by J. A. Baker
29
Before
A terrible smell. It’s everywhere. Can’t escape from it. And still no light. No idea of time either. Head hurts so much. Kept being sick but have stopped now. Vomit in my hair, under my head, over my face. Urine all over me too. And excrement. Piles and piles of shit pouring out of me. On my clothes, my hands, covering my entire body, spreading like poison, filling my nostrils, making me retch even more. A vicious circle of fluids leaking out of my body. Soon there will nothing left of me. Just a dried-up corpse slowly rotting into the ground. Worm fodder.
Thought I saw somebody earlier. A person standing over me, smiling. Just a vague outline. Couldn’t make out their face. I tried but my head hurt too much and my eyes were gritty. Then they disappeared. Think it might have been a dream. Can’t be sure.
Keep thinking they will find me; somebody will open a door and get me out. But deep down I know it’s not going to happen. I’m going to die here. Sometimes I wake up and wonder if it’s actually happened and I’m already dead. So dark and dingy here, it’s hard to tell. Perhaps I am. I see things. Didn’t see anything when I first woke up here but now I see lots of things. People, events, my memories played out in front of me like a show. I hear stuff too. Voices whispering, calling my name, drifting around me like ghosts. I’m not scared. Not of the ghosts and not of dying. Can’t be any worse than this, can it? A black, cold, lonely hole filled with a vile stench. If there is a hell, I’m already in it.
My eyes close. A wave of pain hitting me. A burning, throbbing arrow of pain shooting up my back and circling round my head, almost splitting it in two.
A cough, then more vomit spilling out of me, a sea of bile and acid, swilling round my mouth, threatening to choke me. I turn my head to one side and let it flow. I no longer care. Too exhausted, too thirsty, too much pain.
One good thing though. I’m starting to remember. Not all of it. Just bits, fragments, floating around like tiny pieces of a jigsaw all meshing together in my head. Had been at Dad’s house then went home. Messaged Rachel. Always worrying about me living on my own. Silly sister.
Stinging eyes, more tears.
Lovely, silly Rachel.
I try to remember some more but am so tired. Need to sleep. Try to stop my eyes closing but they’re heavy.
So very, very heavy.
A face appears in my mind before I disappear into the darkness of my own head. I think about it as I fight to keep my eyes open.
Then it happens. It crashes into my brain like a clap of thunder. I can remember it all. It comes to me in a flash, everything that happened. But why now? Maybe I’m going to die and it’s all an illusion. I squint and cough out the remainder of the bile from the back of my throat. It burns as it travels up, stripping what little skin I have left from the back of my gullet. But it doesn’t matter because this is real. I know it is. It’s definitely real. I want to laugh, cry, scream out loud, but am too tired to move.
Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the part where I go to sleep and I don’t wake up. Perhaps that’s why my memory has allowed me to see who it was that did this to me, given me the identity of the person who put me here in this godforsaken hole. A person I thought cared about me. Someone I loved, who I thought loved me too, has put me in this hideous place to die.
More tears come, streaming uncontrollably with a mixture of snot and vomit. I thought they cared. I really thought they loved me. How could they do this to me? How could they?
‘What are you doing here?’
‘What do you mean, what am I doing here? I’ve come to see you, obviously.’
A long pause, deep breathing, the sound of the wind howling in the background.
‘You shouldn’t be here. What if somebody sees you?’
‘Well then, perhaps you should ask me in.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know fine well why not. Now please leave.’
‘I got a taxi here. They’ve just left a few minutes ago. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon …’
An enigmatic smile, a hand leaning on the door, a foot on the step, moving closer. Two bodies almost touching. Heat pulsating through the fabric of their clothes.
‘Go away. You need to leave here. NOW.’
A voice echoing around the countryside, slicing through the sound of gulls overhead as they circle, swooping and diving, scavenging for scraps of food.
‘I’ve just told you, I’m not going anywhere. I have no transport. What are you going to do, force me?’
‘If I have to, then yes, I will force you to leave.’
‘Go ahead, then. Force me. You know you won’t do that. We both know you won’t do it.’
Eyes searching for an answer, scrutinising every movement, looking to see if they mean what they say.
‘What is it you want from me?’
‘Just you. That’s all I want. Only you.’
A roll of the eyes, deep scornful laughter.
‘No, you don’t. You just don’t like being told you can’t have what you want.’
‘That’s not true. We’re meant to be together, you and I. You know it and I know it. You’re just too stubborn to admit it, that’s all.’
‘You don’t know me at all, do you? I’ve told you before, I’m married and that’s that.’
‘Not happily though, are you?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Dark eyes staring, provoking, edging closer to the truth.
‘Exactly what I said. You’re not happily married, are you?’
‘Go away. Get off my doorstep.’
‘See? It’s true. You can’t deny it, can you?’
‘Leave here right now.’
A hand reaching out, then slapped away. Smiling. Caustic laughter.
‘Tell me you have a happy marriage and I will walk away from here and you will never see me again.’
A long pause, quick movements, a door being closed. A foot jammed in to keep it open.
‘SAY IT!’
‘Why are you doing this?’
A deep sigh. A flood of salty tears, running, spilling onto the floor beneath their feet.
‘Because I love you. I can’t live without you.’
‘Try …’
‘No. I don’t want to. You need me, you need to admit that. Walk away from this marriage. Stay with me. Please …’
30
Audrey
She gathers the papers up and tucks them tightly under her arm. She is going to sift through them all, put them in order and get everything straight in her mind. Dates, times; she needs to be sure of them all before she calls the number on the news page. The police are involved now. Not before time. Why would they think a few garbled text messages are a reliable indicator of whether somebody has taken themselves off or whether they have been taken against their will? What about bank accounts and other ways of checking on someone’s movements? Mobile phones for instance? Isn’t there some way of tracking them? Triangulation, they call it. She’s looked it up, done some research into it. The police have been pretty shambolic throughout, really, relying on family and social media to find a missing person when they should have been out there themselves trying to find her, banging on doors and questioning people. Audrey knew all along that something sinister was going on. Pity nobody else did.
The first time she followed him, he actually met up with her, this Sheryl. The very first time! Just goes to show how long it had been going on for. They probably met all the time, walked around town as if nothing was wrong, then checked into a seedy little hotel somewhere and spent the afternoon having sex, pawing each other’s bodies. Disgusting. She did see them slide through a door on a side street in town. She waited. Hung about outside, ready to confront him but was questioned by a neighbour as to why she was standing there, so Audrey left. Lost her nerve and went home.
She doesn’t blame Sheryl. He was the married one - is the married one. He should have known better
. She was probably taken in by his good looks and charisma. Because there’s no denying he’s a handsome man and, from what she remembers, quite the charmer too. As her mother used to say, certain people can charm the birds out of the trees. Alec is one of those people. A way of hiding his sins. Tuck them away behind a smile.
Audrey heads off to bed, wondering if people are aware just how easy it is to track their movements and pry into their lives using social media? It’s been a real eye opener going on there, seeing just how much some of these young people are prepared to reveal of themselves online. Quite literally in some cases. Photographs of young, scantily clad women pouting at the camera like porn stars. And then there are those who flirt outrageously with their comments, making suggestive remarks, using those silly faces. Emoticons they’re called apparently. Ridiculous things. They make grown people look like children.
Audrey flicks the light off and wonders what future generations will make of this method of communication. Will they, too, think it immature? or will it all actually continue on in the same vein and spiral out of control completely with people using it to convey all kinds of warped messages to each other? She read an article recently about teenagers sending naked images of themselves; snapping away on their phones and handing them over to anyone and everyone who will accept them. They are then bandied about all over the internet, reaching thousands of people worldwide, if not millions. Shameful stuff. It’s as if the world has gone mad. Nothing left to the imagination anymore, no secrets, nothing left to hide.
Placing the pile of papers down on the bed, Audrey sighs and bites the insides of her mouth. She’s forgotten her drink. It’s in the kitchen, next to the cooker, where she left it. A small one before bedtime won’t hurt her, will it? Just a wee nightcap to make sure she gets off to sleep properly. It’s not as if she has to be up in the morning. No job to go to, no family to care for. Just her, here in this place on her own …
She pads through to the kitchen, exhaustion beginning to swamp her. It’s the computer that causes it, staring at the screen for hours at a time, trying to fathom out how all of it works, getting to grips with the bloody printer which insists on jamming up every third sheet of paper, trying to stop everything on the screen from disappearing for no apparent reason. She hates computers and tried to steer clear of them at work as best she could, so her skills aren’t as sharp as they should be, but she’ll get there. She’ll make sure of it. She needs to be on the ball, get her facts straight, get all this paperwork in order so she can nail that psychopath; get him away from her daughter. Set her free.
It’s unusually warm in the kitchen as Audrey searches around for her crystal tumbler. She could have sworn she left it next to the oven. Obviously not. Her hand sweeps over the clutter on the kitchen surface. A little bit of tidying up before going to bed wouldn’t have gone amiss but tiredness got the better of her. No matter; she has all day tomorrow to sort it. All day, every day, actually, so there’s no rush, no need to keep it pristine. Nobody but her here to see it. She shoves a handful of envelopes to one side - only bills and receipts anyway - and pushes them out of her way. Underneath the mass of paper sits her glass, still full. Audrey smiles and picks it up, taking a sip as she heads back through to the bedroom. She can drink it while she reads in bed. Perfect.
She pads back through to the bedroom. It’s at times like this she doesn’t mind being on her own so much. As long as she keeps herself occupied, has a project on the go, she can manage, stop the misery descending and obliterating everything.
Pulling her clothes off, she slips into her nightgown and climbs between the sheets, holding the glass up over her head as she wriggles down and gets comfortable. She smiles at the decadence of it all and takes a good long swig of the whiskey, enjoying its deep, fiery tang. It travels down her gullet and lands in her stomach with a punch. That’s the bit she really likes - the afterkick. It gives her a real buzz. Makes her want more of it. She stares at the glass. This is the last of her single malt. She needs to enjoy it while it lasts. Tipping her head back, Audrey closes her eyes just for a second, and slowly drains the remainder of the drink.
....................................................................................................................................................
The smell takes her breath away, attacking her nostrils and the back of her throat. She wakes up gagging for breath, her mouth dry and as hot as hell, her chest burning. She sits upright, spluttering and coughing and tries to look around the room. Something isn’t right. Her eyes are stinging and she feels as if she can’t breathe properly. Tugging at the covers, Audrey leans over and tries to switch the lamp on. Letting out a shriek, she pulls her hand back and waves it about wildly, pain coursing through her palm and over her fingertips. What the hell is going on? Scrambling around for her slippers, she stands up and then is somehow pushed back onto the bed. A wave of something hot and tight hits her in the face. A blanket of acrid smoke billowing in from the passageway trails its way through the room, rapidly obscuring her vision, filling her lungs and making it impossible to breathe properly. Audrey forces herself up again and then, fighting through the blackness, is able to stagger over to the door only to be beaten back by a burning wall of flames that is ferociously licking its way towards the bedroom. On instinct, she slams the door shut and falls back on the bed, tears streaming. She tries to scream but ends up coughing so hard she feels as if her throat is about to close up. It’s impossible; she can barely breathe. Everything is too dark and so hot. So very, very hot and her throat is raw.
How is this happening? Has somebody done this on purpose? Images fill her head - did she leave the fire turned on? No, she checked, she’s sure of it. Has somebody been in her house? Oh, sweet Jesus! Who would do this? Kids? Surely not. This isn’t the most salubrious of areas but neither is it what can be classed as particularly common or rough. Another thought punctures her brain, a possibility for this horror she’s being subjected to. No. Please, no. He might have a mean streak but he wouldn’t do something as drastic as this would he? Not to her surely? Has he noticed her following him - is that what this is about? Adrenaline suddenly kicking in, Audrey lunges herself towards the window and whips the curtains back before hammering on the window. She is not going to sit here and let the flames engulf her. She needs to get out. The glass is black with soot and her fists burn as she pummels against it relentlessly. Smoke expands in her lungs and she has to stop to catch her breath, sucking in what little oxygen is left in the scorching room.
Gasping and crying, Audrey flaps her hands around. The key. She needs to find the key for the window lock. Dear God, where is the bloody key? Sweeping her hands along the sill, Audrey feels something small and hard under her palm. She grasps at it but loses her grip and cries out as it falls to the floor. Behind her, somewhere in her house, she hears an almighty shattering sound and lets out a small, dry shriek. Falling to her knees, Audrey scrambles about, her nightdress getting caught under her legs. She tumbles forward, a tangle of fabric and limbs, and hits her head against the wall. A searing pain shoots up through her skull stopping her in her tracks. She waits for the pain to ease up and the dizziness to go and then clambers about. No stopping. No time to wait. She has to do this. Gulping madly, her eyes streaming and chest struggling in the dense wall of smoke that is expanding by the second, Audrey taps her fingers around the carpet. She has to find this stupid, bloody key. She has got to get out of here, come hell or high water. A sudden roar from somewhere in the house sends her into a frenzy. She spreads her arms out, sweeping the entire area. What little energy she has left is draining away from her leaving her exhausted and barely able to move. It’s getting closer. She can sense it. And pretty soon it will burst through her door, a barrier of flames, ready to envelop her in its hot, angry clutches.
Audrey sobs weakly, her strength sapped. She dips her head in one last ditch attempt to locate it, her fingers pulling desperately at small tufts of carpet, its stringy fibres already si
nged and beginning to burn. Then suddenly she finds it - a tiny, hot, jagged piece of metal, the object that stands between her and safety. The thing that will save her life. Gasping for air and gulping wildly, Audrey nips it tightly, the nickel plating searing her finger ends. She mustn’t let go. She cannot lose it again. This is her last chance. She can hardly breathe and she is terrified. Heart jumping against her ribcage, she rummages around for the keyhole, her hands trembling and quaking. She has to do this, she has to stay calm but it’s so difficult. Desperation begins to claw at her, muddying her thinking, turning her brain to jelly. Looking down at the tiny piece of metal, Audrey slowly turns the key round and round in her fingers staring at it in confusion. Holding it tightly, she tries to insert the wrong end into the lock. With burning palms, she quickly realises her mistake and removes the key away from it but cannot for the life of her work out how to put it in properly. Its shape is a complete mystery to her. Her head aches and she can’t seem to think straight anymore. She fights the fatigue that threatens to drag her entire body onto the floor and holds the small key aloft, staring at it with gritty, exhausted eyes. Holding it by the flattest, widest part, she places the pointed, serrated edge into the narrow slot of the lock and wants to cry out when it fits perfectly. Turning it slowly, Audrey feels like screaming and hollering and putting her fists through the window when it jams as she attempts to rotate it. Taking what feels like her final breath, she holds the key as tightly as her fingers will allow. She is sure her skin is melting and her lungs are shrivelling up inside of her but she needs to do this otherwise she is going to die, be burnt to a crisp right here in her own home. With rapidly failing dexterity, Audrey clamps her fingers together and, as carefully as she can, twists the key, paying no attention to the heat and the burning metal that doesn’t want to move. She keeps on turning it, ignoring the sticking points, forcing it to shift until at last it slips free and the button depresses. Audrey grabs the handle, oblivious to the heat, and in one frantic, clumsy manoeuvre, pushes the window open. An almighty, welcome gust of cold air swoops in, coating her in its iciness, pushing oxygen into her burning, air deprived lungs. She tries to cry out but nothing will come. Her mouth forms into a dry, cracked, desperate O shape as she leans out of the window, her skin feeling as if it is about to drip off her bones like molten metal.
