by T. J. Lebbon
Filling the kettle, turning it on, he was moving on auto-pilot as he tried to think things through. He glanced at his phone timer again. Less than thirty minutes to go.
He clicked on the Facebook app and entered his password. Account temporarily suspended.
‘What?’ he whispered. ‘You’re kidding.’
He exited Facebook and opened his email account. It usually went straight to his inbox, but instead it came up with his password entry. His heart fluttered. Didn’t matter, that happened sometimes, once every few weeks he had to enter it again. Security measures, he supposed.
But even as he tapped in his password he felt the weight of dread.
Password not recognised. Please enter again. Be aware that password is case sensitive.
He entered it again, carefully, but already knowing what would happen.
Forgotten password?
How the fuck? How could they have done this? Maybe it was him, typing with clumsy, scared fingers …
… But no. It wasn’t him at all.
The kettle boiled and Chris poured water into a mug with one hand. The other hovered over the phone, thumb stroking the ‘phone’ symbol, finger hovering over the 9.
It’s a joke. A prank. A scam, scumbags scaring me to try and get some cash out of me. Or a reality TV show. Or … Anything but what it seemed. It had to be. Because things like this didn’t happen in real life.
He tapped 9 … 9 …
The piercing electronic whistle was almost unbearable, screeching through the house from his phone, the small flatscreen TV on the kitchen worktop, and whining in from the living room where the big plasma TV had burst into life. Chris juggled the phone and almost dropped it, face screwed up against the sudden, unexpected sound. He pressed his right shoulder and left hand to his ears, still clasping the phone in his right hand and looking at the screen. Ready to hit the last 9 that would move events on apace and, perhaps, reveal more of what was really going on.
The keypad on his phone’s screen had been replaced by something else. Winded, stunned, he barely even noticed that the deafening sound had ceased.
He thought it was a photo, but then he saw Megs nuzzle her head against Terri’s leg, and Gemma stretched her tied legs and shuffled to change position.
‘Oh no … ’ he breathed. His throat was dry, voice hardly registering.
Terri was sitting on a bench in what looked to be the inside of a dirty van. The walls were rough and spotted with rust patches. A naked light flickered somewhere out of sight. His wife was tied to the bench with ropes around her legs and waist. She was blindfolded, and wearing loose jogging bottoms and a tee shirt. Megs was kneeling beside her, also blindfolded, sobbing softly. Gemma was tied up on the floor on Terri’s other side.
There was a dark stain across the right shoulder of Gemma’s school shirt. It seemed to match the patches on the walls, as if the truck also bled.
‘No,’ Chris said again, louder. ‘Terri. Terri! Girls?’ But they couldn’t hear.
The image changed quickly, turning as whoever held the camera or phone on the other end switched it around to face themselves. It was a woman. Fiftyish, attractive, but with cold eyes. She smiled broadly, but only with her mouth.
She held up a gun.
‘One 9 away from this,’ she said, waving it back and forth and pointing it out of sight at his blindfolded family. ‘Last chance. Next time we won’t warn you again.’
‘What do you want?’ Chris shouted. ‘Just tell me, I’ll do anything, let them go and—’
‘You’re probably ranting and raving a bit right now,’ the woman continued. She had a nice voice, calming, controlled. She could have been a school teacher. ‘I can’t hear you. But I know you can hear me. So calm down.’ She looked aside at her watch. ‘Twenty-three minutes. Be ready.’ She smiled again, then the picture flickered off. His phone went dead.
‘Ready for what?’ Chris shouted. He raised his hand to hurl the phone at the wall, but held back at the last instant. ‘For what?’ He looked around for cameras, microphones, evidence of things in his home being tampered with. His home. They’d come in here, invaded his space, taken away his family …
He couldn’t shake the image of his girls tied up like that. Megs crying and nestling against her mum. Gemma, bloodied, struggling and stretching, probably doing her best to release herself from her bindings. And Terri, sitting there looking far calmer than she must feel. At that moment he would have given absolutely anything to have them back safe and sound. His safety, his sanity, his life, without a moment’s hesitation he’d have handed them all over.
‘I don’t have much money,’ he said. ‘Twenty grand saved, a bit more, but I can’t just get it. It’ll take five working days. Is that what you want? It must be. Money.’ He frowned, thinking that through and really not understanding it at all. They lived in a nice house, but nothing special. Two cars, both over three years old. His architect’s firm was reasonably successful, but he was the sole employee, turnover around seventy grand each year. Nice, but nothing spectacular. Nothing that would attract the attention of the sort of people who could do this.
Take his family, threaten his siblings and friends. Carry guns. Use his own tech against him.
He put his phone screen-down on the kitchen worktop and paced the kitchen again. He was sweating again now, chilled from his long run. He’d always had something of a vivid imagination, and now and then he’d written ideas down with the intention of one day writing a book. Terri had been encouraging, but it had never gone much beyond a few pages of notes and several tentative first chapters. Once, out on a long run, he’d imagined the end of the world. Running the barely used public footpaths across the top of a local range of hills, he’d lost himself for a few miles daydreaming about what would happen if he got home from the run and everything had changed. His family, friends, neighbours, associates, all gone. Turn on the TV … white noise. Nothing on the radio. Leave home and everything is normal, return two hours later and find he’s the only man left alive.
Now, that had happened. His whole world had changed, and unless he did precisely as instructed, they would end it. He didn’t know what they wanted. But in less than twenty minutes he would find out.
Chris couldn’t keep still. He walked back and forth, looking down at his phone every few seconds and waiting for it to make a noise. If the Black Sabbath song ‘Paranoid’ rang out it would be Jake calling him back to offer help. A whistle would be an email. A double-ping would be a text, perhaps from one of his siblings if they had a chance to secretly get in touch, tell him they were with him, they were doing their best. He picked it up and turned it over, checking the screen anyway in case he hadn’t heard. But there were no messages, emails, or missed calls.
He didn’t want to call his elderly mother. Not after what Angie had said, and Jake. He didn’t want to know.
Landline, he thought. I could contact the police that way. But that would be stupid. Whatever their reasons for doing this, they’d planned it in detail. They’d have the landline covered. Bugged, perhaps, if what he saw in movies was true. It was far too risky.
He paused by the chopping board and leaned back against the kitchen units. Eighteen minutes.
He made himself a drink. Tea, lots of sugar. As a teenager he’d always laughed at his parents whenever their first reaction to a crisis was to make tea, but as he’d grown older he’d come to recognise its calming properties. It wasn’t anything chemical, he thought, nor was it the warmth. It was distraction. Waiting for the water to boil, stirring the tea bag, adding the milk, watching the tea darken, all these took time. But he couldn’t distract himself from this.
He glanced up and saw the knife block. Six knives, all of them sharp. Terri had spent over a hundred quid on them, and he’d expressed his doubt that they were worth the money. But they were good knives that had kept their keenness over time.
Without pausing to scare himself out of it, he grabbed a medium-sized knife and slipped it into the waist of his runnin
g trousers, dropping his sweaty shirt over the handle with one hand as he picked up his mug with the other.
He turned and breathed across the hot tea, steam filming his eyes and warming his skin. The knife was cold against his hip. And just what the fuck am I going to do with that? he thought, trying to imagine himself plunging it into someone’s stomach. He almost puked.
‘I’m ready,’ he said. ‘No need to hang about.’ The phone said fourteen minutes.
Slowly, he sipped at the hot tea and managed to convince himself that everything would be fine. If they’d planned to harm him or his family they’d have done so by now. They wanted something of him, though he couldn’t imagine what. He’d made no enemies in life that he could think of. He’d always been fair in business. He and Terri led a boringly normal life in many ways – loyal to each other, adoring of their children. He vented any need for excitement through his running, triathlons, mountain racing. There are worse mid-life crises, Terri said to him sometimes when he signed up for another extreme race.
Chris closed his eyes and breathed in the tea fumes, but found nothing approaching calmness. He felt like crying at the memory of seeing his family like that, taken somewhere unknown, bound and gagged. It had been a woman guarding them, but he couldn’t help imagining how vulnerable they were to the men involved in this, too. Terri in what she called her comfy clothing, unconsciously attractive. Gemma, awkward and pretty, just developing into womanhood. Little Megs.
He opened his eyes, furious, and swigged at his tea. On the fridge door facing him, held on by magnets, were several drawings by Megs, a few money-off coupons for their local supermarket, and a twenty-pound note. Gemma had been due to go to the cinema with her friends that evening.
He heard a knock from somewhere beyond the kitchen door.
Holding his breath, Chris put the mug down slowly, mouth slightly open, listening hard. The heating was off now, though the boiler was still warming the water. But he hadn’t recognised the sound.
It came once more, definitely an impact of some sort. His phone showed nothing so he turned it face-down again. Taking the knife from his belt and holding it down by his side, he walked through into the corridor beyond the kitchen door. Ahead of him the front door was still closed, and there was no sign of movement elsewhere.
Studio, he thought. To his right a shorter corridor led beneath the staircase to another door, beyond which their converted garage had become his business studio. It was a good size, with computer station, an old-fashioned drawing board, walls lined with pictures displaying his designs, and an informal area for clients with leather sofa and coffee machine. Nothing extravagant, but comfortable. And now there was someone there.
He thought about edging through the door, moving cautiously, carefully. But that’s what they expected of him.
And he was angry.
Gripping the knife hard by his side he surged forward, shoved the door open and stepped quickly into the studio.
Something tripped him, he fell, one hand out to break his fall, the other twisted painfully as the knife was stripped from his grasp. He struck the timber flooring and tried to roll. A weight bore down on him, trapping him on his side with one arm crushed beneath his body, the other pressed between him and the person attacking him.
Chris kicked and writhed. A hand clamped down hard across his mouth. Another held his own knife against his throat.
He strained his neck and looked up into the woman’s face. She looked hard, unflustered, and totally in control.
‘I’m here to help,’ she whispered. ‘If you want to live past the next twenty-four hours and see your family again, do everything I say.’ She sat up and slowly took her hand from his mouth.
‘Who … ?’ he asked.
‘I’m the one that got away. My name’s Rose.’
Chapter Four
just begun
She crept to the door into his studio and crouched beside it, peering out beneath the stairwell and into the hallway. Chris respected poise, economy of motion, litheness, but there was something else about the way this woman moved that disturbed him. Something inhuman. She moved like an animal, and like an animal she seemed ready to strike. She held the knife she’d taken from him as an extension of her arm, aimed forward, ready to slice and stab. Her movements were soundless, and he searched for her shadow. He was happy to find it.
‘What are you going to … ?’ he began, and she was back to him between blinks, hand pressed against his mouth once again, eyes wide, head shaking once. She didn’t need to speak. The threat was palpable, radiating from her in powerful waves, even though she made no hint that she wished to hurt him.
She went to the door again and crept out, until she could look both ways along the hallway – left to the kitchen, right towards the front door. Then she came back and crouched in the doorway. She wore black jeans, a casual jacket with bulging pockets, walking boots. Her dark hair was tied in a ponytail, businesslike, impossible to tell its length. She might have been attractive, once.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘I told you. Rose.’
‘But what … ?’
‘Shut up.’ She held up one hand, head cocked, not looking at him. ‘There’s no time now.’
Chris glanced at his phone. The timer said nine minutes.
‘Just listen,’ she said. ‘I’m here to help. I only found out they were going for you yesterday morning. But it was long enough to plan and prepare. They’ll be coming in to get you soon, and then we’ll be leaving. You understand?’
‘No,’ Chris said. ‘My wife. My girls.’
‘We’ll get to them.’ She tried to smile. It was a sickly expression.
‘Where are they?’ he asked.
‘Not sure.’ An economy of words, and they explained nothing.
‘Why are they doing this?’
‘You’re an easy target.’
He was shivering again. His clothing was soaked with sweat, his body now trying to cool down. ‘I need to go to the police.’
‘No!’ she said, looking back at him again. ‘You can’t even try to do that, or they’ll just kill your family and move on.’
‘You’re not one of them?’
She glared at him. ‘Are you stupid?’
‘No, not stupid. I’m normal. I’m just a normal person doing normal things, and now my family are—’
The front door opened. Chris heard the familiar sound of the handle depressing, the catch sliding, and then the sigh as the door’s draught-proofing seal broke. It was so recognisable that Chris muttered, ‘Terri?’ before the door slammed and heavy footsteps marched along the tiled hallway.
‘We’re early!’ a voice called. Chris recognised it as belonging to the man from earlier, the same man who’d threatened to have his wife and children executed if he called the police. ‘Sorry for the delay. Traffic’s terrible.’ The man chuckled to himself, completely confident and in command.
Chris frowned at Rose and raised his hands, but she turned her back on him and flowed forwards, through the studio door, beneath the staircase and towards the hallway. But if you go that way you’ll end up— Chris thought, and then every thought was sliced off by what happened next.
‘So, where are you hiding?’ the man asked.
Chris saw him appear past Rose, framed through the doorway beneath the staircase. Rose stood from her crouch. The man’s eyes went wide and he reacted immediately, left arm coming up in a defensive gesture while his right hand delved into his jacket. But he had been too confident of Chris’s confusion and fear, too sure of himself.
The sound the knife made when it stuck in his neck was horrible. He seemed to growl, and blood bubbled at his throat, splashing the air and pattering down on the hall tiles. He took his hand from within his jacket and Rose knocked something aside—
—a gun, has he really got a gun?—
—sending it clattering out of sight.
Rose grabbed the man’s polo shirt collar with her left hand and held
him steady as she tugged with her right hand, once, twice, hefty jerks of her arm and shoulder pulling the knife out through his throat. His eyes remained wide, tongue squirming in his mouth as he started to slump.
Rose staggered backwards into Chris’s studio, dragging the dying man with her. His blood was flowing. Not just dripping, but gushing from the dreadful wound, splashing on the floor and sending Rose slipping, shoving the man aside as she fell onto her back. Even as she hit the floor she hardly made a noise, but was up again in a second, kneeling on the man’s back and grabbing him by the hair, pulling, his head moving back much too far as the wound gaped and he bled out.
Chris closed his eyes, but the sight could not be unseen.
‘Don’t faint,’ she said.
The man was still making wet, coughing noises, feet scraping slowly at the floor as he tried to propel himself out of his killer’s grasp.
Chris turned away and stared at his drawing desk. There were plans of a new house sitting there right now, his client’s list of suggested amendments pinned above it. The client was a sixty-year-old man, someone who’d seen the world and made good money, and who now was settling down for retirement with his gorgeous forty-something wife. A good man. Great stories. I wonder if he’s ever seen anything like this, Chris thought, and then he realised that Rose was hissing at him.
‘Now, for fuck’s sake! We don’t have long!’
‘What?’ He turned, propping himself on his desk so that he didn’t slump to the floor. There was so much blood. Could there really be so much inside a human body? He’d bought that rug with Terri on holiday in Egypt, and now it was ruined.
‘I said go through there.’ She nodded through the door at the hallway, where blood was spattered on the floor and sprayed in one artful arc across the apple-white wall. ‘Stand facing the front door. When they come in, just wait there and let them come to you.’
‘No,’ Chris said, shaking his head. ‘I can’t just stand there and let them attack me.’
‘They’re not going to attack you! They want to take you. Do as I say or I’m out of here now, and I’ll leave you with this.’ She stood and kicked the corpse’s head at her feet. It moved too loosely on the neck, and Chris had a crazy, shocking image of it rolling across the floor, grinning up at him as the mouth gasped for air.
