by West, Sam
It didn’t give her much time, perhaps a couple of minutes, but it might be enough. She had to try at least. When he re-emerged from the basement for the third time, she made a concentrated effort to compose her face into that same glazed mask of terror and pointed the mobile in his direction.
He paid her little heed, and continued about his grizzly business. Next he picked up Ryan’s leg. He huffed with the effort, his arms visibly quaking as he swung the limb up into his arms. He staggered out the room, cradling the limb to his chest, swaying on his feet slightly as he did so.
I’m not surprised, Ryan had legs like tree-trunks, he used to brag about the weight he could dead-lift down the gym…
Yeah, well, now Edward’s doing all the dead-lifting.
It wasn’t even funny, and fleetingly Hazel wondered where the sudden bout of black humour came from.
As soon as he left the room, she scrambled to her feet, cursing under her breath when she almost landed flat on her face as her leg had gone to sleep.
As before, she listened to his footsteps fading and retreating down the basement steps, except this time she was at the living room door with her ear pressed against the wood. When she was sure he was at the bottom, she tumbled out into the hallway, weaving from side to side like a drunkard.
For the briefest of moments, she mourned the fact that the basement door didn’t have an external lock on it. The front door loomed closer, and she lurched forwards.
So close…
Now she could hear Edward’s footsteps ascending the stairs just as she reached the door.
Fuck! Locked.
And the key was gone – she knew for a fact she’d left her set of keys dangling in the lock.
The bastard took them when we let him in.
“Looking for something, angel-cake?”
Edward’s voice, not far behind her.
“No,” she sobbed, banging her fists against the locked door. “Somebody help!” she cried out hoarsely, “He’s killed my friends, somebody please call the po-“
Brilliant pain exploded in her head, cutting her sentence short. She was dimly aware of slithering down the door and then all went black.
“You’re going to get brain damage if I keep twatting you on the head like that.”
Where am I now?
She went to sit up but a fresh jolt of pain erupted behind her eyes, making her groan and flop back down on the bed.
Bed! I’m on a bed. My bed.
She stared up at the spinning ceiling, wondering what the next stage of her nightmare would bring. The single bed creaked when Edward sat down next to her hips and her body tilted towards him. The bare skin of her hips grazed his side, and she flinched in disgust.
Only then did it register she was naked. And so was he.
What the fuck?
Ignoring the pulsing pain in her head and the protesting ache of her joints, she struggled to sit up. The muscles in her legs ripped painfully when she went to bend her knees and swing them into herself and found that she couldn’t. She hauled herself upright, ignoring the pain that blazed through her body like a fireball and saw that her legs were spread-eagled on the bed, each ankle thickly taped to the wrought iron footboard with the electrical tape.
Never before in her life had she so vehemently cursed a bed design. She would have given anything right then for the stupid bed to transform into some sleek, Scandinavian design from Ikea. With no head or footboards.
Edward was watching her with obvious amusement and a knot of disgust rose up like vomit.
“Let me go,” she moaned, kicking and pulling uselessly at the tape that bound her ankles to the footboard.
Her wrists were still bound in front of her and she pressed her forearms to her naked breasts.
I can untie the rope when he’s not looking…
The less than helpful thought was pushed out of her head when Edward straddled her and picked up her trembling wrists, pinning her hands above her head. Every time she bucked and writhed, his balls flattened out on her lower stomach and he thrust his hips forwards like a horny dog, his cock thick and hard. So she stopped thrashing, loathing the fact that the bastard was enjoying it.
She stared up at the ceiling, sickened by the feel of him on top of her.
So this is how ends. Raped by a lunatic in my own bedroom before I’m cut up into little bits and dumped in the basement.
A hand gently cupped her face, and somehow his sudden tenderness was even more disturbing than the feel of his naked groin.
“I’ve always loved you. Since the first second I saw you at the student union when we were all freshers. God, you were so beautiful, so fresh, so innocent. I knew I had to have you. Look at me when I’m talking to you.” She allowed him to tilt her face so that she was looking up him. “I even showered for you,” he said with a smile.
That much was true, he was no longer crimson and she supposed she should be grateful for small mercies. Under different circumstances she might even have admired the sleek lines of his body. He was very thin and very white, but his stomach still showcased an unmistakable six-pack.
“I love you, Hazel.”
She shuddered in horror when his weight shifted on top of her and his slender hips wedged between her thighs.
So this is what rape feels like.
It was unremarkable. After the horrors she had lived through that night, having Edward stuff his hard cock inside her dry pussy was almost a breeze. She felt nothing, no pain, and strangely, no revulsion. He humped away on top of her for a minute or two, his face buried in her neck. She left her arms slung over her head, not even thinking of putting up a fight.
“I love you so much,” he gasped, coming after just a couple of thrusts.
His body went slack on top of her and she stared over his shoulder at a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling.
Bloody Victorian houses. The ceilings are so high, we really should get a step ladder so we can dust the damn thing.
But Ryan’s dead now. I don’t think he cares.
“Why do you and Ryan have separate bedrooms?”
“What?” she said dazedly, her mind filled with trivial thoughts of dusting.
She felt completely empty, hollowed out and numb.
“You and Ryan. Separate bedrooms. Your stuff and his stuff. Separate.”
The weight shifted on top of her and suddenly she could breathe again. The bed dipped when he sat up by her hips. He was looking down at her with a funny expression
(tenderness?)
on his face.
“We liked to have our own space.”
“His own space to fuck Megan, you mean. I would never treat you like that.”
That look on his face again. It was so intense she had to avert her gaze back to the cobweb.
“How did you three even afford a place like this, anyway? A three bed townhouse in London? The rent must be mad.”
“Ryan’s Uncle owns the property.”
“Does he now? Quite the player, wasn’t he, Ryan?”
Hazel realised her arms were still over her head and she started to pull them back down.
“Don’t cover yourself up. You’re so beautiful, I’ve dreamed about seeing you like this for so long. Shush baby, please don’t cry, everything’s going to be alright, you’ll see.” Her sobs hitched in her chest as he tenderly wiped away her tears with the back of his hand. “Wait there, you must be so thirsty, I’ll be right back.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Hazel was aware of the way his firm white buttocks flexed as he left the room. She didn’t move an inch in the minute he was gone and just lay there staring up at the ceiling, feeling utterly defeated, mind, body and soul.
He came back in with a pint glass filled with water and the sight of it made her heart lurch. God, she was so thirsty, her heart beat wildly in anticipation just thinking about how the water would feel sliding down her throat and hitting her stomach in a cool rush that would leave her with wonderful cramps.
Ever s
o gently he pulled her up into a sitting position and held the glass to her lips. She almost choked on the first gulp but after that it was plain sailing. Greedily, she craned her neck when he removed the glass as it was still a quarter full.
“You need to take these, now,” he said, uncurling his other fist.
In his palm were four little while pills.
“What are they?” she asked in a small voice. She had a horrible feeling that he wasn’t going to say paracetamol.
“Just a little something to help you sleep. We’re driving to Cornwall tonight.”
Her heart started to hammer even harder. She might have been only twenty, but her heart was beginning to ache so much with the constant racing that she feared she was in real danger of dropping dead of a heart-attack.
“I don’t understand. Cornwall?”
“It’s for my documentary, I have unfinished business there to attend to. But don’t worry your pretty head about it, all will become clear soon. I’d like you to take these pills now. Open wide.”
“Why do I have to be unconscious? I won’t cause you any problems, I promise.”
“Hmm, now why don’t I completely believe that? You’re a fighter, Hazel, it’s one of things I love about you. Now take the pills like a good girl.”
There was steel behind the light words and when he brought the pills up to her lips, she had no choice but to open her mouth. Gently, he placed them on her tongue and popped her mouth shut with a finger under her chin, making her feel like a dog taking worming tablets. She accepted the water when he pressed the glass to her lips and drained every lost drop. She was still thirsty, but didn’t dare ask him for more.
“That’s better,” he said, cradling her in his arm and laying her gently on the bed, placing her hands over her chest. “I’m going to borrow some of Ryan’s clothes now, and then I’m going to fetch my car. Parking costs a fortune in London, it’s bloody ridiculous. Still, there’s a lot to love about London, like the fact that no one gives a shit and everyone ignores you. Means I should be able to pull up and carry your unconscious body into the car without anyone paying a blind bit of attention, especially as it’s dark now.”
But Hazel barely heard him; the blood was whooshing in her ears with the wild beating of her heart and alarmingly, her toes and fingers had started to tingle.
He stood up and tenderly brushed the hair off her forehead. “Hush now. When you wake up it will be the next chapter of your life.”
His voice seemed to drift to her from very far away and try as she might, she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Her final, lucid thought was that she hoped it wouldn’t be the final chapter.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hazel came to without opening her eyes, feeling groggy and disorientated. The events of the evening played over in her mind, the horror of all she had experienced no less potent with the short passage of time.
As she came back to herself, she decided that she was lying on a cold, hard surface.
Concrete?
Tentatively, she opened her eyes a crack, wincing when light hit her retinas.
How long have I been out?
Gradually, so as to allow her pupils to become accustomed to the light, she managed to fully open her eyes.
Where am I now? Cornwall. Edward said Cornwall. I’m in a basement in Cornwall.
Struggling into a sitting position, she took in the room. A single, bare bulb hung from the low ceiling, and the room was sparse, clean, and windowless. Behind her, a short staircase led up to a closed door where light spilled out along the bottom in a thin line.
She looked down at herself.
At least I’m dressed.
It was something from her own wardrobe – a knee-length, floaty, baby-blue dress that she hadn’t worn since a wedding last summer. Her feet were bare.
Didn’t think to put knickers on me either, did he? I guess I’m easier to rape that way.
Her hands were still tied, but at least her feet were free. Her head throbbed, and she ached from head to toe, but she didn’t think the damage was too great. Her head was the worst. Shakily, she brought up her tied hands to her forehead, wincing when her fingers grazed the egg shaped lump above her left eyebrow. It felt tacky to the touch, but didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore.
Must’ve been when he knocked me out against the front-door. Or maybe it was from when he chucked Megan’s head at me… She shuddered. Come on, Megan, move it. Bloody well do something.
Frantically, her eyes searched the barren room, assessing her options. Her gaze lingered longingly on the door.
There’s no point even trying to open it.
All too easily, she could imagine him on the other side of the door, just waiting for her to regain consciousness so that he could continue with his ‘game’.
The subtle shifting of her position made her wince; she badly needed to pee. Now she was aware of it, it was all she could think about. She squirmed in discomfort and humiliation. If she didn’t void her bladder soon, she was going to wet herself.
No! Come on, focus.
Her heart lurched when her eyes latched on to an opened laptop on a tiny table by the wall and the dull, tight ache in lower gut receded slightly. She hadn’t seen it straight away for the dimness of the room.
I might be able to get online and call the police.
Shakily, she got to her feet, the new ray of hope powering her legs where otherwise they might have collapsed from under her. She felt drunk; drunk and beaten up. Every step sent fiery pain shooting through her body and her head still felt groggy from the pills and repeatedly being hit. Her vision was blurred and the room swayed, but grim determination carried her to the computer; it also took her quietly so as not to alert Edward that she was conscious.
She crouched down before it like a worshipper at a shrine, and awkwardly turned it on with her bound hands. The screen fired into life. First of all it was the blue Microsoft background while the little wheel went round, and then there was a big, white square with ‘play me’ written in it.
“What the…” she muttered, dragging the mouse over the screen, looking for something, anything to click on.
There had to be some icons somewhere. But there wasn’t, there was just that one white box. Feeling every bit like the proverbial rat caught in a trap, she pressed play…
And instantly recoiled like she had been bitten by a snake, almost landing flat on her back. Edward’s face filled the screen, smirking sardonically at her. He began to speak:
“Hello Hazel, so you are awake. You slept like a baby in the trunk of my car during the five hour drive down to Treeve, so you should be feeling nice and refreshed. Let me first say that I am so happy to welcome you into my home. Well, my holiday home, anyway. But eight Dallam Avenue has always been the place that has felt most like home. It’s the house I was born in, the house I was conceived in, the house I spent the first few years of my life in. But you’ll find out all about that soon enough.
I should imagine you have already made efforts to get onto the internet and have discovered that this laptop exists for the sole purpose of showcasing my documentary. I am sure you will find it informative and entertaining and I hope you will forgive the lack of editing. It is very much my WIP, that is, my work in progress. There is still some filming left to do. If you look over your left shoulder you will see a wall mounted camera. I am filming your every move which I will slice and dice for the documentary as I see fit…”
Hazel snapped her head round as soon as he said it, and sure enough, there was a camera pointing down at her from the corner of the ceiling. Tears of despair prickled her eyes as she turned her attention back to the lunatic on the screen…
“When I am caught, because let’s face it, the chances are high given today’s forensic and technological breakthroughs, I shall be a star. I look forward to that day. You are the first person to watch what will undoubtedly become an Oscar winning, groundbreaking documentary. My name will be known the world over, I will go down in hi
story as the most self-aware, talented serial killer of all time. Hell, I might even get out of prison after a few years and go on to direct in Hollywood. But I digress, I’m getting ahead of myself. Just sit back and enjoy the movie…”
Hazel stared in horror at the new image which replaced Edward’s talking head. It was grainy, black and white footage of a woman tied to a kitchen chair. She was slim and wore a simple but tattered, knee-length sundress. Beyond that it was impossible to tell if she was pretty or not, or even how old she was. Her exposed limbs were a mass of cuts and bruises, her hair a wild, dirty blonde tangle that hung down from her drooping head, obscuring her face. Only the subtle, rise and fall of her chest indicated that she was alive. Coils of rope appeared to keep her from toppling over and they held her arms in place behind the wooden slats that comprised the back of the chair.
The surroundings looked familiar.
It’s the same basement I’m in, came the jolting thought.
The ‘film’ unfolded before her eyes and she sat there mesmerized, even though a big part of her wanted to slam down the laptop lid and curl up in a corner of the basement and cry until she either died or was murdered. Yet at the same time she didn’t want to miss a single detail of the horror show because on some level she knew that it was paramount to her survival. Edward’s coolly casual voice drifted out of the speakers; a voiceover to the beaten woman in the basement.
“My name is Edward Sullivan and I am twenty years old. The woman you are looking at is Jazmine Sullivan. She is my mother. ‘What kind of a sick bastard beats his mother half to death and ties her to a chair in a basement?’ I hear you ask. Well, I can quite assure you that the bitch had it coming. This was a mother who lied to her only son her entire life. This was a mother who never loved her son. And I do stress ‘was.’ Because you are looking at a dead woman. This is my story, and as with every story, we need to start from the beginning…”
Edward’s voice ceased and the camera cut to a new scene of a close-up of a sparrow lying dead on a patch of grass. The footage had been speeded up so that the tiny corpse rapidly decomposed and every five seconds or so the screen darkened in time with the setting sun. The sparrow’s body and innards seeped into the earth until it was nothing more than a mushy puddle with white maggots wriggling frantically in the gunge.
