Death Bed

by Leigh Russell

  And now she was going to die for her stupidity.

  ‘Help!’ Donna struggled to cling onto the faint hope that someone would notice, but it hurt to call out and her voice was no more than a hoarse rasping, all but inaudible in the darkness. Her captor had told her the house was empty and however much noise she made no one would hear her. Giving way to despair she wept. Her chest heaved and her nose ran, but she couldn’t move to wipe away the dribble of snot stinging salty on her cracked upper lip. She licked it and retched. Her thirst was unbearable.

  ‘Help! Somebody please help me!’ she moaned.

  The air reeked with the combined odour of sweat and excrement that mingled with a putrid stench like rotting fish. She concentrated on taking shallow breaths through her mouth in an attempt to block out the smell. In the silence something stirred. She stopped breathing and listened, every muscle tensed. A faint scuttling, a rustling.

  It was probably a mouse.

  ‘Help!’ she yelled, a feeble cry into the silence. She imagined rats gnawing her feet as she lay tethered, maggots crawling over her flesh.

  ‘Help! Help!’

  She opened her eyes and saw a figure framed in a halo of light.

  ‘Have you come to rescue me?’ she whispered.

  The man gave a low laugh that seemed to ripple round the room as he switched on the light and revealed his face.

  ‘You said you were a policeman,’ she whispered, remembering.

  The man approached the bed and stood above her, studying her face.

  ‘Let me go.’

  It was difficult to frame the words because her mouth was so dry it hurt every time her lips moved. She tried to raise her head.

  ‘Let me go. Please let me go.’

  ‘There’s no point in struggling. You can’t escape.’

  His calmness only exacerbated her hysteria.

  ‘Let me go,’ she shrieked.

  ‘Don’t be frightened. There’s no need to be frightened. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  Donna blinked up at him in surprise. The man turned away and she called out in sudden panic.

  ‘Don’t go. I’m thirsty. Please. I need water. Please. I’m dying of thirst. Please, give me something to drink.’

  The man moved away out of her line of vision. Donna twisted her head round as far as she could trying to see where he was, but he had disappeared. She closed her eyes to stop the light burning into them. The pain in her head felt even worse when they were shut. She opened them and saw the man was standing beside her again, holding a chipped white mug.

  ‘I’ve brought you some water.’

  His voice was tender as he leaned towards her and held the cup to her lips.

  ‘Don’t drink it too quickly,’ he warned as she strained to lift her head upright, gulped and choked.

  Donna lay back swilling water round her parched mouth. It slipped down her throat, cold and wonderful. Her headache faded slightly into a dull throbbing and she felt her body’s tension relax a little. Perhaps she wasn’t going to die after all, chained to this filthy bed in this stinking room.

  ‘What do you want with me? Let me go, please.’

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he repeated gently. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  ‘But you are hurting me. These chains are hurting me. It’s agony.’

  She hoped he could understand what she was saying. Her voice sounded strange.

  ‘Don’t worry. By the time we’re finished here you will understand that nothing will ever hurt you again.’

  A spasm of terror ran through her.

  ‘You’re going to kill me.’

  The man shook his head vehemently.

  ‘No. Just the opposite.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He moved away and a few seconds later the light went out. In the darkness she heard the door close.

  5

  SENSE OF PURPOSE

  Geraldine had been to the office in Hendon, getting her bearings. Usually acute with people, the faces she encountered passed in a haze, she was so excited to be joining the Met and so exhausted from the strain of moving. The buildings looked more like a quadrangle of four-storey flats constructed around a playground than a police headquarters, with four blocks surrounding the central parade ground used in the passing out ceremony for recruits. Geraldine had been kitted out with a desk, a computer and a phone, minimal but sufficient for her needs. Working in cramped conditions didn’t bother her. She was used to it and anyway, the less time she spent gazing at a computer screen the better, as far as she was concerned. All the same, sitting at her own desk in the Homicide and Serious Crime Command in London for the first time was a thrill, especially as the inspector who shared the room with her was on leave, so she had the office to herself.

  The equity on her flat in Kent hadn’t amounted to much but with her pay rise and the money she had inherited from her mother’s estate she had been able to get a mortgage on the flat she wanted, just off Upper Street in Islington. It was a glorious summer’s day and she abandoned her unpacking to spend the morning exploring the area on foot. She stumbled across a market full of pricey curios and antiques that looked authentic, rails of retro dresses and accessories on the pavement, and boutiques stuffed with amazing and wonderful garments of gorgeous fabrics: velvet, silk, tulle and net decorated with pearls and costume jewellery, splashes of brilliant colour. She could have spent hours looking around.

  Controlling an urge to linger in the market she moved on and discovered Highbury Fields, a series of grassy plots bordered with trees, the pathway thronged with pedestrians, joggers, runners and cyclists. Everyone she saw looked young and healthy, enjoying the sunshine. Peaceful and open, it was a different world to the busy streets beyond Highbury Circle where the roads were jammed with traffic, the pavements packed with people rushing past. She turned and walked back to emerge opposite Highbury and Islington Station where she crossed the busy junction back into Upper Street. On the opposite side of the road was a row of elegant residential houses, half concealed behind railings and trees. She walked on past shops, hair salons, a pub on the corner of Islington Street, a Japanese restaurant. The shops gave way to blocks of flats as she walked on towards Angel, past the large white town hall and Islington Museum where cafes spilled tables, chairs and blackboards onto the pavement, giving the street a Mediterranean air. Tired of walking, she sat outside a café drinking coffee and soaking up the atmosphere.

  ‘This is my home now,’ she told herself, but she felt as though she was on holiday in Italy or France.

  Leaving the café, she bought a few groceries and walked slowly back to her flat, past white and brick terraced houses with elegant arched windows and narrow balconies with wrought iron railings. The flat in Waterloo Gardens had appealed to Geraldine as soon as she saw it. The ground floor of the building was occupied by two businesses: a flooring company with a cheerful red awning, and an internet firm concealed behind mirrored windows. The first and second floors of the block were private flats accessible only through tall metal gates opened with a remote control or a keypad. Inside the security gates was a car park for residents and the entrance to the flats. Geraldine’s flat had two small bedrooms, one of which she would use as an office, an L-shaped kitchen and dining area, a living room and small bathroom. It was perfect for her.

  At first she had appreciated having time to settle in and roam around in her new surroundings, but after a couple of days a familiar boredom seized her. Work gave her a sense of purpose, a distraction from the sense of emptiness that dogged her. Sorting out her belongings reminded her of sifting through her adopted mother’s possessions after she had died. It was pointless brooding about her adoption, but she had nothing else to occupy her thoughts beyond arranging for the gas and electricity to be connected, and sending off letters and emails registering her new address. She’d heard of twins separated at birth who felt something had been mis
sing all their lives, and wondered if she had a twin somewhere. It was possible. Certainly she might have siblings or at least a half-brother or sister.

  She had distanced herself from the area where the truth about her adoption had been kept from her for so long, but she couldn’t banish it from her mind. She would have to return to the adoption agency at some point to find out more about her birth mother. All she knew was her name, Milly Blake, and her approximate date of birth. On her last visit to the agency, her social worker had shown Geraldine a letter in which her mother had refused contact with the daughter she had given away at birth. Now Geraldine wanted to take another look at it, because she thought there had been an address on the letter. Trained to recall such details, she was furious with herself for not being able to remember it clearly.

  She sat in her London flat staring at a faded photograph, all that her unknown mother had left her.

  6

  A LOW PROFILE

  Douggie took the car to Jack’s, avoiding the main roads and junctions with traffic lights where he knew there were cameras. It never did any harm to be careful and Douggie had been in the business for a long time. He was a survivor. Whistling, he spun the wheel and pulled the sun visor down. It was a beautiful day but he kept the roof up, just in case. There were a few coppers who just might recognise him if he was unlucky and Douggie wasn’t one to take risks. Far better to keep a low profile.

  As he drove in Jack gave him a nod to let him know there was a space round the back, away from prying eyes. Douggie got out and Jack walked over, smiling.

  ‘Nice set of wheels,’ he said, sizing the car up. If he’d been a cartoon character, dollar signs would have lighted up in his eyes.

  ‘What’s it to be, Douggie?’

  ‘A quick demolition, mate, no questions asked.’

  ‘Well there’s a surprise.’

  They both laughed and Douggie tossed Jack the key.

  ‘Seems a pity, mind,’ Jack said, walking round the car.

  Douggie didn’t answer. They both knew the car was too hot to keep.

  ‘But leave it with me. I’ll have her stripped and gone in no time.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘A bloke called up asking for you,’ Jack said as they walked back across the yard together.

  Douggie was on his guard at once.

  ‘What bloke?’

  Jack shrugged.

  ‘He didn’t give his name. He wasn’t asking about you specifically, mind. He was just after someone to get rid of a car for him. I said he could bring it here but he said he wanted something else. Something more definite, he said. Whatever that means.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Well why did you tell him about me if you don’t know who he was?’

  ‘Don’t lose any sleep over it. All I told him was to go to the King’s Head and ask for Douggie.’

  ‘But you don’t know who he was. Shit, he could’ve been anyone.’

  ‘He wasn’t a copper, if that’s what’s worrying you. He was way too posh for that.’

  ‘Posh? What’s some posh bloke want with me?’

  Jack shook his head with a grin, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together suggestively.

  ‘Just because a bloke talks posh, it doesn’t follow he’s going to be loaded,’ Douggie pointed out, rattled that Jack had mentioned his name. ‘What did you go and give him my name for?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You just said you told him to ask for me at the pub.’

  ‘Yes, but I only said Douggie. There must be lots of guys called Douggie knocking about. Common as muck you are, mate.’

  He laughed and slapped Douggie on the back.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You’re alright.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Douggie agreed half-heartedly.

  He took the bus back and nipped into the pub for a quick pint. He wasn’t in the mood for serious drinking, but it was on his way home and he had a pocket stuffed with cash so it was daft not to stop for a bit.

  ‘Someone’s been in here asking for you,’ the landlord told him. ‘Smart looking geezer.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  In familiar surroundings, with a pint in his hand, Douggie was interested rather than nervous.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I never saw him before. He’s not here now. He left straight away, didn’t even stop for a drink.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him he might catch you later.’

  ‘What did he look like then?’

  The landlord shrugged.

  ‘I didn’t notice his face. He was wearing a hood.’

  ‘I thought you said he was smart?’

  ‘It was the way he spoke. He had an upper class accent.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be back this evening then. Perhaps he’ll turn up again.’

  ‘Maybe he will, maybe he won’t.’

  Douggie waited in the pub all evening but the man with the posh voice never showed up.

  * * * * * * *

  Lily sprawled in front of the telly with an apple and a packet of crisps. She was starving so she went out to Highbury Corner where the shops were open till late. Not having grown up in a city, she wasn’t comfortable out on her own on the streets at night and hurried into Budgens, the first food shop she passed.

  ‘I bought us some pastries,’ she called out as she opened the front door.

  The flat was dark and silent.

  ‘Donna?’

  There was no answer.

  She settled herself in front of the television again and scoffed both pastries. It served Donna right. She had abandoned Lily to make her own way home from the pub in Camden the previous evening, even though she knew very well that Lily had only lived in London for a few months and was nervous about travelling on the tube by herself at night. Lily supposed her flatmate must have picked up a bloke in the bar on Friday. Now she was stuck in the flat, too nervous to go out by herself. She didn’t have any other friends in London. Donna was fun and knew cool places to go, and didn’t seem to mind Lily tagging along. On the contrary, she usually paid for Lily’s entrance as well. She was generous like that, a good friend, or so Lily had thought.

  She watched a film with Hugh Grant, and nibbled her way through the large bar of chocolate she had bought to share with her flatmate. It was unlike Donna to go off without saying anything, but they had only been sharing a flat for a couple of months and Lily didn’t really know her very well. Obviously Donna must be well off, because she had bought a flat overlooking Highbury Fields. Donna had said she needed to let out the spare room to help pay her mortgage, but she seemed to have plenty of cash to throw around. Lily suspected the real reason Donna wanted a tenant was for the company. When Lily had admitted she could no longer afford the rent and her share of the bills, Donna had told her not to worry about the bills.

  ‘I like you, Lily. I like having you live here. You can forget about the bills for now and just pay the rent.’

  ‘Oh my God, Donna, are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t worry, it’s really not a problem.’

  ‘But - ’

  ‘It’s only money. And you’re such help around the flat.’

  Lily looked at her watch. It was half past ten on Saturday night and she was sitting at home wondering what to do while life passed her by. She tried Donna’s phone again but there was no answer. She imagined Donna going out and forgetting all about her dull flatmate. It was awkward because she couldn’t have a go at Donna as long as she was living in her flat paying a very low rent, but that was no excuse for Donna to take advantage of her, dropping her when she no longer wanted her company. She should have said something. A brief call, ‘Sorry, I’m going out with friends tonight,’ would have shown some respect.

  Lily did her best to ignore the possibility that something terrible might have happened, but although she tried to reassure herself that Donna must have gone home with a man, she couldn’t help worrying. Wh
at if Donna had been mugged or raped? She lay awake in bed listening to the plumbing creaking and rumbling ominously in the darkness, and wished she had never come to London.

  7

  COLLECTION FROM LIFE

  Suspended in pain, Donna had lost all notion of time.

  ‘Let me die, please let me die,’ she whispered but couldn’t hear her own voice, aware only of pain pulsing through her brain.

  Sudden light dazzled her and she closed her eyes. When she opened them the man was standing above her. He reached down to stuff something into her parched mouth, choking her. ‘Slow down. What do you think you’re doing? Do I have to teach you how to eat?’

  Tears slid from the corners of her eyes as she understood that he was angry, but the dry bread was like sandpaper in her dry mouth and she struggled to swallow.

  ‘Here. Drink this.’

  She recognised the chipped white cup in his hand and opened her mouth. Leaning down he put his arm around her shoulders and she groaned as he raised her head off the pillow. He held the cup to her lips and she gulped the chilly water.

  ‘Someone ought to teach you some manners. I gave you something to eat. You were hungry, weren’t you?’

  He dropped her back down on the bed and she fell with a jolt. Pain shot across her neck and shoulders and she fought against crying out.

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘Yes. I was hungry.’

  ‘So? What do you say?’