by M K Farrar
“I do care about you, Edward,” she tried, desperately. “I was caring about you. I’ve got into trouble because of it. I risked my job. You didn’t have to do this to me to get me to care about you.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” he muttered, his fingers still twisting and curling around the ends of her hair.
“Yes, you did. There is always a choice.”
“Stop it.” He yanked on her hair, white hot agony spearing her scalp. “This isn’t how this is supposed to go. Stop talking.”
Amy clamped her lips shut, terrified she was going to say something to make things worse.
How can they be any worse than they already are? I’m locked in a cellar with the remains of a dead body.
But one thing she was supposed to be good at was reading people—though she’d already failed horribly with Edward—and her comments had clearly agitated him. He was capable of killing, and she didn’t want to drive him to murdering her as well.
“You need help, Edward.”
He gave a laugh that somehow made him sound younger than he was. “I thought you were going to help me. You are going to help me, aren’t you, Doctor Penrose? Maybe I can call you Amy now? I think that would be right, wouldn’t it? You can take her place. You can look after me.”
“How can I look after you when I’m down here, tied up?”
“Being here is enough.” He moved in closer.
He didn’t seem to notice the wet patch on her trousers or the stink of urine in the air. Maybe she was more akin to it because it was her own smell, or perhaps he simply didn’t care.
He sat beside her and huddled into her.
Amy sat frozen in terror. He was curled up against her body—this strange man-child—while Amy sat with her back pressed to the cold cellar wall.
“She used to put me to bed,” he said. “Every night, we’d go through the same routine of a bath and warm milk, and then she’d tell me a prayer. That was before she started to hate me.”
“I’m sure she never hated you.” Her voice was a whisper.
“She did. She knew what I was becoming. I frightened her, and she should have been frightened.”
Yes, she should. Poor Susan Swain. How must it feel to know there’s something wrong with your own child? That the love you gave them was taken and poisoned into something else.
“I want you to tell me the same prayer she used to.”
“What do you want me to say?” Her voice tremored. She didn’t know any prayers off by heart, she didn’t think. Maybe the Lord’s Prayer, which she might have heard a handful of times on the few occasions she’d been to church, but that was about all.
His voice grew soft and wistful as he spoke.
“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
All the angels watching over me.
Amen.”
“Amen,” she parroted back, not knowing what else she was supposed to do.
“Now you say them.”
“Now I lay me down to sleep—” But her fear eradicated the remainder of the prayer from her mind. “I...I can’t remember it.”
“Don’t worry. I have the words written here.”
His hands went to the button of his jeans.
Panic flared through her. “No, stop! What are you doing?”
“I wanted to carry those words with me for all time.”
He removed his jeans, leaving only a pair of white Y-fronts and his T-shirt.
Her worst fear went through her mind. Would he rape her? This boy she’d come to care about, who she’d clearly got so very wrong? The thought sickened and horrified her. She’d have to take her mind somewhere else, imagine herself to be in another place entirely. People did that—she knew from her studies. Their minds were so traumatised that they were able to block out whole events. It was often why victims were unable to recall any details that people would normally expect someone to remember, such as what the attacker looked like or what car he drove. It could make a victim appear as though they were making things up, when in fact they were simply blocking out the details because their minds couldn’t cope with knowing.
If he raped her, would he kill her afterwards?
Maybe that would be something she should hope for? Dying would be kinder than having to suffer that happening over and over. Or if she managed to survive, was there the chance she’d be found?
He huddled back in against her, his head on her shoulder, and used the torch to illuminate his bare leg.
Amy sucked in a sharp breath.
All this time, she’d believed his father hurt him. How wrong she’d been. Edward did self-harm, and in a sick and twisted way.
Multiple cuts littered his skin, and she remembered the specks of blood that had seeped through his jeans back at her flat. She’d thought perhaps Robert had hurt him, or that he’d scraped himself when he’d been climbing through her bathroom window. But now she saw them for what they were—the words of the poem his mother used to recite to him etched into his skin. The mother he’d claimed to love too much.
The same mother he’d killed.
“See,” he said, and she detected a note of pride in his tone. “You can read them while you’re holding me.”
The letters were facing upwards, so she could read them looking down. Her eyes filled with tears of horror and shame and revulsion. What was he going to do to her while she read those words carved in flesh, over and over?
He moved in closer and lay his head on her chest. Amy froze, her entire body rigid with dread. He hooked his thigh—the one with the words of the poem—over the bottom half of her torso, pinning her to the cold brick floor, and also bringing it up high enough to allow her to read. The top of his head was beneath her chin, and he nuzzled her breast. A whimper of fear escaped her lips.
“Read it.”
So, she did, repeating the prayer his mother had told him each night before bed.
“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep—” her voice broke, but she kept going.
“If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
All the angels watching over me.
Amen.”
“Again,” he demanded.
She choked back a sob but did what he said.
“Again.”
Again.
Again...
Chapter Twenty-seven
At some point, Edward fell asleep, and she was left trapped beneath a monster.
The light from the torch was still on, and her mouth was un-taped. But with her hands behind her back, she couldn’t even pick up the torch and use it to shine the light around and try to see if there was any other way out of here.
Her back ached from the seated position, and her legs and backside were numb. She glanced down at the top of Edward’s head, still pressed against her breasts. It wasn’t in a sexual way, however, and she was grateful for that.
Her mind raced. Could she hurt him somehow? If she swung both her knees up, could she hit him in the face hard enough to disorientate him? But her legs were stiff, the material of her jeans wet and cold and restrictive. She doubted she’d be able to get enough motion or power in her legs to do much harm to anyone. She’d probably more likely pull a muscle than anything else.
That struck a funny bone in her, and she snorted a crazed laugh.
“Don’t try anything.”
She jumped at his voice, cool and smooth, and not heavy with sleep in the slightest. Had he been sleeping at all, or was that just another trick? Another manipulation?
“I wasn’t,” she replied. “I’m just uncomfortable.”
Edward sat up straight, moving away from her. She exhaled a sigh of relief at the sudden sense of freedom—even though she was still tied up in a cellar. He picked up his jeans and pulled them back on. Amy shifted positions, rolling her shoul
ders and stretching out her back. The wetness from her jeans didn’t feel as though it had dried at all, and her skin was itchy.
Edward turned his back on her. Was he leaving? Though she didn’t want to be trapped down here, she didn’t want to spend any more time with Edward either.
The boy went back to the gap in the floorboards and reached up, retrieving something he’d left up there.
A bottle of water and a sandwich wrapped in paper. And something else, too—a fresh roll of tape.
She didn’t know what to make of the items. If he was going to feed her and give her water, then he wasn’t planning on killing her right away, unless, of course, he’d poisoned the food and drink and intended to kill her slowly.
No, he wants to keep you down here to replace the mother he’s already murdered.
Her whole body shuddered at the thought.
He returned to her. “Here.”
He pressed the lip of the bottle to her mouth and tipped it up. Water spilled across her tongue, and despite herself, she drank gratefully.
“Now eat.”
She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
“If I tell you to eat, you eat.”
She opened her mouth and forced a bite.
It seemed like a stupid thing to worry about, considering the circumstances, but what would happen when she needed to use the bathroom for more than just a wee? It was one thing urinating in her clothes, but she couldn’t shit in them as well. The humiliation would be too great. A part of her thought she’d rather be dead.
“It’s chicken salad,” Edward said. “Isn’t that your favourite?”
Amy choked back a sob.
He’d been the one following her. She bet he was the one who’d stolen her purse, and ordered that damned doll, too. She’d even told him that she and Gary had broken up. She might as well have just written a sign announcing she was alone and vulnerable.
But if she wanted to get through this alive, she had to keep her strength up, so she did her best to chew and swallow, forcing the food past the lump in her throat. If she did manage to survive, she didn’t think she’d ever eat another chicken sandwich again.
“That’s enough,” he suddenly announced.
He tore off a strip from the roll of tape and plastered it back over her mouth. Amy squeezed her eyes shut, tears spilling from the corners and down her cheeks. She didn’t want her mouth taped, but at least it meant he was leaving. She hoped he’d forget the torch, so at least she’d have some light, but he picked it up and stuffed it in his back pocket.
“Be good,” he told her.
And then he turned and hauled himself back up through the gap in the floorboards. A moment later, the boards were replaced, sealing her back in the dark once more.
With him gone, Amy let out a sob. She rocked back and forth, trying to get her head around the nightmare she’d found herself in. Would anyone come looking for her? No one was expecting her in at work. Was today Sunday, or was it Monday already? She couldn’t be sure.
It felt like forever since that evening in her bathroom, when everything she’d known about this boy and his family had been wrong. How much time had passed since she’d been down here? A day? Two? It was almost impossible to keep track of time.
She knew what people would say and think. A twelve-year-old boy. How could she not have defended herself? He was a child. But even at this age, he was taller than her, and she’d made the same mistake all those people would have fallen for, too.
His youth was a mask he hid his true face behind.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The hours passed.
Cold, afraid, and exhausted, she slept again.
Now I lay me down to sleep...
She woke to the scraping of the sofa across the floor. The floorboards were removed, and Edward came down, and they went through the same routine of her repeating the prayer. She didn’t need to see the lines now, etched into his skin. She knew the words off by heart. They were scorched onto her brain.
When he’d had enough, he gave her food and water and left again.
Where was Robert while all this was happening? Sometimes, it sounded as though there were two sets of footsteps moving around overhead, and she picked up on the low murmur of conversation. Robert knew she was down here, and it made her furious that he was doing nothing to help her. Of course, if she were to go free, he’d most likely go to prison for his role in covering up his wife’s murder, and Edward would also serve time—though he was still too young for prison and would most likely end up in a secure children’s home. Was Robert more concerned about saving his own neck or his son’s?
The hours slipped into days. Faced with the problem of needing the bathroom, she begged Edward for something she could use as a toilet. He eventually brought her a bucket and placed it in the corner of the cellar. He took off her jeans—and she was happy to see the back of the urine-soaked clothing—but left her underwear, which she discovered she was able to pull down enough using the backs of her hands to allow herself to use the bucket. She stank and was deeply ashamed of her own filth, but Edward didn’t even seem to notice. He was still more than happy to curl up beside her, his head on her chest while she repeated what he wanted to hear.
Afterwards, he brought her food and water, as though it was her reward for doing well, and then left her alone again.
AMY WOKE, INITIALLY disorientated, just as she always was. In her dreams, she was never trapped down here, but instead was back at home in her flat, or sometimes even in her mother’s house. It was better to sleep and be anywhere else than here.
She’d fallen asleep on her side, and, as she pushed herself back to sitting, she realised something had changed. The tape across her mouth felt looser than normal.
She must have dribbled in her sleep, and, in doing so, the saliva had loosened one corner.
Amy poked out her tongue and wiggled it around the spot where the tape had come loose. Her heart galloped. Yes, it was definitely coming free. She used her shoulder to scrape at the part that had lost its stickiness. One side of the tape came free, flapping from her mouth. She could hardly believe it. She parted her lips and worked her jaw, getting the other side loose as well.
Heavy footsteps sounded overhead. They were too loud to be Edward’s.
Robert.
With nothing else to do down here in the dark, she’d become attuned to the sound of their bodyweight. She knew where each floorboard creaked and could pinpoint their exact position in the house, memorising it from when she’d been here before when she’d been checking up on Edward. No wonder Robert had told her to leave then. He’d warned her that something bad would happen to her, but she’d assumed it was him he was warning her about, not his son.
She struggled to her feet and lifted her face to the ceiling.
“Robert!” she shouted. “Robert, you know I’m down here. Don’t let him do this to me. I know you were only protecting your son, but he needs help. I won’t be the last one he does this to if you don’t do something to stop him. Do you hear me?”
The footsteps paused. Yes, he’d heard her.
She pictured his position in her mind, standing in the middle of the lounge, only a matter of a couple of feet away from the sofa and the loose floorboards it hid. He was listening to her.
“Edward will kill me, eventually, if you don’t help. You don’t need to have my death on your conscience as well. You can be a hero, Robert. People will understand that you were trying to protect your son.”
More footsteps, only this time from the right, where the staircase started, or ended, depending on your point of view.
Robert’s feet shuffled above.
She picked up on Edward’s voice—not clear enough to make out what he was saying, but loud enough for her to make out the tone.
Her heart lurched.
Robert was frightened of his son. Maybe he loved him, too, but mostly, he was scared of what Edward was capable of.
He’d heard her.
She lost control, sucking in a breath as deep as possible, and screamed as loud as she could. “Help! Someone help! I’m down here. Someone please, help me!”
The scrape of the sofa being dragged to one side. He was coming.
Her ankles were still taped together, but she hopped and shuffled towards the end of the cellar she thought was closest to the road. How much distance was there between the cellar floor and the ground above? It had all been blocked up, but if someone was walking by on the pavement, was there a chance they’d hear her? A chance was all she needed.
“Help! Help me.”
She managed to get past the wrapped remains of Susan Swain. Above her head, the first floorboard came up, allowing a shaft of light to penetrate the cellar. She didn’t have much time.
“He’s holding me captive!” The second board was pulled up. “Please, someone, anyone!”
The remaining boards were removed. Amy glanced over her shoulder in panic as a set of legs appeared through the hole. Her throat burned from screaming. He was coming, and no one else was. No one was going to help her. This was it for her now.
Edward’s gangly body dropped into the cellar. He landed on his feet and twisted towards her.
“Be quiet!”
Three long strides brought him in front of her. She dropped to her knees, instinctively trying to make herself smaller. He was twelve years old, but he towered over her.
Amy let out a whimper.
“I said be quiet!” He swung his fist, connecting his knuckles directly with her mouth.
Pain burst through her face, and she fell backwards, landing on the floor. She tasted blood, and instantly felt her top lip swell to what she assumed was almost twice its size. Unable to put her hands down to save herself, she cracked the side of her head against the brick, and stars burst in her vision.
Edward pulled a roll of tape out from behind his back.
One half of the original tape that had been covering her mouth still clung to the side of her face, and he reached down and yanked it off, not caring if that hurt her as well. She didn’t even get the chance to spit blood before he stuck the fresh piece across her lips. She had a moment of hope, thinking the tape wouldn’t stick because her mouth was bleeding, but instead of tearing the tape off in a short strip, he wound it around the back of her head and around again, ensuring there was no way she’d be able to get it off herself this time. Not that it mattered. Her screaming hadn’t done any good. All she’d succeeded in doing was getting herself more hurt.
