by ML Rose
Rhys was not in the Common anymore. He was in his room, in the one-bedroom flat he rented for cash under a false name. He was surrounded by four screens, each showing a different view of the interior and exterior of the Stone residence.
On one screen he also had a feed from the Common, looking at the front of the house, and another from the rear. He watched as Rebecca, wearing jeans and a pullover, came out of her room and went downstairs. He tapped on his keyboard and the screen changed to the large ground-floor landing. Rebecca went into the kitchen. There was only one camera in the kitchen and it faced the concertina doors that occupied the back wall, opening out into the garden. But it was a wide-view lens, and he could see Rebecca at the kitchen counter.
Rhys opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the remote microphone controller. When he was inside the house, he had placed microphones in some of the rooms. It was a large house and he didn’t have much time, so he had to be selective.
He figured that a lot of household talk took place in the kitchen and living room, so he had placed microphones there. But the house was so large, he had no time to plant them in every room of his choice. He would have loved to put one in the bedrooms, but the house had too many of them.
He cranked up the volume on the remote microphone and heard the hiss of a kettle and the fridge door shutting. The microphones were incredibly small, paper-coloured, and could be stuck to the corner of a white wall, almost invisible. Rhys leaned back in his armchair and put both hands over his head, relaxing. He watched as Rebecca, coffee cup in hand, walked across the floor and sat down on the sofa, facing the garden. He could only see the back of her head, and long hair falling over the sofa. How many times had he run his fingers through that hair? How many times, in the throes of passion, had he pulled on that hair and grabbed her by the waist, moulding her body to his?
A vortex of jealousy and anger spiralled inside him, burning in his bloodstream. His lips curled up in a snarl and he gripped the chair arms.
I could’ve given you everything, Becky. Everything. You saw right through me. Understood me like no one else. Then you turned away and left me alone. And you left me for that, that. . . .
Rage curdled like lava in his arteries. Rhys stood and began pacing. Of all men, she had to go for Jeremy Stone? Nephew of Grant Stone? How could she?
Rhys stood at the back window staring out at the overgrown, weed-filled garden. Anger bubbled inside him, simmering. He heard a voice and turned. Rebecca was saying something to the housekeeper. Rhys moved closer to the screen. He turned up the volume as their voices were muffled. Edna Mildred was standing next to the sofa. Rhys only caught a few fragments of what they said. Damn the place, he cursed. The kitchen was too big. He should have put more microphones in.
“. . . Going out . . . doctors . . . do the shopping. . . .”
Rhys smiled to himself. He knew exactly where Rebecca’s doctor’s surgery was, having followed her on many occasions all through the pregnancy.
While they were a couple, he had inserted a software into her phone that recorded every conversation she had so he could listen to them at any time. Even better, the software recorded the GPS signal, giving her location at the time of the conversation.
She still had the power of mesmerising him just by speaking. Every word she uttered seemed to be for his ears alone. Making plans to meet with a friend. Speaking to her friend about the nausea and vomiting she suffered, the back pain she lived through, during her pregnancy.
If only she could speak to him about it. Several times, he had been on the verge of pressing the green button and calling her up. But he knew he couldn’t. Not after what happened. She had called the police on him. But all he wanted was for Rebecca to be his, for life. He didn’t want another man looking at her. No one would ever love her the way he had. The way he still could, if she would just give him a chance.
He could do nothing but wait. And as he waited, the soul-rending visions from the past rose up like acrid, dense, poisonous fumes in the back of his mind.
Of all the women he had been with, only Rebecca knew.
Pain and rage jostled inside his heart, breaking it into two, releasing dark, bitter black vitriol. The poison spread through his blood.
He went to his bedroom, which he had converted into a workshop. Opening the wardrobe door, he pulled down a stack of nail polish bottles. He bought these in bulk from Romania, and picked them up from a boat that docked in Cornwall every six months. A lot of contraband drugs entered the UK through Cornwall, by boats that came up from Holland and northern France. Nail polish contained a volatile chemical called TATP, which was also used extensively in improvised explosive devices or IEDs. During his time in Afghanistan, Rhys had been trained in how an IED was constructed.
He emptied the contents of several nail polish bottles into a five-hundred-millilitre glass beaker till it was almost full. He took the beaker into the small kitchen. There was a Bunsen burner on the kitchen counter and he placed the beaker on it and fired the burner up. He gently stirred the beaker containing nail polish, and added a salt and acid chemical to it, in order to isolate the TATP.
When most of the liquid had evaporated, only pure TATP was left. This was the hard bit. Any spillage, and the TATP would corrode the surface it landed on.
Rhys put on gloves and a mask. Then he poured the thick contents of the beaker into a flat, rectangular steel container. It didn’t hold much, but it was enough for his purposes.
He knelt, and from the kitchen cabinet under the sink took out a welder’s mask and a blowtorch.
Working very carefully, he fired up the blowtorch and sealed the steel edges of the container to seal the chemical inside. He took off his gloves and mask. Holding the container, he walked back into the bedroom.
He opened a suitcase that was stored underneath the bed. Inside lay a variety of burner phones, wires, and blast caps. He took out a brand-new phone. It was charged already. He wrote down the number, then, using some black tape, fixed the steel container to the phone. He attached four blast caps to the container, then wound more black tape around the entire package, securing it.
All he had to do now was ring the phone, and the electricity from the call would fire the blast caps, lighting up the TATP.
He set the improvised device on the floor. He closed the suitcase and pushed it back under the bed. He entered the new phone number on his mobile. Then he smiled to himself.
Rebecca was going to see the doctor, was she? Maybe that God-awful husband of hers would drive her up there. Well, did he have a surprise for them.
CHAPTER 23
Rebecca stood inside, waiting after Jeremy had stepped out. It was cold and Jeremy had his beanie hat and gloves on. He thrust his hands inside his winter jacket and turned around. His voice had a hint of irritation. “Are you coming?”
She stared out at the packed snow in the corners of the front lawn, and the gloominess of the Common across the road. The darkness between the trees already seemed dense, impenetrable. It made her shiver.
The dizziness returned, swirling in her brain. She put a hand on the door handle to steady herself. She didn’t want to go outside. Didn’t want to face the outside world. More than anything else, she wanted her Reggie back. She hadn’t slept last night. The crying of a baby, incessant and plangent, had kept her awake. The cries seem to pierce through the walls, rising up from the pillow as she put her head down, exhausted. She had tossed and turned, one nightmare after the other filling her night.
Jeremy walked across the porch towards her. She had turned the lights off inside, and behind his glasses, she couldn’t see his eyes. His face was impassive.
“Dr Richardson wants to see you. We can’t keep him waiting.”
It was easy for Jeremy to talk and walk around like nothing happened. He would never understand what she was going through. And if she tried to explain, it would come out the wrong way. Her demure eyes floated down to the parquet flooring. “I don’t want to go. I’ve
got nothing to say to him.”
Jeremy cocked his head to one side, hands still in his pockets. “We talked about this.”
“Like we talked about letting those people into our house?” She couldn’t help the sudden, sharp rise in her voice. Her jaw muscles hardened into knots and she pointed a quivering finger at her husband. “I told you not to do it.”
Jeremy stared at her for a few seconds, then came inside and shut the massive mahogany door. It was suddenly very dark and he switched the hallway lights on. She cringed under the sudden, harsh glow. She waved her hands above her head. “Turn those bloody lights off.”
Instead of listening, Jeremy stepped closer. She was a couple of inches taller than him but his teeth were bared and a scowl deepened on his face. “I’m getting really tired of your attitude,” he hissed. “I told you not to go out with Reggie so early. Do you ever listen to me?”
Rebecca swallowed hard and took two steps back. Jeremy advanced on her. “I’m doing all this for you. You need to take better care of yourself, Becky.”
He jabbed a finger at his chest. His bottom lip quivered and the tip of his nose turned red. “I’m suffering as well. I’m not showing it and trying to make the best of a horrible situation. You can’t fall apart like this. Not now.”
Rebecca breathed heavily for a few seconds, locking eyes with him. She regretted the day she had agreed to marry him, but it was too late now. She should have known something awful would happen one day. And now it had. She blamed herself as much as she blamed him. Anger spiked in her tone.
“You didn’t answer my question. Without asking me, you let those forensic officers inside, to trample all over our house.” She pointed to the upper floor and waved her hand. “Taking away my last shred of privacy, at a time like this. How could you?”
Jeremy’s jaw went slack as he shook his head slowly. “Your privacy? You’re the one who posts to Instagram a hundred times a day. How could the forensic officers affect your privacy, anyway? All they did was collect evidence.”
She jabbed a finger at him again. “Exactly. What sort of evidence do you think they collected? They wanted to come inside my bedroom and take samples from the floor and bed as well.”
Jeremy lifted his arms, then flopped them to his side. “So what if they did? If it helps to find Reggie sooner, then what’s your problem?”
“How will carpet samples from my room help to find Reggie?” She glared at him for a while, wondering how she’d ever agreed to get married to this insensitive, callous weasel of a man. “I hate you,” she bit out between gnashing teeth. She moved past him, and with some effort, opened the door. “I’m going on my own.”
Her boots crunched snow as she headed for the sleek black Range Rover Evoque parked on the drive. Jeremy hurried after her. “No, I don’t think you’re fit to drive. I’m taking you.” He reached for her arm and she lashed at him, slapping his hand away.
“Leave me alone!” She didn’t mean to shout, but it happened. Jeremy’s face fell, but his eyes glittered as he slowly withdrew his hand. Without a word she got into the driver’s seat. The keys were already in the ignition.
Rebecca turned the car out of the drive. She screeched to a stop at the red light at the end of the road. A black Honda Accord car was right behind her. Behind the Honda, the road was empty. The lights turned yellow and Rebecca gunned the accelerator, tyres screeching. Her husband’s last words echoed in her brain.
‘What’s your problem?’ ‘What’s your problem?’
The words swirled and ebbed in invisible, inchoate currents in the blackest recesses of her mind, slithering across each other like vipers. My problem? she wanted to shout. My problem?
Her problems had started the day she became Mrs Stone. After getting rid of that overcontrolling, dangerous dickhead Rhys, she had opted for safety and security. Little had she known what Jeremy Stone was really like.
What was it about her that attracted these control-freak men?
Jeremy had seemed harmless at first, but after a while she realised his true nature. True, he wasn’t as bad as Rhys. He didn’t follow her around. In fact, sometimes it seemed like he didn’t care at all. But when he was around, she had to do as he wanted. Jeremy needed a wife just to show the rest of the world. She was a trophy, nestled inside his beautiful glass cabinet, his own special prison. Saline buds threatened at the corner of her eyes, then lost to gravity and rolled down her cheeks. She sniffed and wiped them with her sleeve. The words came back, reverberating, relentless.
‘What’s your problem?’ ‘Problem?’
She turned a left corner to come up to her doctor’s surgery. As she did so, she noticed the car right behind her. It was the same black Honda. It had stayed behind her all this time. The car took the same turn as her. In the rear-view mirror she noticed the man driving and a whiplash of fear stabbed her in the spine. Her eyes widened.
That parka with the fur-lined hood. Pulled up over the driver’s head. Those broad shoulders. It was the same man she had seen opposite the house, and at the bus stop. Panic gripped her throat, twisting her windpipe. The tepid daylight turned into spots of blackness, darkening photons bouncing inside her dizzy mind.
Nausea rose inside her throat as her hands slackened on the steering wheel. The car swerved to the left and she pulled it back at the last second before it hit a parked vehicle. She hit the hazard lights and pulled to a stop. The black Honda indicated and moved past her slowly. The man turned to look at her, smiling as he did so. He pulled the hood off his head, and for the first time, she could see him.
Fear surged inside her once again, a black wave splashing over her mind, submerging her in panic.
She knew that face.
Rhys Mason.
CHAPTER 24
Twenty-two years ago
Birmingham, England
Nine-year-old Rhys breathed heavily. He clutched his mother’s hand tight as he stared at the stage from the side. A group of girls were performing, garishly lit by overhead lights. They were singing a popular pop tune that had recently been in the top ten of the UK charts.
Rhys watched the girls, fascinated at how different it all looked when he was standing here, as opposed to sitting in the audience. The girls were between thirteen and fourteen years old, and were taller than him. The lead singer had an impressive voice and she belted out the lyrics lustily, while the remaining three girls danced, did the chorus, and sang an occasional line. When they finished, striking a pose, the audience in Broad Street Theatre erupted with applause and screams.
Rhys’s heartbeat notched up a gear, drumming loudly in his ears. He looked up at his mother, tugging on her hand. Rhys was tall for a nine-year-old and almost came up to his mother’s shoulder. He had never known his dad, but his mother told him that was where he got his height from.
“Is it my turn now?”
“Yes,” his mother whispered, bending down to catch his ear. “Just wait until they announce your name.”
The master of ceremonies strode out onto the stage, a tall man dressed impeccably in a shiny blue suit. Even the tips of his black shoes gleamed in the bright lights.
“Can we have a round of applause for the Daisy Girls, please,” the MC shouted on his microphone and the audience cheered and hooted. This was the Midwest England Talent Championships and it was Rhys’s biggest gig to date. He had started singing in school choirs, and his teachers had quickly seen his potential. He loved pop music and spent the weekends in front of the TV, copying dance moves. Rhys had been singing and dancing for the last two years and both his voice and dancing skills had improved. He wanted to do this for the rest of his life. He wanted to be like those pop stars he saw on TV, mesmerising the whole world with their beautiful voices and dance moves.
“And now, please welcome onto the stage a young man with prodigious talent. Mr Rhys Mason!” The MC shouted out his name and there was polite applause from the audience, nowhere as loud as they had been for the previous act.
“Good
luck, my love.” Rhys’s mother bent on one knee and they hugged each other. His mother’s eyes were shimmering bright, and he thought she was close to tears. He bent over and kissed his mother on the forehead. “Don’t worry, Mummy, I’ll be fine.”
He tried to make his voice as confident as possible, and his mother smiled. Rhys glanced over at the Daisy Girls, who stood with their arms folded across their chests, glaring at him. Rhys saw contempt and arrogance in their eyes. He knew they were favourites to win the competition. That was why their act had been saved as one of the last ones. After Rhys there was a boys’ group, and that was it.
His mother pushed him gently on the back as she stood. The MC was standing there, right arm stretched out, head turned in his direction.
This was it. The moment he had dreamt of for so many years.
Well, two years was a long, long time for nine-year-old Rhys. He took a deep breath and let it go slowly, counting to five, like his mother had taught him to. Then he held his head high and walked out on the stage. There was a smattering of applause, which intensified when Rhys looked at the audience, raised his hand, smiled, and waved. He couldn’t see a thing, as he had expected, with the lights shining down on him. His heart drummed fast, pulse rising in his ears.
He shook hands with the MC, who introduced him again and then walked off the stage. Rhys kept the microphone turned off and cleared his throat discreetly. The lights dimmed. A hush of expectation fell in the theatre. The first strains of the music started.
Rhys flicked on the microphone. His eyes closed as the microphone rose to a well-practised twenty centimetres from his face. He started to sing, his heart and soul rising as the tune floated out in his voice. He barely heard the audience clapping as they realised this nine-year-old had the mellifluous voice of a seasoned adult singer.
