by Dan Malakin
‘Rachel? You awake?’
Her bag! It was in the lounge, near the window. That was okay. She could say she packed it in preparation to go, but felt so bad she had to come back to bed again. That wasn’t terrible. As long as she had her story straight now, not when he asked her about it.
His footsteps padded across the carpet. ‘Rachel?’
Just pretend to be asleep. She’d spent her whole life lying to people. This was one more time, one more performance.
She moaned and eased the duvet down from her face, as if rousing from deep sleep. ‘I must – I must have nodded off,’ she croaked, smacking her mouth like it was parched. ‘You’ve been gone ages.’
‘I’m sorry I took so long,’ he said. ‘I had to grab a few other things.’
His voice was calm, measured, giving nothing away. She wished she could see his expression, but with the only light coming in from the hallway, his face was dark.
‘I shouldn’t have eaten so much,’ she said. ‘I got up to pack, but I felt so dreadful I had to come back to bed.’
‘I’m sorry for how I was acting,’ he replied, although his tone carried no apology. His pitch was flat, a little weary if anything, like a taxi driver asking where to at the end of a twelve-hour shift. ‘I freaked out about Andreas. I really miss him.’
Yeah, right. He sounded like he missed Andreas as much as what? Having his teeth drilled at the dentist? This was all wrong. He was all wrong. No doubt now. He was behind it, and he had her trapped. She needed to buy time to think of a plan.
She made to turn away. ‘You mind if I get a bit more sleep? I’m still not feeling too good.’
‘Why don’t I get you that glass of warm milk?’
‘I’m not sure my stomach’s–’
‘It always settles your stomach. You said so.’
‘I don’t want you running around anymore. I’ll have a sleep, then–’
‘I went to the shops for you. You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?’
She heard the edge in his voice, the threat. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind. Thank – thanks, Spence.’
He turned and left without a word. Did he know that she knew? Clearly he wanted her to drink the milk. What was he going to do? Poison her? But why go to all this trouble, creating a fake life, luring her here, just to end it like that?
From the kitchen came the sucker sound of the fridge door opening. And she’d left her daughter with him for a whole day. She remembered Lily squeezing her cheeks and screaming into her face – the cut! The knife was sharp, she’d even hurt herself with it, but thinking about it again, Lily would’ve had to really grab the blade to cut herself so badly, and how likely was that when she was looking under the sofa for a crayon? Spence must have done it to her and told her not to say anything. She’d learned that in a seminar on how to spot abuse, how the abuser may threaten to kill the child’s parent if they told them the truth. That must have been why Lily was ignoring her outside the hospital. Not because she hated her, but because she was scared for her.
A click then the microwave door slammed shut. It beeped as Spence set the timer. Rachel bit down on her anger, thanking everything holy he hadn’t done anything worse to Lily.
Could she run? Make a break for the front door? Rachel couldn’t imagine he’d locked it again after coming home.
The problem was she felt so drained. It’d taken all she had to move a mostly empty fridge a few inches. Weeks ago, she’d have fancied her chances, but now even lifting herself out of bed would expend most of her remaining energy. There wouldn’t be much of a fight.
No, the best plan was to play along as if nothing had changed. She needed to convince him that she hadn’t seen the news, that she didn’t know the police were looking for them.
Spence came back in the room and made his way to her bed, glass of milk held out as though it were an offering.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking it, hoping he’d go so she could flush it down the toilet. She didn’t trust anything he gave her. She went to put it on the bedside table. ‘I’ll have it in a bit.’
He didn’t move. ‘You should drink it now, before it goes cold.’
She took a sip, and went again to put it down.
‘Now come on,’ he said. ‘You know you need to drink it all to settle your stomach.’
What choice did she have?
Rachel lifted the glass to her lips, and drank.
Chapter Forty
Search
Two in the morning, Mark’s face lit up by the monitors set up in a wide semi-circle on his desk.
Rachel’s dad stopped pacing behind him. ‘Why we looking at these again? What are they going to tell us that we don’t already know?’
‘What else can we do?’ Mark sighed, eyes scanning the rows of text – usernames, sessions times, IP addresses – from the paedo hunter website log files.
‘We can get out there–’
‘And do what? You could knock on every door in the country and still not find her.’
‘Better that than sitting here twiddling our bloody thumbs. My whole life–’
‘You’ve got to check everything. The smallest detail–’
‘I’ve let her down, and now I’m losing her forever.’
‘–could lead us to him.’
‘She’s my daughter, Mark. Imagine it was Lily. Would you sit here staring at a screen?’
Mark swivelled his chair. ‘We’ll find her, I promise.’
‘What if we don’t?’
‘I found out Spence faked his university records, didn’t I? And that Rowena never entered Australia. Right?’
‘Someone must have seen her – or him. I’ll print posters. I won’t stop until the whole of London knows about her.’
‘They might not be in London.’
‘They’re here. I can feel it.’
‘Look, Jim. I know you’re upset–’
‘I can’t do nothing.’
‘I just need more time.’
‘What time, Mark? That copper said the first forty-eight hours–’
‘Why would Spence wheedle his way into her life for the last year just to kill her?’
‘Who knows what that lunatic’s doing to her!’
‘Keep your voice down, will you? Lil’s already been up with nightmares.’
‘I’m sorry, I…’
‘You know I’m doing everything I can.’
‘I know, Mark. I know.’
‘So sit down. There, okay? He’s clever, but everyone makes mistakes. Let’s start again. What have we got that’s not a dead end?’
‘His wages?’
Mark changed tabs on the right-hand screen, bringing up a spreadsheet. ‘The HSBC account, registered to the… Luton address, name Kate Smith on the deeds. Could he make it any more generic?’
‘Should we go over there again?’
‘Police have already got it under surveillance. Besides, it’s a shell. There’s nothing there.’
‘I don’t bloody know.’
‘There’s got to be something in these logs. I know how he did it – I can see where he made the changes to the data. I just need more–’
‘We don’t have time, Mark.’
‘He would’ve connected through an SSL tunnel to a Tor router, but maybe… Who you calling, Jim?’
‘Konrad.’
‘Let him sleep.’
‘He’ll be up.’
‘You need to rest, Jim.’
‘You stay here, carry on doing what you’re doing. We’ll go to the printers. I’m going to get posters made, leaflets.’
‘It’s the middle of the night!’
‘We’re in London. There’ll be somewhere open.’
‘Sit back down, let’s keep going. Jim? Jimmy? Come back!’
Chapter Forty-One
Spence
White. The whole world, white. And in the background, a low mumbling, like someone in prayer.
Was this Heaven?
Rachel
shifted her head and saw a grey pendant light shade. It’s not heaven, you dummy. It’s the ceiling.
A number of things came to her at once – her bladder felt about to burst; her headache was a gloaming migraine of misery; her mouth was as foul and sticky as used flypaper; the low mumbling was coming from a portable television positioned in the corner of the room, tuned to The Food Network; finally, but perhaps most importantly, she’d been drugged by someone who, until that morning, she’d considered to be one of her closest friends.
Spence knew that she knew. But how much? That her disappearance was being investigated? That she wasn’t free to walk out? What did it matter – he’d played his hand. Spiking her milk with knockout drops was pretty much a statement of intent. The statement being, she was fucked.
How long had she been out for? The clock in the corner of the screen said six thirteen. Ten hours! What had he given her? She rolled her shoulders and the numbness evaporated from her body, only to be replaced by a dull energy-draining pain, as though someone had gone at her flesh with a tenderising hammer while she slept. Without doubt her legs would be worse. Bracing herself, she bent them at the knee. At least she tried to. After a few inches, they stopped. She dragged up the duvet and let slip a moan.
Now this was bad.
If she was fucked before, then she was double-fucked now, with a nice cherry of despair on top. A leather cuff, padded with black faux fur, enclosed each ankle, and a chain thick enough to tow a car connected them. Another chain led off that one, going past the bottom of the mattress. Rachel pulled again, watching it go taut. It was attached to the wrought iron bed frame.
Her first reaction was to lose her shit, to scream and plead and offer anything for him to let her go, but a somehow-still-rational fragment of her mind reminded her that she wasn’t dead yet. He wanted something from her. There was hope. Yeah, sure. Wonder what that could be? She felt her crotch, relieved to find no soreness. Another thing, her manacles were padded, which meant that despite knocking her unconscious and chaining her to the bed, her comfort was important to him. He’d even given her a television! So yes, Spence was crazy, probably flay-your-skin-and-wear-it crazy, but he wanted her alive, he hadn’t raped her, and he kind of cared whether she was happy. It wasn’t much, admittedly, but it beat being chopped up and dissolved in a bath of sulphuric acid.
Rachel worked her mouth to get enough saliva to talk. Trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice, she called, ‘Spence? Are you there?’
The remote was on the bedside cabinet, so she switched off the TV. The sudden silence increased her fear, as though the cheery patter of the presenters had stopped her brain from fully realising the true horror of her situation. She called for him again. Nothing. He’d gone. He’d left her here to die. She scrabbled at the cuffs, probing them for weakness, but they were heavy duty, the leather covering a metal core, and locked with a key. She went at the chains, seeing if she could slide them around the bed frame, shaking them with frustration when they wouldn’t move.
‘The bed’s specially made.’
Spence was by the door. He was holding a tray, smiling like he was surprising her with breakfast in bed on her birthday.
‘So you might as well relax,’ he said.
Except, it wasn’t Spence, not really. Gone was the bleached hair, the skinny jeans and trendy T-shirt, replaced with a chestnut-brown matinee idol side-parting, a tailored black shirt, open two buttons down from the collar, tapered at the waist, and a pair of stylish grey trousers, the material slightly furred. Suede or moleskin. Smart black leather shoes, neatly laced, of a kind that Spence would routinely mock as being “boring office blah”, completed the transformation. Even his smell was different, his cologne light and icy, not too dissimilar to what Konrad would wear… oh, shit.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her shock in check. He didn’t just smell like Konrad, he looked like him as well.
The times they’d been for a romantic meal, that was how he’d styled his hair. He’d dyed it the same colour as well. And that outfit. Konrad wore the same one on their night out at St John in Spitalfields, when she thought he was going to say he loved her. She remembered the camera she’d found in the living room, what she and Konrad did on the sofa when they got home that night, and shuddered. How long had Spence been spying on her?
A chair from the kitchen had been placed near the bed, but not quite close enough for her to reach. He’d done this before. How many people had died here? Spence placed the tray on the chair and stood with his hands resting on the back. When Rachel saw what was on the tray, a chill crept up her neck and over her cheeks.
This was it, she was going to die.
The next thought hit her like a bare-knuckle punch. I’ll never see Lily again.
All notions of keeping herself together disappeared. ‘Spence, listen to me, please – please, I’ll do anything. Anything you want.’ Tears spilled from her eyes. She gulped down the sob battling up her throat. ‘Don’t do this, Spence. Please, please, please. Don’t do this to me.’
‘Hey. Come on, Rach. It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m not going to do anything to you.’ He gestured to the tray. On it was a needle, prepped with a clear liquid, a shallow paper cup of pills, the kind she would dispense on the ward fifty times a day, and a glass of water. ‘This is for you.’
She swiped her eyes dry with her sleeve. ‘For me?’
‘This is probably all coming as a bit of a shock to you.’
No shit, psycho.
‘But I want you to know,’ he went on, ‘that you don’t have to stay here. You can leave any time.’ He pushed off the back of the chair and came round the side, crouching beside it. ‘And this is your way out.’
‘I don’t– I–’
‘Let me explain. In the syringe is potassium chloride. Hurts like hell, so I hear, like having your insides melted, but over in minutes. As luck would have it, as a nurse, you’d be able to administer this correctly. You don’t want to get that wrong.’ He grimaced at a memory and moved his finger to the pills. ‘Amitriptyline and Doxazepam. It’ll take longer, maybe a few hours, but it’s a lot more relaxed. You can chill out, mix it with some Demerol, or whatever you haven’t flushed down the loo, and enjoy the buzz.’
‘Enjoy the buzz?’
Spence straightened, his stance wide and hands resting behind his back, his chest pressing against the fabric of his shirt. Even his gait had changed, going from a slightly camp slouch to something altogether more masculine, even a bit military. He lifted his chin. ‘Lastly, you can tell me to go, and I’ll go. Then we wait for nature to run its course. I can leave you more water, if you wish, and then you can take as little or as long – relatively speaking – as you liked over it.’
‘You’re saying you’d leave me to starve,’ she said slowly.
‘If you’d prefer.’
‘If I’d prefer?’
This wasn’t happening. It had to be a hoax, some messed-up joke. What if it was one of those sinister Internet sites where rich people paid to watch someone being tortured?
‘Please, Spence,’ she whispered, looking in his eyes. He stared back, unblinking. ‘We were friends, weren’t we?’ She waited for him to reply, but he remained so unflinching that she pictured him fleetingly as a robot, with a circuit board behind his face. ‘Let me go. Please. I– I won’t tell anyone.’
Fast as a flicked switch, his whole demeanour changed, his shoulders relaxing, his body turning side on, a little like a model at the end of the catwalk – and it was Spence, right there, her Spence, the friend who started work early to help out with her shifts, who regaled her with tales of his hedonistic lifestyle, who came round on Friday nights to watch rom-coms and moan about the happy-ever-after endings. Not that weird masculine version of him.
He gave her the same smile and wink as he had a hundred times on the ward.
It’s him! He’s still–
Just as quickly, his posture changed back. He shook a playful finger at her.
‘Had you going there, right?’
‘Why– why are you doing this to me?’
He paused, considering her, then took the tray from the chair and placed it on the floor beside the bed. He sat down, crossing his leg, ankle to knee, lacing his hands behind his head. She got an image of a tropical bird, something from Planet Earth, strutting around and making himself big to attract a mate. That’s what he’s doing, the little man. Trying to make himself big.
‘Why else?’ he said. ‘Because I love you.’
‘You need help,’ she said, shaking her head.
Spence looked her up and down. ‘I’m not the one chained to the bed.’
‘So you did all of it? You sent that photo to Konrad’s mates? You stole the money from my account? You got me sacked from work?’
‘Technically only suspended.’
‘You knew what that job meant to me.’ She bit on her lips to stop them from trembling.
‘You’re looking at it all the wrong way.’ His expression was exasperated but amused, like she was a child asking the same stupid question for the hundredth time. ‘Try seeing it more as a grand romantic gesture.’
