Next of Sin: A psychological thriller

by Lisa Gordon

  Gaby hurriedly knelt down and, with trembling hands, began undoing the zip of her boot in order to retrieve the knife which had slipped out of reach. The zip was stubborn and after gliding down an inch, it jammed. In desperation she forced it further down, not realising, owing to the gloomy light in the room, that part of her jeans had become wedged in the zip track.

  At any moment she would hear the door handle and Clinton would come back in. This might be her last chance. She had to get to the knife — it was a vital part of her two-pronged attack plan. She ripped at the zip, but it would not yield. Sitting on the floor, she tried to wrench the trainer off her foot, but it refused to budge. She let out a cry of hopelessness, as her fingers once again wrestled with the zip.

  Immediately deciding she could waste no more time, Gaby sprang to her feet and made her way to the collection of paint tins in the corner. There had to be something there she could use as a weapon or even a diversion. She looked around carefully, keeping one ear attuned to the sound of the door handle. Unopened tins of paint, used tins of paint, spare roller sets, old brushes in a tin, tile adhesive, sealant. Nothing but harmless decorating accessories, she noted to herself despairingly.

  She screwed up her eyes and scanned the assortment again, willing there to be something of use. There was one thing she hadn’t paid attention to before: alongside the old paintbrushes was a plastic bottle of clear water-like liquid. Something made her pick it up. She read the label: turpentine. Turpentine, she thought to herself. In an instant she could see before her the pulmonologist’s report listing “turpentine, ethanol, vanilla and bergamot”. She had forgotten all about the turpentine. Thinking quickly, she undid the lid and placed the open bottle alongside one of the legs of the table. She knew it was still visible but it was not immediately apparent and she prayed he would miss it. She had no time to find another place for the turps as the door was opening.

  Clinton re-entered the room. Gaby was standing in the far corner, giving no indication that she had been doing anything other than standing on the spot, petrified. Clinton smiled menacingly. “Maybe I underestimated you Gabriella; however, you have once again underestimated me. There are many exits from this place and you and I will now leave together.”

  Gaby’s eyes were suddenly drawn to Clinton’s right-hand pocket and she wondered what was in there. The pocket looked more weighted down than it had previously. “Where are we going?” she enquired, not moving. She knew that Clinton was now anxious and that time was more precious to him, so she would stall as long as she could, especially as she was beginning to detect the strange, nutmeg-like odour of the turps in the room.

  “Come, Gabriella, I want to show you something,” said Clinton seriously. Gaby’s curiosity was immediately piqued. What does he want to show me, she thought.

  “Where?” she asked immediately.

  “Just come,” he said enigmatically as he pointed to the door. Gaby stayed put. The small, windowless, unventilated basement room was fast becoming her friend and she did not want to leave. Whatever he had to show her, it was not worth the risk. She guessed that it might be a simple ruse to hoodwink her into going with him meekly. “Come with me, Gaby,” he ordered, now more insistently, his voice suddenly more hoarse, more croaky, however. His face was reddening and his pupils were dilated. He moved closer to her, adopting a more threatening pose. “Don’t you want see what I have to show you?” he growled breathlessly, the protruding vein in his temple pulsing.

  Gaby took a step back. He was very close to her and she could hear that his breathing was becoming laboured and wheezy. Mentally calculating that, if ever, this was the time, she darted backwards, pivoted and dodged to the other side of the table. “I have something to show you,” she blurted as she bobbed down and grabbed the open bottle of turps. The brittle plastic bottle crunched in her grip as she flung the bottle in his direction; it gave way in the centre before regaining its shape and shooting a jet of the colourless liquid towards Clinton.

  “Fuck!” He rocked back, his reactions immediate as he swung around, instinctively shielding his eyes as the turps splashed into the side of his neck, running down into his shirt collar. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he growled breathlessly. He turned away from Gaby, holding his one hand up to protect his eyes and using his other hand to flick the droplets of turps off his neck. “My eyes, my eyes. Not my eyes,” he hissed angrily, with too little breath to shout. She still had the upper hand. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut to keep out any droplets of the solvent. Gaby could feel the bottle was still fairly full, she immediately moved to throw what remained of the solvent at his head. This time the bottle, now slippery and wet, flew out of her hand crashing into the side of his head and dousing his shirt. Clinton was, however, waiting for it and his eyes and mouth were still firmly shut. He heard the empty bottle bounce on the floor and knew the immediate danger was over. His hands were now free. He opened his eyes and glared at Gaby. Gaby took a few steps back, wondering, waiting. The smell of the turpentine hung thick in the air.

  “You ... you ... won’t ... escape!” Clinton made the statement with a fiery determination even though he was now struggling to breathe and wheezing heavily. He made a move towards Gaby, but suddenly paused. He reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew an asthma inhaler, prompting to Gaby’s thoughts to flash back to the pulmonologist’s report she had read in his office that day with Meagan: “... Turpentine, benzene, vanilla, bergamot ... can cause a severe asthma attack ...” As he lifted his inhaler to his mouth, momentarily averting his eyes from Gaby, a surge of adrenalin coursed through her veins. Her muscles tingled with an energy rush and she threw herself across the room towards Clinton. He caught her movement via the corner of his eye and flinched, but it was too late for him to protect himself. Gaby lashed out, punching the asthma spray out of his hand. It flew across the room and clattered on to the floor.

  Clinton was too breathless to let out a cry. Instead, he flung his body desperately in the direction of the spray, diving towards where it lay on the floor, but a more powerful Gaby was there first. She kicked the inhaler as hard as she could and it bounced off the wall, falling into two pieces.

  Clinton’s face was purple and contorted with both rage and desperation. He lay on his stomach, wheezing and squirming around. Reaching out, he grabbed the inner part of the inhaler. Gaby raced over to where the outer casing of the inhaler lay and ruthlessly crushed it with her heel. Mustering every last joule of energy, Clinton rose breathlessly and made a lunge towards Gaby who, being more energetic and agile, was able to jump out of his way. Even more depleted and breathless, Clinton tried in vain to raise his leaden body and he pushed himself to his knees. Gaby watched warily from the far corner of the room. Clinton focused his glacial eyes on Gaby and, still wheezing, he tried to crawl over to her. Gaby knew she had control over the situation; Clinton was weakened and she would be able to sidestep any move he made. He tried to gasp something threatening but failed. His eyes glazed over and he collapsed into a hump.

  Gaby waited a few moments to be sure he was not bluffing. She listened to him wheezing, struggling to suck enough air into his lungs and was certain he was disabled. Then she moved with determination to where the paint tins were stacked. She felt for the heaviest one and carried the five-litre tin to where her brother lay, slumped and wheezing. She raised it over her head and brought it crashing down on to his skull. His mouth opened in pain, but he had not the breath to utter a cry. She knelt over him and honed in on his right-hand pocket, where she had seen the bulge. As she reached into the pocket, Clinton began to wriggle and, still struggling for breath, he tried to grab on to her hand, but she swiftly ripped out what she now discovered was a set of keys before he could stop her.

  Gaby’s heart was now thumping even harder, not with fear but with anticipation. She hurried over to the door, placed her ear against it and listened. All quiet. Realising she was now weapon-less as she would not be able to winch the pocket knife from her boot, and that Renata�
��s cohorts would not be far away, she reached into her back pocket for the perfume bottle, purchased that morning. Gaby whipped it out and with every bit of fire and strength in her, threw it against the wall. It smashed beautifully. She watched as glistening beads of liquid ran down the wall to join a silvery stream which snaked its way through the smithereens of aurora borealis crystal. The room filled with the pungent aroma of bergamot, vanilla and jasmine. Strike three, Clinton, she thought triumphantly. Wasting no time, she rushed over to the broken perfume bottle and snatched up the top half, which was attached to a sharp piece of glass.

  Gaby tried the door praying it had not been bolted from the outside, but it opened and she re-entered the small, dingy area at the base of the narrow wooden staircase. She looked up the staircase; all was quiet at the door to the rear of the walk in fridge. She then jiggled the keys and turned her attention to the other door at the base of the stairs. Fumbling with trembling fingers, she tried the keys in turn, willing each to be the one. Gaby was not gambling — she was taking the only option she had. It was the third key which began to turn; it turned through three o’ clock, then jarred. “C’mon”, whispered Gaby as she jiggled the key, begging it to turn. Then, there it was. She heard the barrel rotate and click and she was in.

  The door had been crudely positioned in a roughly constructed doorway and Gaby guessed she was now entering the basement of the house next door. She stepped over the threshold. Ahead it was very dark, but she pressed forwards, closing the door behind her. She placed one hand against the wall; it was unplastered in places and she could feel damp stock bricks. She made her way in the charcoal blackness, feeling the way with one hand against the wall, the keys and broken bottle in the other hand. The floor was uneven and full of debris, but she kept going determinedly, knowing that she must be as quick as possible.

  “Ah!” Gaby let out a shriek. She had kicked what must have been an empty paint tin and it had clattered across the floor, shattering the silence. Gaby stood still, listening. All quiet. She pressed on, making small steps on the unscreeded floor, careful to avoid colliding with the many tins, rubble sacks and even ladders which she encountered. Gaby was getting bolder. She shuffled along, feeling the walls and remaining confident that she would find another door. After all, Clinton had said there was another way out of there.

  After a few more minutes, she felt something: not brick, not plaster, but — eureka! — wood. The door. Gaby immediately felt for a handle or lock and found it. Still trying to hold on to the broken bottle and the keys, she hurriedly shoved one of the keys into the keyhole, willing it to be the one that belonged. It was not to be.

  Wobbliness, not dexterity, was par for the course and she dropped the keys to the floor in her haste to shove the next key in. As Gaby felt on the floor for the set of keys, she heard a noise. Or at least, she was certain she had heard a noise. She froze momentarily, listening to be sure. Nothing, there was nothing more. She wondered if the noise had merely been the sound of her own shoe scraping against the rubble on the floor. She was on her feet again.

  Attempting to steady herself, she began with the keys again, not knowing for sure which ones she had already tried.

  She paused. This time she was sure there had been a noise. “God dammit Gaby,” she chided herself under her breath, as she realised that, although she had crushed the casing of Clinton’s asthma inhaler, she had not removed the cylinder. “You should have taken it with you, you idiot,” she whined, knowing that Clinton need only use his nail or a cufflink to press down the release in order to get a puff directly from the cylinder itself. All he needed was a small puff and to get out of that room, away from the perfume and turps, in order to recover.

  She did not listen for any more noises. Instead, she turned her attention back to the keys. Four attempts later she was sure she had been through the bunch — no matches. Gaby’s hands were wet and she could feel sticky moisture on her neck at the base of her head. She cursed herself and began again. There was only one key that went all the way in; that had to be the one. Trying to breathe steadily and calm herself, she placed the second key in. It was the one that went in all the way. She jiggled it in the keyhole. Yes, it was moving, slightly, but encouragingly.

  Suddenly, there was a thud. Gaby froze, petrified. This time she was certain the noise had emanated from the room where she had been with Clinton. She did not pause to listen or verify, but grabbed the key and ripped it frantically. It grated and then, finally, it turned. Gaby turned the door handle and threw her weight against the door, her heart now beating uncontrollably. She was drenched in sweat, her legs wanted to give way, and every nerve fibre in her being felt short-circuited by fear and panic. She could hear Clinton’s voice and the other door crashing open.

  Gaby found herself in what appeared to be a large, well-lit basement room. On three sides were walls and on the fourth was a bricked-in window. Gaby turned around and locked the door behind her; she needed to buy time. In spite of her terror, Gaby was imbued with a sense of hope as she saw a stairway in the far corner of the room, leading to a door. Wasting no time, she raced up the staircase as fast as her wobbly legs would oblige and, at the same time, she selected a key, praying to God it would be the one to open the door. The door, of course, was locked. She could now hear Clinton shouting obscenities and ramming his body against the locked door. Frantically, she tried a key while she clung to the broken perfume bottle in one hand. No joy. She looked down into the room to see the door shaking and straining against its hinges. One more almighty ram and Clinton would be in. Gaby was petrified; she could now hear muffled voices and noises on the other side of the other door too — undoubtedly Sorin’s brothers and Renata’s clan. The almighty slam came and Clinton burst into the room. In a nanosecond he was at the base of the stairs. Gaby swung around to face him.

  “I want you to know that you and Meagan were never meant to die — we were all victims!” he roared powerfully. Then he began to ascend the stairs. Gaby could see the grim and gritty look on his face, he was calmly confident that she had run out of options, that her hand had been played. He was the predator who always got his prey. An overwhelming sense of calm and strength came over Gaby and the events of the past year flashed through her head like a mental collage. Those events had led to this peak moment: Gaby versus Clinton, and she intended to fight all the way. She waited a few more strategic moments. Clinton was within touching distance and she held his gaze intensely. Without warning, she hurled the bunch of keys into his face. He flinched and let out an involuntary cry of pain as one of the keys caught his eye. Undeterred and even more ferocious and vile, he cursed at Gaby and prepared for his final assault. But Gaby knew she had something on her side, something very powerful indeed: gravity. She launched her body at Clinton, thudding into him and sending them both hurtling down the staircase.

  Clinton’s body crashed against the lower stairs and Gaby heard a bone-shattering crunch as her brother wailed in agony. Gaby’s own torso ploughed into Clinton’s, the blow to her chest winding her and the momentum throwing her head over heels into the wall. Gaby tried to right herself, but she was dazed and battling to regain her breath. She could sense Clinton moving very painfully near her legs. How badly was he injured? she wondered. Gaby’s attention turned to her right hand. Where was the broken bottle? A surge of new energy coursed through her body as she realised that it was still there in her hand; her subconscious mind had impelled her to cling to it, even though her conscious mind had momentarily blanked. Gaby was about to try to use her legs to help her to sit up when, to her horror, Clinton was there alongside her. He had managed to raise himself to his haunches and now had the advantage over the prone Gaby. His face was grey-green and full of pain. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth but the aura of evil surrounding him was unbelievable. He reached out and grabbed Gaby by the throat, his huge manicured hands like a vice around her neck. With every bit of her remaining strength, Gaby lashed out with the bottle, catching the left side of Cli
nton’s neck. Although a gash emerged out of which crimson blood began to spray, Clinton would not let go of Gaby’s neck.