by Max China
It was a long time before he went back. At first he’d missed Mary, but his mother always came through, reminding him, ‘Mary never really liked you, anyway.’
There had been only two female loves in his life at that time. His mother and Mary.
Unnatural love, but that, again, was his father’s fault.
The sound of teeth clacking together twice snapped his attention back.
Did I just do that? His father used to do that. Oh, no, you don’t! He shook his head. I got rid of you years ago.
Did you, Son, did you? The apple don’t fall far from the tree.
He bunched his fist and shook it at the empty air. His left forefinger had dutifully held his place in the book. Not fuckin' true. You’d never have learned to read ... I’m nothing like you.
From the shadows a voice, filled with loathing, breathed, ‘No, you’re not. You’re worse.’
As if in defiance, he leered, closed the book, sniffed its edges again, and then ran his tongue all the way around it.
The lumpy pillow folded in half, he lifted the hat from his head, placed it over his face and fell asleep with the taste of her in his mouth.
Chapter 5
Boyle is known to have kidnapped at least three women, including two sisters. One of them, Kathy ... he kept like an animal for twenty-three years before she was rescued. Her ordeal at his hands left her mentally and physically scarred. He’d cut through her top lip with scissors, and then stitched it roughly together again, so it looked like she had his mother's mouth. That’s one sick individual.
Anonymous police source
Determined not to get caught in the noonday sun again, Carla rose early, showered and leisurely caressed her skin in the lukewarm water. Washing her hair, she watched the trail of lather run between her breasts and down over her abdomen, and bubble in the places it gathered below the vertical line of her tattoo. Tracing the tiny letters with her fingertip, she thought briefly about Miller, and then leaned back, savouring the coolness of the tiled surface. A moment later, she shrugged herself upright and, pirouetting slowly, rinsed herself beneath the jets before stepping out.
After dressing, she admired her look in the mirror. She wondered whether she revealed too much of her shape in her skinny jeans. A plain white cotton top chosen, she let it drape to cover part of her backside. Satisfied, she collected her bag and keys, and unplugged her phone from its charger. Damn! Still flat. She wiggled the lead, and then the phone chimed as power began flowing into it. Should she wait? No. She’d come back for it in a couple of hours.
Early-morning bustling sounds assailed her senses, stimulating a strange sort of excitement. Vibrant colours drew her gaze. Discarding the ceramics, hangings and rugs, she tried focusing on other items of interest – leather goods of every size and shape abundantly displayed, piled high, as was everything else, it seemed, in an effort to draw customers’ attention. And drums, every kind of drum. Finger drums and tom-toms. How do they make a living from them when there’s so much competition? With every available nook and cranny filled with goods, stalls displaying items of clothing drew her eyes.
As she wandered towards them she caught the heady aroma of the local kif and the scent triggered recognition, inducing a memory high. She grinned to herself, finally becoming at ease, and sauntered, browsing in search of something different to wear, to take home with her. Tomorrow, she’d pack and take the bus to Marrakech.
It occurred to her to ask Mohammed, if she saw him in time, how much his father would want to take her. Four hours of Babylon, as she’d affectionately nicknamed him: she didn’t think she could take it.
Sudden awareness led her thinking to shift; something had caught her attention and registered. Ahead, a man walked with a familiar gait, stirring subconscious memories as she stared at his back. He was heavily built, and from his yellow hair she guessed he was a German tourist. The robe he wore stopped halfway down his calves. Absently looking down at his feet, she noticed he was wearing cowboy boots, and fanning himself with a leather hat. He turned.
It’s him! The shock threw her out of gear, but instinct propelled her away. Imagining he might have her fixed in his sights, she tensed and thought quickly. A few yards ahead, a stall was selling traditional garb, burqas and headscarves. She spotted a turquoise range, selected a half-niqab and tied it quickly while the stallholder fussed over her, getting it right, amazed when she didn’t attempt any bartering.
Without looking back, she headed towards the top of the market while he appeared to be engrossed in jars of herbs crudely labelled as Viagra. Jesus, even if that stuff doesn’t work, if he thinks it does ... She shuddered at the thought. Turning into a road at the outer limit of the market, away from the crowds, she sought to double back on herself around the outskirts. After passing a series of foul-smelling bins, she found herself in a dead end.
The heat behind the veil was almost unbearable and she pulled on it in a bellows action to cool her face. Tempted to remove it, she retraced her footsteps and turned back around the corner to find another way out. Shit!
Boyle was clomping up the street in her direction, no more than twenty feet away. With evasion impossible, she took a deep breath and coolly walked past him, staring straight ahead. Once she’d passed him, the urge to run was irresistible and she fought to contain it. A few more paces and I’ll turn into another street … keep calm, Carla ... She realized that in her initial haste to find her way out she’d overshot the street that would take her to safety. Just another few paces ...
Behind her, Boyle sniffed the air and turned. Clearly visible through the crowd, he made out her tall and slender form. It’s her!
Unsteadily, in boots he’d not quite grown accustomed to, he quickened his pace, barging through the crowd, trying not to lose sight of her.
She turned the corner unaware that, behind her, he had broken into a run.
Immediately she was off the main thoroughfare, she ran. The street ahead was crowded with people, mostly tourists still arriving for the market. Rattling scooters and whining mopeds added to the din and muddled her thoughts. The main road must be near.
She slowed and glanced over her shoulder. Boyle hurtled around the corner, feet scrambling for purchase as he took it in a wide arc, narrowly avoiding collision with a group of elderly locals who’d stopped to talk. Jesus, he’s coming fast. Oh, great, now he’s seen me!
Adrenaline injected urgent pace into her limbs. She took flight. Everything zoned out from her mind; survival mode zeroed in to only what was necessary for escape, and yet she heard the slap-slap-slap of her feet and the heavy pounding of his boots. She realized, comparing the cadence, that she needed to go faster. Her thighs burned, complaining at the unexpected effort placed on them. At the gym at least I get to warm up. Why didn’t I take my shoes off? Dodging in and out of the crowds, she chanced another look behind. He’d closed the gap between them to ten yards. Turning her head forward again she almost collided with a tourist who’d stopped abruptly to look at his guide map. Quickly sidestepping, and then launching into a sprint, her legs jellified. I can’t keep this up. She felt the heat of Boyle’s gaze boring into her shoulder blades. Scanning the street ahead for an escape route, she realized there was nowhere to go. He would catch her in seconds. A door opened to the left. Sounds, cacophonous in her head, blended with the thump of her pounding heart. Legs gone, she attempted to divert into the inviting aperture. The high drone of an engine screamed into her consciousness. A moped screeched its brakes. She was about to be run over.
At the last moment it swerved, tyres squealing, missing her by inches.
‘Quickly, lady, jump on!’
Mohammed! A last burst of strength powered her limbs, and she leaped onto the seat as the boy shot forwards. Boyle’s hand raked her back, grabbing a handful of her blouse as the bike accelerated, groaning under the weight of two passengers. The momentum and the killer’s grip on her clothing forced her backwards. Leaning precariously, at the point of tipping off, she
grabbed Mohammed’s waist, her blouse ripping from her back as they took off, weaving precariously between shocked pedestrians.
The last thing she saw as she anxiously checked behind was Boyle left holding the remnants of her blouse in his hand. Scowling at onlookers, he crumpled the blouse into a ball, and shoved it down the front of his jeans before disappearing from view.
Chapter 6
A familiar and persistent discomfort every time Boyle’s right foot went down confirmed his self-diagnosis; he didn’t even have to look. She’s given you a blister. He grinned. When I catch hold of you, I’ll give you a blister you’ll not forget in a hurry.
After locating his vehicle in the packed car park, he opened the door. A scorching burst of heat blasted out. Before taking his seat, he quickly wound the windows down and then started the engine.
The queue to the exit crawled. The slow movement, generating no welcome circulation of air, did little to dissipate the sweltering heat although, as he turned, a sea breeze wafted in bringing with it a slight drop in temperature. Tempted to cut through the wrong way, he nudged the truck out to begin the manoeuvre, but noticed a policeman observing him closely. It was the one from the shop. Recognizing him, he raised a hand to Boyle who responded with a clenched fist and as broad a fake smile as he could muster. The officer approached. Suddenly the blouse tucked down the front of his jeans felt as large as a bed sheet.
‘Bonne journée. Comment êtes-vous, Monsieur pugiliste?’
Still grinning, Boyle waved his hand in front of his face and coughed deeply, aggravating his throat into a genuine and prolonged hacking. Eyes watering, he whispered hoarsely, pointing to his throat. ‘Je n'ai pas de voix ...’
A gap opened in the queue. The officer stepped back a pace, clearly not wishing to catch his ailment, and waved him on.
Fifteen minutes. He hadn’t a prayer of finding them on the streets and resolved to go back to his room.
On the way, he speculated on where she might be staying. It would be a good hotel, he decided. Possibly one with a sea view. He assessed the possibilities. That’s it. That’s where she’ll be. And who was that little shit on the scooter?
Turning the vehicle round, he headed for the hotel he had in mind.
‘Nearly, we are here,’ Mohammed, voice barely audible above the rattling engine, called back.
He hadn’t stopped babbling on and turning around to look at her since he’d assisted with her escape.
‘No worry, lady, at mine house I have new clothes for you.’ He paused. ‘They are my mother’s. But she doesn’t mind if you take ...’
Fortunately, the front and sleeves of the blouse remained. However, she was acutely aware of the need to cover up at the first opportunity. Her mind raced ahead. She hadn’t expected to encounter Boyle. It changed everything. He’d have come after her anyway, once he’d got so far through her book. One thing puzzled her. He seemed to know I’d be there. Frowning, unable to find an immediate answer, she realized Mohammed had steered through a series of narrowing streets, the engine’s urgent labours sounding less frenetic, but doubled in echoing volume by the claustrophobic closeness of the high enclosing walls.
He pulled in beside a shabbily maintained white wall and directed her to a faded and flaking painted blue door, one of the many set into the walls either side of them.
‘Welcome to mine house,’ he said, opening the door and, with a nod of the head, indicating that she should enter.
‘Mohammed, I didn’t get the chance to say – I’m glad to see you – but tell me, how did you know it was me under that veil?’
He grinned vaguely and shrugged bashfully. ‘You ask me to look out for you ...’
‘But you were nowhere near ...’
‘My friends, they follow, see what happens with the man and phone me – “Come quickly!” So I come.’
Following him in through the lobby, she realized it was an apartment and not a house. They passed a communal staircase. Mohammed led her to a dimly lit corner behind it and unlocked the door.
Inside, a long passageway led through to the kitchen.
‘Where is your mother, Mohammed?’
‘I have no mother. She is died.’ He shrugged and looked at the floor. ‘Now, in the day, it is only me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Her gaze took in the sparse surroundings. The only non-essential items were pictures of his family. ‘Where are your brothers and sisters?’
‘They are in school.’ Following her gaze to the photographs, he said, ‘No look. Now come, first you tell me ... who is that man? Then we find you dress.’
‘I can’t tell you much. You helped me put those posters up ... I’ve written a book about him, and he doesn’t like me.’ She paused and said gently, ‘I don’t want to put you in any danger; your family needs you. All I need is something else to wear, and then I’ll get a taxi ... your father ... do you think he could take me to the airport?’
‘He is there, now, in Marrakech. When he come back, of course he take you.’
‘Marrakech? When will he be back?’
‘Maybe four, maybe five hours.’
‘I can’t wait that long. I’ll find someone else.’
Disappointment crossed his face; then his eyes lit up. ‘No, lady. I will take you. Airport is ten minutes from here.’
‘Shit!’ she exclaimed.
‘What is ... shit?’
‘I can leave my clothes …’ she said, ‘but my passport, and phone … I have to go back to the hotel for those.’
‘Lady,’ he said, sternly. ‘This is job for Mohammed.’
‘I know you’d like to help, but I can’t let you do that.’
‘You have key to hotel room?’
‘You’re not going.’
‘Wait, one moment.’ He disappeared from the room. On his return, he carried an assortment of robes and sandals. ‘This for you. Mother was slim, not high like you, but it is better than you have ...’ Casting his eyes over her torn blouse, he jerked his head at her. ‘And your jeans,’ he said, tongue playing across his lips. ‘You must take off, or too much hot with this djebella.’ He offered it to her from the top of the pile.
Does he really think ... She shook her head slowly, examining his gawky frame and then said with humour, ‘Nice try … How old are you?’
‘No matter ...’ He grinned and straightened himself with pride. ‘I am a man.’
Lifting the plain blue hooded garment, she resisted the urge to crinkle her nose at the staleness of it. ‘I have a feeling this might come in useful.’
‘This from when Mother is a young woman, we never throw. When Jamilla is big, she will wear.’ He looked at her feet. ‘And this ... Take these.’ He shoved a pair of sandals at her.
She removed her footwear. The boy tutted at her painted nails. ‘This feet, are no good. I have the sock for this. You wear sock.’
‘Not on your life. I know Englishmen have a reputation for wearing socks with sandals, but no way, you’re kidding me.’
‘No way,’ he echoed, not fully understanding. ‘OK, now give key.’
‘Mohammed ...’ she drawled.
‘In ten minutes, I am there. In ten minutes, I am back. What is problem?’ he snorted. ‘Him, he does not know me. Give me key, and I am back before you finish dress up in Mother’s clothes.’
She hesitated, weighing the options, and then placed the key in his hand. ‘Be careful,’ she said, and ruffled his hair. ‘I’ll see you in a few minutes.’
Mohammed sat astride his scooter and punched a series of numbers into his telephone. Engaged. He cursed and started the scooter, keeping the revs down until he cleared the end of his street.
Outside the hotel he again dialled a number, this time connecting. He babbled in a melange of Arabic and French before disconnecting and going to the rear entrance.
A porter appeared, opening the doorway. ‘Quickly,’ he hissed. ‘No one must see you.’
Mohammed followed him in.
‘Which
room is it?’
He showed him the key. ‘Upstairs, top floor. I trust you, do not be seen.’ He exhaled. ‘Get her things, then you go.’ They touched fists.
He took the steps two at a time; the only sounds came from the cleaners in the rooms. At the top, he peered cautiously along the corridor, not unduly worried. He shouldn’t be there, but he knew almost everyone and he was sure if he were accosted he would talk his way out of trouble.
A single cleaner’s trolley occupied a space outside one of the rooms. His heart sank. This is her room. He produced the key as evidence he had a right to be there, inhaled deeply and stepped through the open door into the room.
For a moment he assumed the cleaner was elsewhere. He stole along the passageway, imagining he might get in and out again without the need for an explanation.
The room was cool. Ah, the perfume of the cleaner. No sound, but he smelt her. Stirring senses alerted him to an odd smell mingled with her fragrance.
Stale sweat. Sometimes the cleaners should clean themselves. Fatima, it can only be, but she is quiet.
The bathroom door opened noiselessly behind him as he crept further into the bedroom. Nobody is here. Good. The telephone was plainly visible on the bedside cabinet. A large valise was tucked in a corner. The passport. She say it is on cabinet; maybe she put it in the draw? Paper ruffled underfoot; he looked down.
The image staring back at him from the poster was the man from the market. When they were pasting them up everywhere he hadn’t looked real, but having seen him in the flesh … He shuddered as he stepped clear and immediately pitched forwards and down, driven by the force of a mighty hand pushing his head towards the floor. Fingers dug in hard, seeking purchase around his neck.
Mohammed dipped low and twisted around. Seeing the cleaner sprawled lifeless on the floor in the bathroom, his eye shot a reflex glance between her legs, at her exposed pubic hair. The first part of the man he saw was his scuffed cowboy boots.
