Hand for a Hand

by T. Frank Muir

  Fingers dug into her hair, twisted her head to face him, face it.

  “Open your eyes.”

  She started to cry then, her breath rushing in and out of her nasal passages, short sharp blasts that made her think she might pass out. She had read somewhere that hyperventilation could make you faint. She shortened her breaths, prayed she would pass out.

  His grip tightened. She whimpered from the pain.

  “Open your eyes, bitch.”

  Quick breaths. Fast and hard.

  “Open them, you fucking bitch.”

  Please God. Don’t let him. Not again. I’ll spew and choke. I know I will.

  He was close. She could tell by the way his breath rasped, the way his grip clutched and scratched her hair. She had looked once, had opened her eyes the first time, had seen how his face twisted in an ugly grimace as he climaxed.

  Dear God. He’s coming. He’s coming.

  She squeezed her eyes, heard him groan as sperm hit her forehead in a warm squirt. Another over her cheek. And one more. Then drips like syrup that oozed down her cheek and threatened to slide behind the gag and over her lips. She lowered her head, felt his sperm slither over her chin and drip free.

  She had not done as he had asked. She had not opened her eyes. He would give her no water. Which was now what she wanted.

  Without water, she would die.

  Please God, let me die. Just let me die.

  Chapter 26

  BUT SHE DID not die.

  Instead, she was photographed.

  He took the Polaroid prints into another room, from where she heard the metallic click of a staple gun. When he came back, she tried to stare him out. But a glob of sperm slipped into the corner of her right eye, and she closed it, losing her short-lived resistance.

  “Get up.”

  She cut back her cry as he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her upright.

  “I said get up.”

  She tried to stand, she truly did, but her legs gave out. She shook her head, felt slime by her eye drip free, then gagged a scream as a knife flashed in front of her. She whimpered as the blade pressed against her calf, then watched in disbelief as it sliced through the cords around her ankles. She tried to turn as he walked behind her, but a heavy boot against her shoulder forced her face against the wall as the rope that had held her hands behind her back for the last three days and kept her captive to an iron ring on the wall, was cut. Another slice, this time at the back of her neck, and the gag slipped loose.

  She gulped in lungfuls of air, lolling her tongue like a panting dog.

  “Get up.”

  She pulled her hands from behind her back and grimaced from a pain that burned like fire in her shoulders. She gripped the gag, used it to wipe sperm from her eyes and face. Her fingers felt thick and stiff, as if they belonged to someone else. She twisted into a sitting position, but slumped to the floor. Her head hit the floorboards, but she felt no pain, only a numbing sense of relief at being able to move her arms, her legs, breathe unrestricted.

  “Don’t make me have to say it again.”

  “Water.” But the voice that cracked from her dried throat did not sound like her own.

  He held the bottle out.

  She grabbed it, forced herself upright, ignoring the clotty dampness at her rump, and drank. Long glorious gulps of cool clean water that overflowed from her mouth and spilled down her chin. She coughed, almost choked, took another mouthful then remembered reading somewhere that too much water after a time without could make you sick.

  “For the last time,” he snarled, “get up.”

  She pressed a hand to the floor and rolled over onto her knees. A bit wobbly, but the benefit of fluids in her system was already doing wonders for her strength and morale. She wondered for one crazy moment if she could make a run for it, but knew she would not manage ten feet without being caught.

  She flapped a hand at the wall, and steadied herself, then held her head as high as she could. “I’m up.”

  “Strip.”

  “Fuck off.” Her tongue was not working the way it should, but it felt good cursing.

  He leaned to the side, opened a holdall that she had not noticed, reached inside, and removed a handful of crumpled clothes. He dropped them to the floor.

  “Now take off your fucking clothes and get into these.”

  “In case it’s escaped your attention,” she said, “I’m covered in shit.”

  He backed up to the door and stepped outside, then reappeared in the doorway with a garden hose in his hands. “We can do this in there or out here. I don’t give a fuck.”

  Maureen blinked, fighting back tears of hope. Was she being set free? It seemed impossible. But he was giving her clean clothes, offering her a wash.

  “Outside,” she whispered.

  “Strip first,” he ordered.

  Sweet fresh air wafted into the hut on a chilling breeze. If she did as she was told, she could be washed and wearing clean clothes and underwear in a few minutes. That thought alone was almost enough to make her move. She caught the sound of traffic somewhere off in the distance, the scent of cooked meat on the wind, and felt her stomach knot with hunger. When had she last eaten? Three days ago? She was weak, did not have the strength to fight back or make a sustained run for it.

  Even if she knew where to run to.

  She made her decision.

  She crossed her arms, flinched with the pain of flexing stiffened muscles, grimaced at the sight of bloodied and bruised wrists, and tugged her top up and over and dropped it to the floor. Undid her zip at the side, and let her skirt fall off. She choked at the sight of her inner thighs, coated with faeces and glistening damp from fresh urine. She had become inured to the stench, but against the fresh air the rancid guff hit her with renewed strength.

  Hands behind her back, off with her bra.

  Oh, God. Just do it.

  Thumbs hooked in her knickers, dropped to the floor.

  She fought back a choke of disgust and staggered outside into the night air.

  Cold water hit her with a shock that trapped her breath. She gasped, turned, felt the jet hit her backside, and she faced him again, to hide her mess from him. Her hands slid over her body, her thighs, her behind, her filth washing through her fingers like wet mud.

  “Don’t you have any soap?”

  “Think you’re at the fucking Hilton? Get on with it before I switch it off.”

  She swept her hands over her skin, rubbing and brushing.

  The jet stopped.

  “I’m not clean,” she pleaded, then shielded her face as a blast hit her again.

  “Fucking hurry up then.”

  When she pushed her hands through her hair the jet stopped.

  She stood shivering from the cold, watching his dark eyes study her nakedness.

  “Get the clothes.”

  Back inside the hut, the fetid air almost choked her. She pressed her hand to her nose, amazed that she had breathed in that vile stench for so long. She picked up the bundle and rushed outside.

  He stood on a slabbed path that slipped between bushes at the side of a bungalow that looked vaguely familiar. She assumed that had to be the way out, but in the darkness could not be sure. And she could not stop a tremor that now gripped her limbs. Running was out of the question.

  She tugged at the clothing. “Do you have a towel?”

  “Get the fuck dressed before I change my mind.”

  She separated the bundle to find it consisted of only a skirt and a sweater.

  “There’s no underwear,” she said.

  He looked away, gobbed off to the side.

  She turned her back to him and slipped on the skirt. It felt tight, too tight to fasten at the waist. But it was long and black and woollen soft. She pulled on the top, a black woollen sweater, thin at the elbows, with cuffs frayed and stained with paint. It felt tight around her boobs, but she felt warmth seep through her system, despite being wet.

  Then a hand
gripped her hair, twisted her head, and she gasped as the cold steel of a blade pressed to her throat. “One squeak and I’ll slit you from ear to fucking ear.” Breath as stale as cigarette ash warmed her face. “Now start walking.”

  She was prodded along a slabbed pathway, between bushes to the dark hulk of a car she recognised as a BMW. The boot was already open.

  “Get in.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Get the fuck in.”

  At least he was not going to gag her, or tie her hands and feet. She lifted one leg over the rim, then the other, and ducked just in time as the boot lid slammed shut. She listened to the sound of footsteps fading, and imagined him returning to the shed to put out the light and lock the door. Cover their tracks? Why would he do that if she was being set free? And if she was being freed, why would he lock her in the boot of his car?

  Oh, God, I’m wrong, I’m wrong. He’s going to kill me.

  But her rationale insisted he would not have had her clean herself if he was going to kill her. Confused, she lay on her back, pleased to feel her thighs clear of the tackiness of the last few days. But the cold shower had not rid her skin of the smell of defecation that clung to her like smoke to clothing. She fumbled around, but the darkness was total and the boot-space solid. She lay still. Where had he gone? Was she to be freed? Dear God, tell me he’s going to let me go. Tell me he’s not going to do any more of that to me.…

  But the truth sank inside her like an anchor into dark waters, pulling hope down with it. She had seen his face and knew he would not let witnesses to his sadistic crimes roam the streets. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to take me away somewhere and slit my throat. Her eyes strained into the darkness. She had never been scared of the dark before, but as she lay there in the black silence she felt the warm sting of tears in her eyes—

  Footsteps.

  She held her breath as they stopped at the back of the BMW. The lock popped, and she shielded her face as the boot lid opened.

  It was him again. Smiling. Something in his hand.

  He leaned into the boot, placed it by her face.

  “Look after this,” he said.

  She stared at it.

  Horror seared her throat in a voiceless scream.

  She scrambled away from it, pushed herself back, felt her head hit metal, her legs kick like a trapped swimmer, her arms flail the air for some way out.

  The boot lid slammed with a thud.

  She screamed then. A primal scream that reflected the terror she had seen in Chloe’s sightless eyes.

  GILCHRIST WAKENED WITH a start.

  He had been dreaming, more nightmare than dream.

  Maureen had been speaking to him in a language he knew but could not place. Then he realised she was speaking the language of the dead. He had reached for her then, but with every step she seemed to fade away, so that when he grabbed her she was nothing more than a shadow dancing in the mirror of his imagination, weak and faint as the vaguest remnants of his oldest dream.

  That was when he came to.

  His T-shirt clung to his skin like damp cloth. He struggled to still the jackhammer pounding in his chest. He glanced at his radio clock—3:33.

  He breathed in, almost sobbed. Dear God, tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me that if I had never joined the force Maureen’s life would not now be in danger. His head slumped into his hands and he choked back a sob. He clenched his jaw and looked up. He had to get a grip. He had to get on with it. Moping around wasn’t going to solve a damn thing. But how was he supposed to think, when his daughter was next in line to be served up to him in bits?

  He staggered into the shower, scrubbed himself with soap as if he wanted to rip his skin from his bones. An early morning shower often brought his thoughts into focus, but ten minutes later he stepped from the cubicle none the wiser.

  In the kitchen he poured a glass of orange juice, then checked with the Office. But no one had any news for him. He tried Dainty on his mobile, but it rang out. He got through to Pitt Street, but was told Dainty would not be in until 8:00. He asked for a home number but the receptionist declined to give it out. He next called Directory Enquiries for Strathclyde Drug Squad, but when he asked for Watt he was surprised to be told they had no record of a Ronnie Watt, Ron Watt, Ronald Watt, or any variation of that name, either at Detective Sergeant or Constable level.

  Gilchrist gave a whispered curse as he hung up.

  What the hell was going on? If Strathclyde had no record of Watt, did that mean Watt had pulled one over on Greaves? Watt would be transferred to Fife only on written authority. Had Watt faked the transfer, or was Greaves in on it? Or was he just pissing up against the wrong tree?

  He checked his watch. He would make one more call.

  “This is DCI Gilchrist,” he said. “How much have you printed?”

  “Mr. Gilchrist?” grumbled Leighton. “It’s 5:00 in the morning.”

  “You said you would call.”

  “I’ve been quite busy working on them.”

  “In that case, I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Give me what you’ve got.”

  He pulled on his black leather jacket and stepped out into a cold east coast morning.

  Today he would find his daughter.

  Even if he had to die doing so.

  Chapter 27

  LEIGHTON SCOWLED AT him. “Through there,” he said, and pointed to a door at the end of the hallway. “I don’t like being wakened at this time of the morning.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Gilchrist brushed past and entered the room. An oak dining table with folded leaves, reminiscent of the one his grandmother used to have, centred the cramped space. Reams of printed paper stacked the table’s polished surface. On a coffee table to the side, Maureen’s laptop sat hooked to an HP DeskJet printer. Two opened boxes of copier paper squatted on the carpet.

  “Is this it?” Gilchrist asked.

  “As much as I’ve printed thus far.”

  Gilchrist flipped through several pages. Leighton had printed them in chronological order and divided them into piles by year. A single sheet listed the file names in each stack.

  “Is there much more?” he asked.

  “That’s only one day’s printing.”

  Gilchrist removed his wallet. “Ten hours cover it so far?”

  Leighton did not hesitate. “That should just about do it.”

  Gilchrist knew he was being ripped off, but peeled ten twenties from his wallet and passed them to Leighton. He picked up the printed reams. “How soon until you print the rest?”

  Leighton shrugged. “Another day or so?”

  “Too long. I need them tonight.”

  “I can only print out as fast as my printer will allow.”

  “Get another printer,” he snapped. “Get two. I’m paying your expenses. I need them tonight, no later than seven.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time.”

  “You’d better get on with it then,” he said, and strode down the hall.

  THE BMW DREW to a halt.

  Its engine purred in the quiet of some deserted spot. Maureen knew it was deserted, because the sound of traffic had stopped fifteen minutes earlier. They were in the countryside somewhere. But even if she knew how far they had travelled, she did not know the starting point, or in which direction they had come. They could be anywhere.

  The engine died.

  She listened to the sounds of the door opening, closing, then footsteps crunching the length of the car. The footsteps stopped.

  The boot lid popped open.

  Before she had time to move, fingers as tight as talons grabbed her by the hair.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  He pulled her upright, and she squealed, “You’re hurting me.”

  A blow to the side of her head sent her slamming into the dark confines of the boot.

  Warm breath by her ear. “If you want to see your old man again, shut the fuck up, and do as you
’re told.”

  Hope and fear surged through her in a confusing wave. If she did as she was told, she would see her father again. But why mention her father, not her mother? Did he know her mother was ill? If he knew that, what else did he know?

  “Sign this.”

  She peered up. The sky was still dark, but she caught the high-pitched chatter of birdsong. A blackbird? A starling? Did that mean it was morning, not night?

  A beam of light pierced the darkness, and she glimpsed the back of Chloe’s head. When they had driven off, Chloe’s head had rolled into her. She had screamed then, pushed the thing away, hating the feel of Chloe’s hair on her bare skin, just managing to keep down the vomit that threatened to erupt from her throat. She must have jammed it into a hole or something, for the head had not moved for the rest of the journey.

  “Here.”

  She stared at a pen and a rough-edged piece of paper.

  “Sign.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t play the silly cunt.” He leaned down, picked up Chloe’s head, and she gagged back a scream. “If you don’t want this to happen to you,” he growled, “you’d better sign.”

  Once more, hope soared within her.

  If she signed, would he let her go? She took the paper, noticed something was printed on it. “What’s it say?”

  The beam of light shivered across the paper.

  “Vengeance? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just sign the fucking thing.”

  “You’ll let me go then?”

  “I won’t slit your throat, you stupid bitch.”

  Maureen stared at his lantern jaw, made all the more gaunt by several days’ growth, at his filthy moustache yellowed from tobacco smoke. Where was his knife? Could she make a run for it? And once again that thought flew from her mind. She would not stand a chance. She turned to the note and pretended to have difficulty holding the pen. But between looking up at him, then down at the pen, she glanced past him to the bushes by the wall.

  It was morning. She knew by the way the sky was lightening.

  And that was when she saw it, when it hit her that he had no intention of letting her live. She felt the warm release of urine as a tremor gripped her hands. She almost dropped the pen. “Please,” she whimpered. “Please let me go.”