A flash of red caught her eye. The front door of the house had opened. Standing on the top step in a bright red dress was a young girl. She stared in the direction of the trees, her head swivelling from left to right.
Lowering her phone, Emily ducked behind a large tree trunk. She waited a second then peered out. The girl was too thin, with long black hair and a porcelain complexion. A deep line creased the middle of her forehead. Emily held her breath, not daring to move as the girl descended the steps and began walking towards her. She came closer. Then stopped at the edge of the trees, where she swung her shoulders from side to side and peered into the shadows.
Emily contemplated stepping out from her hiding place. In her limited teaching experience, children always told the truth when it came to matters of importance. Perhaps this girl could tell her about Becky.
Before Emily could move, a loud voice filled the air.
“Delia! What the bloody hell are you doing? Go back inside the house at once!”
The girl did not reply. Instead, Emily heard her expel a deep sigh.
Then came footsteps, fast and heavy, crunching through the gravel. “Do not ignore me, Delia! There's enough trouble in this house right now without you causing more. Go inside. Now.”
Tendrils of musty cologne reached through the trees. Emily pressed herself up against the tree trunk.
The girl squealed. Her feet skittered and dragged through the gravel.
Sucking in a deep breath, Emily leaned to the left and peered out. A tall, greying man in an expensive suit was dragging the girl back towards the house, his large hand gripping her spindly arm. She was struggling to keep up, her feet lifting from the ground.
A flash of heat shot through Emily’s veins. Her body pulled towards the girl, desperate to intervene. But she was a trespasser, breaking all kinds of privacy laws.
Instead, she took out her phone and snapped pictures of the man as he ascended the stone steps with the girl dangling from his hand. As well as finding Becky, the police could now investigate a case of physical abuse.
The man and the girl had reached the top step. Somebody else was coming out of the house. Emily stared, her eyes growing wide with recognition.
“Bill Creed,” she whispered, then watched as her lecturer stooped to pat the girl on the head and plant a kiss on her forehead. The girl ran inside, pausing in the doorway to shoot an angry glare at the men.
Emily's heart raced. The men were talking now. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their body language spoke volumes. The man leaned over Bill, one hand balled into a fist at his side, the other stabbing a finger at the house. Bill stood facing him, with crossed arms and taut shoulders. He nodded, turned to look at the house, then back at the man.
What was Bill doing here? Not so long ago he had sat behind his desk and told Emily he hadn't seen Becky in weeks.
Something was wrong. She could feel it in the pit of her stomach, crawling like insects. Lifting her phone again, she took pictures of the two men. They shook hands, then Bill turned and headed down the steps towards the hatchback.
Transfixed, Emily watched as he climbed in and started the engine. The man in the suit raised a hand. Bill manoeuvred the car onto the gravel road. It was then that Emily remembered Angela was still waiting outside.
Springing to life, she ducked into the trees. Bill drove by, anger twisting his face. He was going to make it to the gates before Emily could reach the wall.
Finding Angela’s number, she pressed the phone to her ear.
“Emily? What the hell? What do you think you’re –”
“I don't have time to explain but you need to drive. Get out of there. Now.”
“What are you talking –”
“Now, Angela! I'll call you back in five minutes. And for your sake you better come get me!”
Emily hung up. Moments later, a car raced by on the other side of the wall. Then a second vehicle drove by.
Emily glanced back at the house, then headed towards the wall.
Bill Creed.
What was going on?
9
BECKY HAD BEEN hobbling forward in what she thought was a straight line for over a minute, her damaged arm swinging limply by her side. But even if she’d been crawling on her hands and knees, surely she should have reached a wall by now.
She was still waiting for her eyes to adjust to the shadows, but all they saw was unending, tomblike darkness. She had used the lighter a few times, its weak flame revealing only more concrete, before the heat had burned her fingers and blistered her skin.
Wherever she was, it was huge.
Becky stopped for a moment, pain and nausea threatening to topple her. Then she was on the move again, one foot sort of in front of the other, her injured ankle complaining bitterly.
She was beginning to lose hope. To believe that she was dead and stuck in an infinite chasm of purgatory. But then her stomach bumped up against something solid. Startled by the impact, she screamed and stumbled back, sending more pain shooting up her leg.
Once she had calmed herself, she reached out with her good hand. Corrugated metal chilled her fingertips.
Pulling the lighter from her pocket, she pressed down on the spark wheel and a flame ignited.
She was staring at a kitchen sink. It was old and rusty. Clumps of mould grew in the basin. Confused, Becky moved the lighter from left to right as she looked around. She saw a dilapidated chest freezer, a broken chair, a refrigerator lying on its back with its door torn off.
Becky turned ninety degrees. By some sort of miracle, she had passed straight through an open doorway into what had once been a kitchen.
What was this place?
She was starting to suspect she was somewhere underground. A place with no windows to let in light.
Her gaze returned to the sink, and she ran her shrivelled tongue over parched lips. Slipping the lighter inside her back pocket, she was plunged into darkness once more. She reached out and felt around the sink. Her fingers found the taps. She tried the left but it refused to budge. She tried the right, clenching her teeth as she twisted the handle. Hope caught in Becky’s throat as she waited for the sweet sound of water splashing on steel.
But there was only silence.
She waved her fingers beneath the tap’s spout.
Nothing.
She was going to die.
Whether it was her injuries or the dehydration that got to her first; she was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it.
A scream climbed her throat. She clenched her teeth and swallowed it back down. Because she knew that if she screamed now, she would not be able to stop.
But there was so much she had left to do! Like travel the world and not make an entire mess of her life. Like...
Becky slumped against the sink. The same memory that had visited her earlier flashed in her mind again. A raised hand clutching a crowbar. The crowbar slicing through the light.
Someone had tried to kill her.
But who?
Her eyes searched the darkness for answers. Another image flashed before her. It was night. She was walking across deserted wasteland, to a car parked in the shadows. Someone was standing by the car, waiting for her...
The image disappeared. Becky gripped the sink with her good hand.
You have to remember.
Someone had brought her here and left her to die in this underground prison. That meant there was a way in. And a way out.
All she had to do was find it.
“Okay,” Becky breathed into the darkness.
Retrieving the lighter, she sparked it up and glanced longingly at the rusted sink. Then she examined the rest of the room again.
Something caught her eye. A poster on the wall. She hobbled over to it, fresh pain making her nauseous. Words swam into focus as she leaned in closer: In Case Of Emergency.
Below the words was a diagram of her prison. It was a strange design: a large circular chamber with six equally
placed corridors running off it like spokes of a wheel. At the end of each corridor was another small room. Each room had a label. Kitchen. Bathroom. Sleeping Quarters. Storage Room...
Becky stared at the diagram, trying to make sense of it all.
And then she saw it. Her way out.
The main entrance was situated to the right of the kitchen. The kitchen in which she now stood. There was an emergency escape ladder too; in the north-east section of the central chamber, three corridors away.
The smell of burning flesh tore Becky from her thoughts. Wincing, she dropped the lighter and sucked her blistering thumb. Darkness wrapped around her once more. But this time, terror did not hold her in such a tight grip.
She had found a way out. The main entrance was just a short distance away. If it was impenetrable, she could try for the ladder. There was the question of how she would climb the ladder with a broken hand and a mangled foot, but she would answer it when the time came.
Using the wall as leverage, she slid down into a crouch, wiped away phantom tears of pain, and fumbled around. A minute later, the lighter was back in her hand. But now the pain in her ankle was considerably worse. She concentrated on the throb, willing it to grow numb. If she was going to escape, she needed both feet on the ground, moving forward.
Pushing herself back up the wall, Becky sparked the lighter. A small flame ignited then died. She sparked the lighter again, bursting the blister on her thumb.
Terror clambered up her body as the flame refused to ignite.
Lie down, the darkness whispered. Sleep. Dream. Let it all float away.
The voice was soothing. It made her want to close her eyes.
But she couldn’t. To do so would mean to die.
Burning the image of the map into her mind, Becky sucked in a ragged breath. Letting it out, she pressed her shoulder gently against the wall and limped forward.
10
FRIDAY MORNING BROUGHT warm showers and a blue-grey sky. Emily woke at six-thirty. Tired and irritated, she set about marking classwork. But memories from last night kept taunting her. After leaving Beaumont House, Angela had driven Emily to the local police station and then told her not to contact her again until the finals were over. Only then might she consider rekindling their friendship.
PC Andrews had sat and listened to Emily as she told him of her encounter with Damien Harris. When she’d shown him the photographs taken at Beaumont House, the officer’s face had flushed red.
“Getting into the car of an alleged drug dealer – one who’s possibly connected to the disappearance of a young woman – was not only dangerous but incredibly naïve,” he told her. “As for trespassing on private property and taking candid photographs without the subjects’ knowledge... You need to leave the detective work to the police, Emily. You’re putting yourself and the investigation at risk.”
“Well, I don’t see much of an investigation going on,” she responded. “And in case you haven’t realised Becky’s been missing for more than three days.”
Now, as she rode the bus to High Mount Secondary School, Emily’s frustration sank deep into her bones. What did Bill Creed have to do with any of this? And who was the man from Beaumont House?
All Emily could do now was get on with her day and hope that PC Andrews would get in touch soon.
She stared out the window, watching the morning traffic and stifling a yawn. She was running on four hours’ sleep with a full day of teaching ahead. In just over two weeks, her studies would be over. As long as she passed the final exams, she would be a qualified teacher. Principal Talbot’s job offer still loomed over her like a dark cloud. She would need to decide very soon.
But not today.
As if Emily’s mother had a window into her thoughts, a text message appeared on her phone screen.
Where are you? I’m going out of my mind! Why aren’t you answering your phone? Please call and tell me you’re all right.
A headache brewing, Emily slipped the phone back inside her pocket. Her mother had called five times last night and three this morning. Why couldn’t she behave normally for just one day?
Heaving her shoulders, she pulled out her phone again and tapped out a reply: Sorry. I’ve been studying. Not dying in a ditch somewhere.
She regretted the joke instantly as images of Becky doing exactly that flashed in her head. She tapped out another text, promising to call on her lunch hour.
No sooner had she sent it her phone began to ring.
Emily groaned. “Not now, Mother.”
But it wasn’t her mother calling.
“Good morning Ms Swanson, this is Evelyn Peters. Vice Chancellor Eriksson's personal assistant. The Vice Chancellor would like to see you as a matter of some urgency. Could you come in this afternoon at four-thirty?”
“What's this about?” Anxiety fluttered in Emily's stomach. She'd never spoken to Vice Chancellor Eriksson before, and judging by Evelyn Peters' stern tone this wasn't to be a social visit.
“I wouldn’t have the faintest idea,” the PA said. “Should I tell him to expect you?”
Emily hesitated. Had PC Andrews already been in touch with Bill Creed? Surely, he hadn’t had the time. Her stomach tumbled and flipped.
It had to be about Becky.
Was Vice Chancellor Eriksson about to deliver bad news?
“I'll be there,” Emily croaked, her voice barely a whisper.
“I’ll let the Vice Chancellor know.”
Evelyn Peters hung up, leaving Emily staring out the bus window, a hundred terrible thoughts racing through her mind.
Please, no, she thought.
11
SHE HAD MADE it out of the kitchen. According to the map, the main entrance to this strange underground building was coming up on her left. Becky pushed forward, refusing to stop, even though the pain in her ankle was becoming unbearable.
Suddenly the wall vanished, leaving her sliding through thin air. Becky screamed. Her shoulder slammed into metal with a dull thud. She spun a half-turn. Her leg shot out. Her good foot planted on the ground. At the same time, the fingers of her uninjured hand curled around metal bars and held on tight.
Somehow, she had stopped herself from falling.
Gasping for air, she hoisted herself up and pressed her face against icy metal. Her fingers were wrapped around some sort of wheel.
Fresh adrenaline pumped through her veins. She had reached the main entrance. Her way out.
The wheel in her hands had to be the opening mechanism, just like the ones found on ship doors. All she had to do now was get it open.
Then what?
She had no idea what lay on the other side. What if she found herself miles from help? She had been down here for — hours, a day, two days? — drifting in and out of consciousness. She was severely injured and dehydrated. What if rescue wasn’t waiting on the other side of that door?
With nothing to eat she could survive for a few weeks, so long as she had water. But without water ... four, maybe five days. But the injuries her body had sustained – she didn’t need to be a doctor to know that all she had was a day, maybe two at the most.
Clenching her jaw, Becky gripped the door wheel. Pain wracked her body. Above her ragged breathing, she thought she heard a voice calling her name. She stopped and listened. But the voice didn’t come again.
Tightening her grip, she tried to turn the wheel. It wouldn’t budge. She rested for a minute then tried again, this time using more force. The wheel shifted an inch to the left.
But then, no matter how much force she applied, it would not turn any further.
Becky clung to the wheel as if it were hope. She was too weak. Too exhausted. One good hand was not enough. Slumping against the door, she let her fingers slip from the wheel. Despair washed over her.
Her knees trembled. If she was going to give up, now was the time. All she had to do was sit down and wait for madness or dehydration to finish her off. It would be easy; let her feet go, let her back slide down
the door. She could close her eyes and succumb to the whispers that were growing louder in her ear with each passing minute.
Sit down and wait to die.
Or hang onto a remaining thread of hope.
Because there was one last thread to grasp before she gave up. The emergency escape ladder.
The idea of it made her laugh out loud. The laughter made her throat burn. She pictured herself attempting to climb a ladder in pitch blackness with a broken hand and a busted ankle, nausea assaulting her in dizzying waves.
And that was if she didn’t lose her mind first. She was already hearing things – like that relentless dripping sound. There was no way it was real.
Becky cocked her head and listened. It was certainly doing a good impression of sounding real; repeating itself, over and over, from somewhere in the darkness of the chamber.
It was unmistakable: the sound of water splashing on metal.
Her parched organs contracted with yearning. Had the sound always been there? Why was she only noticing it now?
“Because you’re imagining it,” she croaked.
The emergency escape ladder was real. Three corridors to the left of the kitchen. Or was it two? All she had to do was retrace her steps and count the corridors as she felt her way along the wall.
She didn’t hold out much hope that she could climb the damn thing. But she had to try. Even if it was the last thing she did.
Becky laughed again, sounding dangerously close to insane.
Pushing away from the door, she hovered for a second, swaying back and forth.
Three corridors.
Or was it two?
Dragging one foot in front of the other, Becky headed back towards the kitchen, the fingers of her good hand brushing against the wall.
12
“YOU CAN GO in now. They're waiting for you.”
Blood rushed in Emily’s ears.
She had been sitting in the small waiting area outside Vice Chancellor’s office for ten minutes, nervously drumming her fingers on her knees while Evelyn Peters, had sat behind her tidy desk. Now Emily stared at her.
Wish Me Dead Page 4
