by Suzy K Quinn
‘It arrived at the cottage just after you left,’ says Jen. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yes, fine,’ I say, trying to hold my voice steady. ‘Absolutely fine. Marc just wants me to meet him, that’s all.’
‘He’s not coming here?’ says Jen. ‘It’ll be midnight soon.’
‘He’s … I’m going to meet him somewhere else, okay?’ I wave the note. ‘Back soon.’
71
My huge Belle dress buffets around my legs as I head out of the theatre.
I run out into the street crowd, heading towards Tottenham Court Road tube station.
Everyone stares at me as I rattle along on the tube train to Richmond. But I don’t care. I have to get to Marc’s townhouse. I have to get to Sammy.
*****
When I arrive in West London, the night feels very still and there are clouds overhead. I can’t see the stars or the moon.
I reach the gates, unsure of my next plan. Should I ring the buzzer? Or shout over the gates? But before I can make any decisions, I see something that makes my stomach pull tight.
There are objects tied onto the black railings.
As I get closer, I see one of the objects is a baby doll – the kind that closes its eyes when you lie it down. It’s been stripped of all its clothing, so its body is nothing more than white cotton with little plastic legs and arms attached. It’s been tied to the railing by the ankle, so it hangs upside down.
Next to the baby is what used to be a rose, except there’s only a thorny stem left now – all the petals have been plucked off. There’s also a pair of handcuffs chained to the gate and a toy knife.
I look over the dark townhouse and see no lights on. No one is home. Maybe this is all a hoax. A horrible joke from PAIN to frighten me, but nothing more.
I’m about to try the buzzer, when I feel something hard bash my hand.
I turn around, but before I know what’s going on, something grabs my hair and throws me to the ground. A clawed hand comes at my face, slapping and scratching, and as I shield myself with my arm, I see Cecile kneeling over me, her face scrunched up in anger.
‘You bitch,’ she screeches. ‘It’s time you paid for what you did.’
I fend off her blows as best I can, but I’m not going to try and hurt a pregnant woman. I just can’t do it.
‘Cecile,’ I say, as I slap at her hands and try to push her back. ‘This is crazy. You need help.’
‘I don’t need help,’ Cecile screams. ‘Why does everyone keep saying that?’
I manage to push her back a little, and now I’ve gotten over the shock of being knocked down, I begin to notice things about Cecile – the slimness of her face and body, and the tight-fitting black cashmere jumper she wears.
If she’s pregnant, where is the baby? Because there’s certainly no bump on that flat stomach of hers.
I scrabble to my feet. ‘You’re not pregnant.’
Cecile gets up too. ‘I got rid of it. When they started asking me for all those tests.’
‘Did you write that note? Where’s Sammy?’
‘PAIN have him. If you want to see him again, you’d better come with me.’
My stomach pushes up into my throat and I feel myself heave. I put a hand to my mouth. ‘Oh my god,’ I say through my fingers.
‘I’m serious.’
It’s too much. Before I can stop myself, I turn and vomit onto the pavement.
I feel like someone has put my chest in a big metal vice and squeezed all the air out of it.
‘Please don’t hurt him. I’ll go anywhere you want.’
‘The car’s over here.’
72
Cecile pulls me towards a black car, waiting under a bright yellow streetlight. It looks pretty battered and bruised, and when she opens the back door I let out a little scream.
Waiting on the back seat is the creepiest looking man I’ve ever seen. He’s completely bald, with a huge beefy body and big broad shoulders. He’s wearing little round glasses that make his eyes seem tiny and insect-like, and one of those leather jackets that looks like a blazer.
He reaches out a hand to me. ‘Warren. Head of PAIN. Good to meet you at last.’
I shrink back from his hand.
In the front seat I see the back of a woman’s head. She has platinum blonde hair, and when I catch a glimpse of her eyes in the rear-view mirror, they’re black like coal. She has spidery eyelashes and blood red lips.
‘And Yasmina you’ve probably heard of,’ says Warren, nodding to the front seat. ‘My co-leader. And a good friend of Marc Blackwell’s.’
The car smells like ... I don’t know. Unwashed bodies and something chemical. I put a finger to my nose and take a step back.
‘Nice of you to dress up for us,’ Warren continues, nodding at my dress. ‘Very pretty.’
‘Where’s Sammy?’ I ask.
‘Come with us and we’ll show you.’
‘Please. You haven’t hurt him, have you? Is he okay?’
‘He will be,’ says Warren. ‘As long as you get in the car right now.’
I nod and climb into the car, leaning as far away from Warren as I can. In response, he leans closer to me.
‘I don’t bite,’ he breathes, and I realise he’s like Getty – he gets excited when women are scared. ‘At least, not yet.’
I sit up straight and stop leaning away from him. Instead, I try to look as relaxed as possible. Which is hard, considering my heart is beating so fast in my chest that I feel like it’s going to break out and fly away.
Cecile walks around the car and jumps into the front seat.
‘Well done Cecile,’ says Yasmina. Her voice is low and throaty. ‘Good work.’
‘Thank you Yasmina,’ says Cecile, all sickly and sucky up. ‘I told you it would be me who got her.’
The car starts.
I feel sick and lonely as we pull away from Marc’s house.
The platinum blonde woman turns to me as we wait at a junction.
‘We’re going to have a lot of fun with you.’ Her dark red lips move in the mirror. She has very pale skin, made more pale by white makeup. ‘You deserve a little pain, don’t you think? After what you’ve done.’
‘What I’ve done?’
‘To Giles Getty. He was one of our most loyal members.’
I shake my head.
‘Getty kidnapped me. I did nothing to him. Nothing at all.’
‘He’s in prison now, because of you. And our organisation is being investigated. We’re being forced into the shadows.’
‘Look, just tell me that Sammy’s okay.’
‘Don’t speak anymore. We don’t answer to you. You answer to us.’
The car drives on into the night.
73
We drive from West to East London, and I watch all the grand, beautiful buildings transform into tower blocks, narrow roads and the shells of market stalls.
The car comes to a stop outside a seven-storey building that looks like it’s been bombed. There’s no glass in the windows – it’s little more than a blackened, concrete carcass.
Yasmina gets out of the car and pulls open the back door beside me. Now I can see all of her, I notice her face is scarred quite badly under the white makeup.
The tiny black flecks of her eyes and the dark red of her lips are the only other colour to her.
She’s wearing black tapered trousers that finish at strappy high heels, and a black-leather waist cincher over a black blouse. The cincher pulls her waist in so tight that she looks like a wasp.
‘Out,’ she barks, grabbing my arm and pulling me onto the crunchy cement. I fling my hands forward as I go flying towards the ground, then pick myself up and stand tall.
‘Where’s Sammy?’
‘In there,’ says Yasmina, pointing to the tower block. ‘Follow us.’
Oh god, I feel sick. To think of little Sammy, somewhere in that building ... I want to throw up again, but I manage to hold it in. They’re monsters, these p
eople. Absolute monsters. And Cecile has become a monster too.
‘Is someone with him? Is he alone?’
‘No more questions.’
I follow Yasmina, Cecile and Warren across the concrete, and into the shadowy depths of the tower block.
Dimly, I notice that Warren is carrying a large briefcase.
We walk up crumbling cement stairs that were maybe once carpeted, but are now nothing more than concrete built around iron bars.
Although it’s shadowy in the tower block, some light comes from the bright orange streetlights outside. They shine through big square holes that used to be windows.
The second floor looks empty, except for a weird sort of makeshift bar in the corner, made of wooden planks and stocked with whisky bottles.
I’m about to ask where Sammy is again, when I notice manacles screwed into the wall ahead.
My stomach pulls itself into a tight ball.
‘Where’s Sammy?’ I cry out, unable to hold back the tears any longer. ‘Please. Is he here? You have to tell me where he is.’
Yasmina and Warren laugh.
‘You really think we took him?’ says Yasmina. ‘How could we, with all the security around your cottage?’
Security. Of course. God, I’m an idiot.
Although I still feel sick and frightened, part of me is sagging with relief. Oh thank God Sammy isn’t here. Thank god.
‘Will you do the honours, Yasmina, or shall I?’ asks Warren, holding up his briefcase. He takes his leather jacket off, revealing a white, short-sleeved shirt with sweat around the armpits. There’s something really icky about his skin. It glistens like it’s wet.
‘I think Cecile should do it, don’t you?’ Yasmina replies, grabbing my wrist. I struggle, knowing I have nothing to lose now, and pull away from her.
I turn and run towards the concrete steps, but before I can reach them, Warren chases after me and throws himself at my back. He falls on top of me, and I go smashing into the floor.
I feel my body smack onto the hard concrete.
Ouch.
Something in my wrist makes a cracking sound, and I feel a throb of pain run down my arm.
Warren climbs roughly off me, then grabs me by the ankles. He drags me back over the concrete floor, so my whole body is pulled over the snaggy stones sealed in the cement. I hear my Belle dress ripping and tearing.
The next moment, I’m hauled to my feet and my wrists are snapped into a pair of rusty manacles.
The pain that runs up my left arm is unbelievable as my wrists are held up high. I struggle against the chains, and tears of pain sting my eyes.
Yasmina comes closer to me, her sharp heels clicking over the floor. I look right into her eyes, determined not to show fear.
‘It’s not the first time we’ve gotten rid of young girls,’ she says, taking the briefcase that Warren is handing to her. ‘We like to do it in our own special way. And out of respect to Giles Getty, we’ve brought one of our favourite torture devices this evening. To make sure your death is as unpleasant and drawn out as possible.’
The briefcase is clearly heavy, because Yasmina’s shoulders pull downwards as she takes it from Warren.
She comes closer – so close that I can see the zigzag pattern of the scars under her makeup. Then she opens the briefcase.
As the brown leather lid opens, I can’t suppress a horrified gasp.
Oh my god. I will not break down. I will not. I will not show them fear.
Warren and Yasmina are both transfixed by what’s inside the case. Their eyes are wide and glistening, their lips curve into smiles.
Lying on brushed felt is a large wrought-iron ring, about the size of a dinner plate. It looks rusty and black, like an antique, and there are huge tapered spikes on the inside. I feel like I’ve seen it before, and then I remember.
Years ago, my class went on a school trip to the local castle. We were shown down to the castle dungeon and allowed to see all the old torture devices. Racks. Leg irons. Saws. And something that looked a lot like this ring.
Jen and the rest of the class were fascinated, but I felt really sick, thinking of how awful human beings could be to one another. I didn’t want to hear about how bodies had been stretched and ripped apart. In the end, I pretended I needed the toilet so I could leave the dungeon early.
As I look at the wrought iron ring, my stomach beats so hard that I’m sure I’m going to throw up.
‘Beautiful when she’s frightened, isn’t she?’ says Yasmina, holding out the suitcase to Warren.
‘Isn’t she?’ Warren uses both hands to lift out the large spiked metal ring. It’s obviously heavy, and he takes a few steps back and forth to get his balance.
‘We call this device Svetlana,’ says Yasmina, running her grey fingernails over the ring. ‘She’s from Russia. A KGB torture device. One of our greatest prizes. She’s a very clever piece. Svetlana can be fitted almost anywhere on the body – leg, chest, head. And then tightened with this side screw.’
She smiles, her breathing quickening. ‘We tighten. And tighten. Until we see blood. And then we let our unfortunate guest bleed to death.’
Yasmina and Warren share a look that makes me shudder.
74
‘Svetlana is the only girl I never get bored of,’ says Warren. He moves closer to me.
I try to hold my body firm, despite the pain in my wrist and arm.
I know Warren will get off on me being afraid, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction. At the same time, though, the thought of his horrible moist fingers touching me makes me absolutely want to vomit, and it takes everything in my power not to shrink away from him as he comes closer.
Warren opens up the spiked ring and holds it at my waist. I can smell his awful stench – like rotten meat and disinfectant.
Fear climbs up my throat.
I try not to look, but my eyes keep flicking down to the device. Although it’s made of old, blackened metal, the ends of the spikes have clearly been sharpened and are silver and lethal. It won’t take much pressure to pierce my skin.
‘Smile, darling,’ says Warren, feeding the ring around my waist. ‘You never know. You might enjoy this.’ His hands are trembling with excitement, and sweat glows on his forehead. ‘My favourite part is when I tighten so hard that we snap bones.’ His shoulders give a little shiver.
I’m beginning to lose it, my breathing running away from me. I know my eyes are wide with fear as Warren clamps Svetlana loosely in place. I feel the spikes pierce the fabric of my dress and press lightly against my skin.
Oh my god, oh my god.
It won’t take much tightening before those spikes start piercing me deeply. So deeply that they’ll cause permanent damage. And fatal injuries.
I blink away tears. I know it’s no good to beg. That’s exactly what they want.
‘After you, we get Marc,’ says Yasmina. ‘Of course, we’ll let him suffer for a few weeks first, not knowing where his beloved disappeared to.’
The thought of them hurting Marc is unbearable.
‘There’s no need to hurt Marc,’ I say, my eyes darting to Cecile. ‘He hates that Getty’s in prison. Getty is … a friend of his.’
Cecile’s gaze snaps away from the window hole.
‘Marc always talks about you, Cecile,’ I continue, catching her eye. ‘I’ve always wondered whether secretly he might prefer you to me.’
Cecile’s eyes widen. ‘He talks about me?’
‘I think he knows he made a mistake. That you’re the one for him, after all.’
‘She’s stalling,’ says Warren, his whole body beginning to twitch with excitement. ‘We have her here now. Let me play with her.’
‘Wait.’ Cecile walks towards me. ‘Marc talks about me?’
‘All the time. Maybe the two of you can be together after all. Why not just take your revenge out on me? You don’t need to hurt Marc. He ... he always wanted to be friends with Getty again. Marc is innocent in this. What happened to
Getty was all down to me.’
Yasmina laughs. Then she fixes me with her black eyes. ‘You really are quite an incredible actress. I would believe every word you just said, if I didn’t know better. Marc hates Getty. He’s turned his whole security team over to protecting you from him.’
I shake my head. ‘No. He wishes Getty wasn’t in prison—’
Yasmina puts a grey fingernail to my lips. ‘You’re lying. After we’ve killed you, Marc will be next.’
Cecile shakes her head. ‘Yasmina, what if she’s telling the truth? If Marc is innocent in all this, he and I could be together ... I could have money again …’
Yasmina rolls her eyes. ‘Sophia is lying. Marc doesn’t care about you at all. But I’m sure after a few minutes in Svetlana, we can find out for certain.’ She turns to Warren. ‘Take Sophia to the brink – just far enough to make her tell Cecile the truth. But don’t go too far. We don’t want anything to be over too quickly. It’s a slow, painful death for her. Getty deserves nothing less.’
A horrible dark look falls over Warren’s face. ‘Play time.’
He turns the screw at the clasp of the device so it locks tighter around my waist.
The spikes drive further through my dress, and I can feel them poke my skin like a ring of needles.
I suck in my breath, feeling dizzy. Sick. Faint.
‘Tighten it again,’ says Yasmina. ‘When she sees blood, she’ll tell Cecile the truth.’
I see Warren’s glistening bald head bob down to tighten the screw.
Oh my god, oh my god. I breathe in as tightly as I can, trying to hold myself away from the sharp spikes. But as Warren tightens, I feel stabs of pain all around my waist and cool metal drives into my body.
Warren steps back, his eyes fixed on my face, his chest thumping with excitement.
I daren’t move. I daren’t talk. I daren’t look down at the damage.
Fear comes over me in one great rush.
I know now, beyond a doubt, that Warren is capable of killing me. But I won’t tell them what they want to hear. Not if there’s still a chance I can stop them hurting Marc.
