morpheus.”
You got that bloody right but I’m not about to go to sleep leaving you awake. She shook her head. “I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me.” She picked up her glass and drained it.
“Your Majesty, permit your humble servant to insist that for the very sake of your health you must needs to rest, to retain that fairest of complexions. For tomorrow will bring new challenges to you in the administration of your kingdom and give to you the will to deal with the troubles of your subjects.”
He sprang to his feet before Helen could reply and roughly grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet. His words and his rough actions were at odds with each other, confusing and frightening, and it was as much as Helen could do to maintain both her balance and not show her fear.
He continued his ridiculous play acting as he dragged and pushed her back towards the bedroom. “I entreat your most worthy person to rest your weary self upon your bed and dream the remaining hours until the dawn breaks to awaken the world to another day.”
Helen was so tempted to tell him to shove it, stop behavi
ng like an idiot. Where did he think he was? In Drury Lane? Shaftesbury Avenue? Standing on the stage at the London Palladium? Wisely, she said nothing but allowed him to manhandle her and then fling her on her bed. He walked over to the door and removed the key and marched out and slammed it behind him. She heard him turn the lock from the outside.
For a moment all she could do was bury her head in the pillow and allow silent tears to roll down her cheeks. It was taking every ounce of strength she had not to give up, beg him to end it. Stop all the impersonations, either go, or finish what he’d come to do. He’d already killed three other women and their children. Did he mess around with all of them as well? Prancing up and down like an idiot, taunting, teasing, playing?
She sat up and ripped open a packet of wet wipes. The cool feeling on her face and hands refreshed her slightly and she pushed herself off the bed.
She dragged the chair over to the wardrobe and, climbing up, felt around just in case the pepper spray had not rolled down behind it. Sweeping her hand back and forth she couldn’t feel it. Standing on tip toes, straining every muscle, she managed to stretch up far enough to see that all there was on the top was a thick layer of dust and several cobwebs.
Next, she went over to the window and, pushing aside the curtains, she peered out. This side of the apartment block faced a lawn, deserted and bathed in deep shadows. No help. She stared at the frame, running her fingers around the edge, wondering if there was any way she could escape but, while just this morning she’d been grateful the windows only opened part way, saving Jason from falling to his death, it also prevented her from sliding through onto the microscopic ledge which ran along outside. Looking down to the ground ten stories below she wasn’t sure she would have the courage to climb out, even if she could fit through the narrow gap.
