Behind the Facade

by Rebecca Heap

  “However,” Sebastian continued in the same chillingly affable way, “I am not here in my own right. I am acting on behalf of another.”

  He now sat down next to Charlie and put his arm around him in an overtly friendly gesture. Charlie flinched a little, but knew better than to try to move away.

  “My employer is not a bad person. He has never lied. He has never stolen another person’s property.”

  Sebastian fixed his reptilian gaze on Charlie. Why had he ever thought this man handsome? He was like a male Medusa. Beautiful but grotesque at the same time. He should have known he was a dead man as soon as Sebastian first turned those heartless eyes upon him.

  “You, on the other hand, are nothing but a common criminal. You have lied. You have stolen,” his words were accusatory but his tone was still one of friendly banter.

  Charlie shivered, feeling tears burning behind his eyes but he willed them away and gritted his teeth. If he was going to die, he’d be damned if he’d give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing him break down and beg.

  “You have also threatened something most precious…my employer’s reputation. And why? Who knows? Because you felt like it? Because you just couldn’t help yourself?”

  Sebastian now smiled, that wide loose grin, exposing gleaming teeth.

  Charlie quailed.

  He tightened his arm around Charlie. “You are lucky, Charlie. I wish I could do this my way….I could always say that I just couldn’t help myself?”

  Charlie glared defiantly at Sebastian. “That girl isn’t a piece of property! I haven’t done anything wrong! If your employer is behind what happened to her, he is the criminal.”

  Sebastian leapt up at this and laughed out loud. “Aha!” he declared. “It speaks at last! Oh and what wise words too!”

  He spun back to Charlie and yanked him to his feet, his voice now devoid of any humanity, “You are mistaken. That girl was legitimately bought, sold and paid for. You should not have interfered. And now you must take the consequences.”

  Charlie felt a tear escape and slip down his face. He whispered fiercely, “You won’t get away with this!”

  “I’m afraid this isn’t the movies Charlie, my boy. No-one is going to save you.”

  Sebastian eyed him up like a predator circling its helpless prey. “Take off your coat and empty all your pockets,” he commanded.

  Charlie had no choice but to do as instructed, knowing that the invoice he had kept with him would seal his fate as surely as a death warrant. Sebastian pounced on the paper and opened it out, his face indecently beatific with delight as he read the information on it.

  “This never existed,” he stated bluntly. He took out a lighter and set fire to it. Charlie watched numbly as it turned to ashes and crumbled to the carpet, the Christian mantra “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” tramping stupidly through his brain.

  He was shoved through to the kitchen, forced into a chair at the table and given a pen and paper. Sebastian dictated a note, which declared his misery and resulting desire to kill himself. He performed all this in a kind of daze, doing exactly as he was told, his psyche now far removed, as though already severed from his body. By contrast, his senses were queerly heightened and everything seemed sharper and more vivid, from the metallic ticking of the kitchen clock to the whorls and striations in the stained oak of the table.

  Sebastian had set up another chair with a thin noose hanging above it. Charlie recognised his own green washing line. How helpful of him, he thought detachedly, to have rafters in his kitchen, just right for the job.

  He looked back down at the suicide note he was writing as he came to sign his name. He hesitated for a moment but a none too gentle prod with Sebastian’s gun and a curtly ordered “Finish it!” prompted him to add his signature. Something about the finality of this re-animated him and the thought burst into his mind that, accepting the inevitability of his death was not the same as accepting the way this psycho wanted to portray it; fighting him now could screw up his perfect little suicide tableau.

  Charlie clenched the pen in his hand and tensed, adrenaline sluicing through his system. He began to get to his feet, intending to suddenly swing his arm up and round, aiming for his tormentor’s eyes.

  Sebastian was way ahead of him. Before he’d even stood, he was pushed brutally forward onto the table, his head held down viciously against the unyielding wood. The pen was prised from his fingers and Sebastian’s now familiar voice breathed with merciless humour in his ear, “I am a professional, Charlie. There's nothing you can do that I haven't already anticipated.”

  Things now happened very quickly. Before he could form another coherent thought, he was standing on the chair with the noose being tautened around his neck. He struggled reflexively, his body now on autopilot, concerned only with survival. However, this only served to tighten the ligature and he began to gasp and cough, trying in vain to twist away, panic now turning his guts to acid and causing a caustic bile to rise and burn in his throat. The chair was kicked away from beneath him and his body dropped, the pressure on his oesophagus now an unremitting vice.

  Charlie swung and kicked out, clawing frantically but ineffectively at the home-made garrotte, designed to drag out his dying throes as long as possible. The pitiless laughter of his murderer boomed and then faded in his ears, in time with the pounding of his blood, like a percussion orchestra gone mad. Bright stars burst in his vision and then a creeping blackness began to seep around the edges, a remorseless tide that had come to drown him.

  As his life seeped away, his grandmother's face slowly formed out of the swirling dark and, even in his agony, he smiled. She was the only family who had ever loved and accepted him. Sebastian noticed this and stopped laughing. Why is he smiling? he thought. He shouldn't be fucking smiling! He almost moved towards his dying victim but managed to rein in his anger, as a voice screamed in his head “Don't mark him! You don't want to fuck it all up now!”

  His high spirits deserted him and he watched with a scowl as Charlie’s body stopped spasming and finally went still.

  CHAPTER 12

  Michael Hunter strode purposefully into the sales office of Pearson's Bespoke Cars and introduced himself at the large reception desk. He was a fairly tall man with warm hazel eyes, neatly cropped brown hair and a full but beautifully clipped beard.

  After fifteen minutes, he was called through to Harry Pearson's office. Michael had been preparing for this meeting a long time and despite his natural confidence, he couldn't help feeling the perspiration breaking out on his palms, as nerves started to kick in. There was a lot riding on this.

  Harry was facing away from him when he walked in and he turned briefly only to direct him to a chair. He was smoking a fat cigar and surveying the sprawling city spread out before him through the floor to ceiling window. After leaving Michael to sweat it out a bit longer, he turned his penetrating eyes upon him.

  “So, Michael isn't it?” he began. “I understand you have a business proposition for me?” He used his first name deliberately to belittle his importance.

  Michael was impressed by the sheer power radiating from this man, but not to be intimidated, he replied firmly, “Yes, Mr Pearson. I think we can come to a very mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  Harry waved his hand impatiently for him to continue, saying “Go on then. Sell yourself and do it quickly. I'm a very busy man. If this is a waste of my time, don't think I won't charge you for it.”

  “I know that currently you don't do business with the US, but I think you have overlooked a very lucrative proposition.”

  Harry frowned a little at this. Michael realised he shouldn't have begun in quite so arrogant a fashion. He cleared his throat and continued. “What I mean to say is, as a successful exporter of specialist US cars, I’m well established and have excellent contacts. I can offer maintenance and servicing as part of the whole package. US cars are appealing to the bespoke customer because of their distinctiveness. I know you currently on
ly import European and Japanese cars but I think there is definitely an untapped market for American vehicles. I think with our combined expertise, we will make an unbeatable team.”

  Michael then pulled out a memory stick, saying “All the information regarding my own business is on here. With your permission, I'll leave it with you to review at your leisure. If you like what you see, please get back in touch with me.”

  He then stood up, holding out his hand to be shaken. Harry just glanced at it disdainfully. “I'll shake your hand, Hunter, if and when I think there is a deal to be had here.”

  Michael tried not to let his vexation show. “I understand, Sir. Thank you for your time. I won't take up any more of it.”

  He was about to turn and leave but then he spun back to Harry, locked his ochre eyes on Harry's obsidian ones and said, “You will be shaking my hand, Mr. Pearson. I’m absolutely sure of it.”

  Michael noticed that Harry's eyebrows did twitch a little in obvious surprise at this but he left the room before Harry could parry this parting riposte.

  Once Michael had left, Harry picked up the memory stick and looked at it contemplatively. On first meeting, the American had seemed a bit of an idiot and he had been inclined to dismiss his proposal out of hand. However, that last statement had shown him to be a tenacious bastard, clearly uncowed by Harry and very sure of himself. He turned the memory stick over in his hand and then made a decision. He plugged it into his laptop, did a quick virus scan on it and began reading.

  CHAPTER 13

  Kate stood in front of her wardrobe, assessing the few dresses hanging there and trying to decide which one to wear. She sighed. She wasn't much in the mood for a formal dinner with her father, even if it was her birthday. Surely, it being her birthday, she shouldn't feel obliged to go? All she felt like doing was having a long, hot soak in the bath and then settling down for the evening with just her cat, a good book and a nice glass of wine for company.

  She came across a luxurious gown in deep red that was one of the last things Robert had bought for her. She frowned regretfully. Robert...why had everything gone so wrong? After the kidnap and the accident, he had expected to just pick up where they had left off. But too much had happened and she had changed. She wasn't the same person any more. It didn't help that she had big gaps in her memory that still evaded her. She couldn't even remember the rescue and the ensuing accident – apparently Sebastian had saved her life.

  Her father had always been very protective of her, and his own reputation of course, and had prevailed upon them all to keep her kidnap a secret. She had been recovered after all, her unreliable memory would not satisfy the police and, if knowledge of the kidnap filtered into the public domain, it could have very unwelcome repercussions, perhaps to the extent of inciting other kidnap attempts with the motive of ransom. Her father assumed that this became the aim of her kidnapper when he discovered her identity, as his reason for being in the building was never uncovered but was likely to have been financial gain.

  Robert was persuaded not to press the police to investigate his assault and Kate’s disappearance was attributed to a misunderstanding between them. Her kidnap was therefore never linked to Angela and Angela’s homicide was treated by police as an isolated event. Sebastian maintained that her kidnapper had killed his ex-girlfriend to ensure that she did not reveal his identity. It appeared that this had been a judicious move as, though Harry pursued his own enquiries and also ensured that he was kept informed of all the pertinent details of the case, the killer’s identity had never been discovered.

  Her father would clearly have preferred it if Kate had remained ignorant of Angela’s demise, to save her further pain. However, Sebastian had been too eager to boast that he had saved her from the same fate. Though she was grateful to Sebastian, he never let her forget what she owed him. He liked to stress that the woman had been violently raped before she was murdered. She shuddered a little when she thought of Sebastian’s creepy smile, his over-familiarity with her and his persistent attempts to insinuate his way into her affections.

  It had taken a long time for her to recover from the trauma of her experience and she had never recovered emotionally. She was so relieved to learn that Robert was alive that it had taken some time for her to realise that she wasn’t in love with him any longer. In fact she still felt closed off inside, as though not only her body but her heart had been injected with a numbing painkiller, but one that had never worn off.

  She was spared from feeling too much guilt when it ended, as Robert had also changed, despite his protestations to the contrary. He had misgivings about not reporting the kidnap and he hadn't been able to get over the fact that he had been unable to protect her – it made him less of a man in his eyes. Also, because of her amnesia, even though her instincts and the evidence suggested otherwise, he could never be sure that she hadn't been sexually abused by her kidnapper. He gave away subtle signs, he wasn't even conscious of, that the perfect girl he had idolised was forever lost to him.

  She ran the smooth material of the crimson dress through her fingers. Robert had bought it as a replacement for the dress he said she had been wearing the night of her abduction. She suddenly let go of the dress as if stung. A vivid picture entered her head of standing shivering in an unfamiliar bathroom and flinging that original red dress, tattered beyond belief, to the floor. The image faded only to be replaced by the face that haunted her nightmares, the ruthless, grim face of her kidnapper. Kate slammed the doors of her wardrobe door shut and slid limply to the floor, tears dripping slowly down her face. Would she never be rid of him?

  She eventually recovered herself, stood up and wiped her face with a trembling arm. She checked her watch. She'd better get a move on; her dad was a stickler for punctuality. She ran for the bathroom, thinking as she went, sod wearing a dress, she'd just jump in some jeans and a top and if her father didn't like it, well sod him too!

  Kate entered the restaurant at just past eight o'clock. She had worn jeans as avowed, but had made some concession to formality by putting on a chic designer top and matching it with some expensive jewellery. She was shown to her father's table but balked a little when she noticed that he was not alone. She felt irritated as she approached them; would her father never learn not to mix business and pleasure? Was his time so bloody precious that she couldn't have him to herself even on her birthday?

  The man sitting next to him stood up as she drew near and held out a chair for her. She tried to catch his eye but he seemed to make a point of avoiding eye contact. He sat down and her father introduced him, saying “Kate, this is my new business associate.”

  The man held out his hand and finally met her gaze, introducing himself in a strong American accent, “A pleasure to meet you Kate. I'm Michael.” His grip was firm and now that he had decided to look at her, she was a little unnerved by his intense scrutiny. “I had no idea Harry had such a pretty daughter. Thank God you haven't inherited his looks.”

  Her father chuckled at this and Kate glanced at him in surprise. This man must truly have been accepted into Harry's inner circle, if he was allowed to make comments like this.

  Her father offered her a gift as she sat down.

  “Ah, so you hadn't forgotten,” Kate commented wryly. Her father looked at her in puzzlement, “Of course not, darling girl. Why would you think I had?”

  “Oh, no reason,” she replied. She opened the box, thanking him for the exquisite earrings nestled inside, knowing it wasn't worth explaining to him how much more time alone with him would have meant. She smiled bitterly to herself.

  When she raised her gaze, she noticed Michael watching her. He quickly looked away but, before he did so, she caught sympathy in his eyes. This riled her even more. If he knew he would be an intrusion, he shouldn't have bloody come!

  As dinner was served and the evening progressed, she was amazed by the easy banter between her father and this man. This was something she had never witnessed before. Her father usually found it imp
ossible to abandon the austere persona he had long cultivated, even with her. The raw wound that was her affronted feelings was now further abraded by jealousy and, though Michael possessed a charisma that was almost palpable, she was irked not only by his presence but by his inexplicable refusal to engage in conversation with her. She could eventually take no more and, before dessert was served, she stood up, tears pricking her eyes and announced that she was leaving.

  She collected her purse and stalked out of the restaurant. When she reached the street outside, she remembered that she hadn't brought her car and she clenched her teeth in frustration, the tears flowing freely now. She was certainly not going to humiliate herself further by going back into the restaurant to ring a taxi. She spotted the lights of a cosy looking pub across the road and headed there, glad now that she hadn't dressed too smartly. At least she could lose herself in a stiff drink while she waited.

  As she stood at the bar, she noticed Michael enter the pub. “Oh shit,” she murmured to herself. He came over to her and ignored her protests, as he paid for her drink and ordered himself a whisky. He followed her to a corner table and sat down across from her.

  “I'm really sorry to have spoiled your birthday. I wouldn't have come, only Harry insisted.... just as he insisted I come and find you.” He smiled and she was a little disarmed by the genuine solicitude in his honey-coloured eyes.

  “He did think about coming himself but he felt it was really me who owed you an apology. After all, I'm the real reason you left.”

  Kate was still far from being mollified. She kept a frown on her face and peered down at her drink. “Can I ask you something, then?” she asked.

  “Ask away.”

  “Why did you make it so much more difficult for me to tolerate your presence? Why did you spend the entire night ignoring me?”

  She gazed intently at him but was surprised by the colour that began to creep across his bearded jaw. He dropped his eyes to the table. “I'm not sure I can explain that.” He drained his glass and abruptly stood up.