by Neil White
‘About what?’ She covered herself as best she could, arms over her breasts, her thighs clamped together.
‘About killing me,’ he answered.
Sarah shook her head in exasperation. ‘I don't know who you think I am, and I don't know what you want from me.’
He nodded at her. Sarah thought she saw the shape of a ponytail sticking out of the cloth, bobbing up and down in time with his head. ‘I know what you are,’ he said. ‘But you have to work it out too.’
Sarah turned away and faced the wall.
‘Do you think you are the only one here with compassion?’ he asked.
Sarah took a few deep breaths before she answered. ‘It feels that way,’ she said quietly.
‘You'd be wrong at that,’ he replied. ‘Morals suit everyone differently. But what of the things you really want? Not the fantasies people tell you you should have, but your real fantasies, the ones you don't tell anyone about, the ones that come to you in the night? They're your real morals. You should embrace them.’
‘And what do you want them to be?’ Sarah asked, her voice rising. ‘Murder, like you, or worse? Torture? Rape? Is that what you want me to tell you I think about? Or maybe me being raped, how I like to be hurt?’
He said nothing.
‘Or perhaps I just want normal things,’ Sarah continued. ‘Like hoping I meet someone I love and settle down, have a happy home. What's wrong with that?’
‘Cowardly,’ he said. ‘Everyone has a darker side. Feed it, grow it.’
‘And what are your morals?’ Sarah asked as she turned back around. ‘What sick things do you dream of?’
He gestured around the room. ‘I dream of this. Of you, in here, my butterfly fastened by the wings. And of this,’ and then he turned and dragged something into the room. Sarah saw that it was a camp bed. ‘I feel like showing you a kindness. There is no trick. This is just how I feel today.’
Sarah looked at the bed. She craved the bed. She saw a blanket on top. Maybe if she could get in, she could drown out the noise and get some warmth. She closed her eyes as they became filled with tears. She had wanted to be strong, but she had more basic needs.
‘You have seen what I can do,’ he continued. ‘I will follow my emotions. You have to make me want to be kind, if that is how you want me to be.’
‘And if I make you feel different? If you don't feel kind?’
‘I'll just follow my feelings,’ he said, his voice sinister, and when Sarah swallowed, he added, ‘and my imagination.’
‘I'll do as I'm told,’ Sarah whispered.
He dragged the bed further into the middle of the room and unfolded the blanket.
‘Can I have my clothes?’ she asked.
‘Do as you are told and be rewarded,’ he whispered. And then, as Sarah climbed under the blanket, grateful for the warmth, he slipped out of the room.
The noise of the heartbeat returned, but it seemed more bearable now.
Chapter Eighteen
I had been sitting in my car for nearly an hour before I saw Katie walking up the hill to her house. It was steep, and so she didn't see me until she reached her front door, her head down as she climbed.
She had looked deep in thought, but brightened when I stepped out of the car.
‘Mr Garrett,’ she said coyly. ‘Do you have some more questions?’
‘You're too perceptive,’ I replied, playing along. ‘Is that okay?’
‘Depends on the questions,’ she said, and she smiled.
I glanced towards the door. ‘Shouldn't we go inside?’
She considered that for a moment, and then reached for her keys. ‘Follow me,’ she said.
As I went in, I noticed different things to our first meeting. The house seemed quieter, like it had become used to silence. The wind chimes in the hall tinkled like broken glass as we entered, but they sounded too loud. I noticed the smell this time. It was bleach, cleaning fluids, a touch of fresh paint. I glanced into the living room, tried to get an impression of Sarah, but Katie went straight into the back room again, dumped her bag onto the sofa and sat down with a sigh. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘You mentioned letters,’ I said bluntly.
She pulled off her shoes. ‘Did I?’
‘You know you did. Yesterday. It was the last thing you mentioned before you walked away.’
‘I can't say anything,’ she said eventually. ‘I told you that too.’
‘So why did you mention them?’
Katie smiled at me. ‘You look sweet when you get all serious.’
‘I might get really sweet soon then,’ I replied. ‘Why can't you say anything?’
‘DCI Carson,’ she said, the words coming out with a grimace. I guessed that she hadn't been impressed. Laura had told me all about him the night before.
‘I'm not asking for a copy of the letters, but just tell me what was in them,’ I said.
Katie played with her hair, just teasing it around her ear. ‘I can't. I'll get into trouble. And I'll get you into trouble.’
‘Don't worry about me,’ I said. ‘Knowing a secret isn't a crime. And I would protect my source. All journalists would.’
I let the silence hang there, hoping Katie would say something, but she stayed quiet.
The silence became too long, so I said, ‘Okay, I get the message. Pass on my congratulations to DCI Carson. He's got an obedient student.’
‘Come and see me later,’ said Katie quickly.
‘Why?’
‘About the letters.’
‘Why not now?’
‘Because if you want something from me, it will be on my terms. And I don't want to talk yet.’
‘So it has to be later?’
Katie nodded. ‘Come here for six. We'll talk then.’
I looked at her, hoping that she might change her mind, wondered how I would explain it to Laura, but Katie just smiled at me.
‘Later it is, then,’ I said, and started to walk towards the door.
‘Jack!’ she shouted out.
I turned around.
‘I'll look forward to it,’ she said, and then she giggled.
I turned and left the house, and as the door closed I looked down at my hands. They were shaking.
But it wasn't just the story, I knew that. Katie intrigued me. Maybe it was just the looks, but I knew that it was something else too: that she thought she was in charge, that she had something I wanted.
I knew I would have to be careful.
Chapter Nineteen
Rod Lucas took a quick look at Pendle Hill as he walked towards Abigail's door. The skies looked darker than the day before, the bracken top covered in gloom, and it made him raise the collar on his waxed jacket to shield his ears. His wife pestered him to wear a hat and gloves, but Rod wanted to feel the countryside, not just see it through his windscreen. It was what made his patch special.
He knocked on the door and then stepped back. Abigail was out of hospital, but he knew he would have to wait. She lived on her own, not even a cat for company any more, and Rod recalled her injuries. She wouldn't be moving quickly.
He put his hands into his pockets and stayed still. A couple of minutes went past and so he gave another rap on the door, just so that Abigail would definitely know someone was there. Eventually, he heard the rattle of a key, and when the door opened he was surprised at what he saw.
‘You look well, Miss Hobbs,’ he said, and he meant it. There was some bruising around her chin, and one of her eyes was covered by a patch, the other one red and sore, but some of the swelling had gone down and she was walking proudly upright, even with the bandages on her leg.
‘I heal well,’ she said, suspiciously at first, but then she recognised Rod. ‘I'm sorry, but you were dressed differently yesterday.’
He glanced down and remembered his gardening clothes from the day before. It was shirt and tie today, but there was still dirt ingrained into his fingers.
He nodded and smiled. ‘I wonder i
f we could have a talk,’ he said, just a hint of reproach in his voice.
‘There's nothing much else to say,’ said Abigail. ‘Young vandals or trouble-causers. I can't add anything to that.’
‘What about Isla Marsden? Can she help?’
Rod watched her carefully, looked for a reaction, but she was more prepared for the question than Isla had been. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but the sweet smile never wavered.
‘Thank you for calling round, Inspector,’ she said. ‘If I hear of anything, I'll get in touch.’
Abigail started to close the door, but Rod stuck out his hand.
‘Do you want me to come in and make sure everything is secure?’ he asked.
Abigail guessed his motives. ‘I can still turn a window key,’ she said.
‘If you are being targeted for a reason, then someone else might get hurt, or even worse,’ he said, appealing for her help.
Abigail looked at him for a moment, her smile shifting for a second, before she thanked him again and closed the door slowly.
Rod Lucas was left facing the closed door. He stood there for a short while, thinking about what he should do next, before turning around and walking slowly back up the path.
I was in the same coffee shop as the day before, halfway through a cappuccino, when I decided to call Laura.
When she answered, I asked, ‘What are you doing?’
‘Wading through a pile of stolen cables,’ she said.
‘Sounds like you've had better times.’
Laura laughed. ‘No, just routine. Just another morning of preparation before we get the no-comment interview.’
‘Doesn't anyone answer questions any more?’
‘We can't make them, Jack,’ Laura replied, ‘but I still have some faith in the system. It succeeds more times than it fails.’
‘That's not the impression I get.’
‘Yeah, but that all depends on how you report it.’
I exhaled loudly. ‘You need a break,’ I said softly. ‘When it's all sorted out with Bobby, we'll go away somewhere warm, just me and you, where we can lie down for a couple of days and watch the sea and feel the sun on our faces.’
The line went quiet for a few seconds, and then Laura said, ‘That would be nice’, her voice soft. ‘I miss you, Jack.’
‘I haven't been away.’
‘It feels like you have,’ she said.
I shook my head. ‘I've always been here,’ I told her. ‘I'm just not sure you saw me.’
‘Why have you called?’
‘I just wanted to hear your voice, that's all,’ I replied.
Laura stayed silent, and I tried to picture the Laura that had first captivated me. The brightness to her smile, the way she bit her lip when she was feeling mischievous, how she giggled at my jokes.
‘I'm glad you called,’ she said quietly, and then she took a deep breath. ‘How was your morning?’
‘Interesting.’
‘More than yesterday?’
‘I didn't know about the letters yesterday.’
‘Are you still going with that? I told you: you need to be careful.’
‘But you still haven't heard anything?’
‘I told you last night – even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you. But I don't.’ Then she asked, ‘Where are you going next?’
‘The head teacher at Sarah's school,’ I replied, ‘and then I'm chasing down the letters.’
Laura paused, and then she said, ‘Be careful, Jack. She's killed someone, so everyone believes, and murderers can be desperate people.’
‘So you need to keep the murder squad informed of my whereabouts.’
‘Huh!’
‘So they can find my body,’ I said jokily.
Laura laughed. ‘If you keep on, I don't think Carson would bother looking too hard.’
Chapter Twenty
Sarah was under the blanket, some warmth tingling back into her feet, the mud cracking off her skin, when she heard the screech of the door moving on its runner, just audible over the sound of the heartbeat blasting through the speakers. There was the crunch of feet in the dirt again, but faster than normal. Sarah peered over the top of the blanket. She saw the familiar hood, but the shape of the head looked different. Leaner, smaller. It was the other one, the one who had come to her when she had been in the box.
She shrank back, shaking suddenly. She remembered the time in the box.
It had been waiting for her when she first arrived in the room, after the cramp of the car ride, squashed into the boot, gripped by panic, hyperventilating, her breath coming out as short rasps that echoed under the lid. There had been voices in the car, just murmurs, too quiet to make out, not rising above the hum of the tyres on the road. Sarah had tried to work out where they were going from the turns and the stops, but she got lost pretty quickly. The car was old, so the suspension had bottomed out of every pothole, sending a kick to her back.
When the car came to a stop, Sarah had been pulled out by the rope around her wrists, her arms twisted back, and then dragged along a path, sharp gravel under her feet, hands over her eyes. She was taken down some stairs and thrown into the room, her chest breaking her fall in the dirt.
He had untied the rope, his mask still on, but then she had been dragged to the corner of the room, towards the box.
The box was lying on the floor, long like a rifle chest. Entry was at one end, and she was put in head-first, like a corpse in a mortuary drawer, on her back, her arms by her side. It was only just wide enough, so that her arms were wedged against the sides, impossible to move. Her head pushed against one end, and when the open end of the box was slammed shut, it banged against her feet so that she had to curl her legs up to fit.
The sides or front had no give to them, no cracks in the lid to allow a view out, and the top was only inches from her face, so that her breath made the air condense around her cheeks, warm and stale, just a vent by her feet to let it out. She wanted to stretch out but couldn't. She had screamed, she had cried, but none of it made a difference. She thought hard on how to stay calm, how to think and how to rationalise, to work out time. But then another night had come, obvious from the cold, and another one after that. Hunger gnawed at her, Sarah's survival instinct superseding her fear, her mouth dry.
But then he had returned and turned the box over.
Sarah had spent the next day face down, unable to move her arms, not knowing when she'd ever be able to move again. She felt her captivity against her head, her feet, her back, her front. No water, no food, trapped in her own piss and shit.
She was tipped out of the box on the third day and allowed some water and a crust of bread. He had stood over her, the light from the room blinding her after those days in darkness, and she spent a few precious moments of movement trying to get used to the glare. He had said nothing. He just watched her, nothing to see but the hood, stood still, his arms by his sides. But then she was slotted back into the box. She struggled and screamed, begged not to go back in, but he was too strong for her.
This went on for another three days. No talk, no reasons given. Just captivity and silence.
But there had been the other person, the one in the room with her now.
Sarah could tell he was younger, from the excitement in his voice when he came into the room, calling her name, taunting, tormenting her. One day he turned the box on its end so that Sarah was upside-down, his groans of effort loud against the lid. She couldn't stop her body slumping down so that her neck bore her weight, unable to get her arms free to provide support. All that kept her in place was the tight dimensions of the box. Sarah wasn't like that for long, just a few minutes, but she thought she was going to suffocate on the weight of her own body pressing down on her, but he returned and threw the box back onto the floor.
Another game was banging the box with hammers. Just noise, the only break in the silence, but the hammers banged around her, thudding, too loud in the box.
Although the room scared her, she
did not want to go back in the box.
‘What do you want?’ asked Sarah, looking up, a tremor to her voice.
He threw a bag onto the floor. Sarah looked. It contained clothes. Her jeans were clean, and the shirt too, and there was a jumper in there, home-knitted, warm-looking. Sarah climbed out of the bed and began to pull them on, almost smiling at the warmth. He left the room and then returned almost immediately with a plate of food, soup and bread, with coffee, along with something else.
Sarah looked at the food. ‘More kindness?’ she asked.
‘Nothing for free,’ he said. ‘But you must do something for me,’ and he held up a clear plastic bag.
Sarah saw the pen and paper inside, and then she noticed his latex surgical gloves and the way he was holding the bag away from himself.
‘Another letter?’ Sarah asked. She remembered the other times, the only respite from the box. She had gone along with it, hoping for some reward, maybe some comfort, but the words were disturbing, frightening.
‘I want people to know that you're still alive,’ he said. He sounded excited. Sarah noticed that he seemed twitchy, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
‘But why like this?’ she asked. ‘They don't make sense.’
‘Because I say you should,’ he replied.
He put the food on the floor, out of her reach. He walked over to her and passed her the pen and paper. He then reached into his pocket and put some pre-prepared scrawl of his own in front of her.
‘You know what to do. Copy that and you can have the food.’
Sarah looked at him and she felt angry. It was time for a little victory of her own.
‘Let me eat first and then I'll do it.’
‘Do it now,’ he said, some irritation creeping into his voice. ‘If you don't, I walk out and you won't eat.’
Sarah looked down at the tray of food, the aroma of the soup making her salivate. She looked down at the scrawl she had to copy. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘I'll do it.’ Tears began again. ‘Don't go. Please.’
