You'll Be Sorry

by Emmy Ellis

  “There you go, love.”

  Kerry took her coffee, thought about taking it in a to-go cup…but returned to her seat.

  “I thought you were going to run out on me,” Lendall said.

  She took a deep breath and turned to him. “Listen, I know he sent you to speak to me. I know you’ve probably been trailing me all morning.” Anger surged inside her. “I know your bullshit story about your hateful colleague is a cover, a way to make me tell you I agree with you, because you know damn well Dan Stone is my husband. What, did he send you here to find out information so that he can— Just stop the crap, okay? I have enough of it in my life already.”

  His eyes widened, and he sat back, hands up as if to ward her off. “Christ, I’m not sure why he would send someone after you, but I don’t know him that well, and if I did, I wouldn’t bloody tail a woman for him.”

  She laughed, a dry, tinny sound. “And that’s supposed to make me relax, is it? Supposed to make me think everything’s okay? Supposed to make me open up to you? Well,” she inhaled a lungful of air and pushed on, “fuck you—and him.”

  Shit. Dan’ll go to town on me for that.

  Lendall quirked his eyebrows, left his seat, and joined the queue. Frowned. Raised his hands and swiped them over his face. Lowered his arms and looked her way. Kerry held his gaze, boldness sweeping through her. She might not be able to stand up to Dan, but this bloke? He meant nothing to her.

  The barista refilled his cup, and he walked back to his seat.

  “I’d call you a nutter,” he said, “but I don’t think you are one. I’m sorry for bringing him up. It was bad of me, knowing he’s your husband. I just wanted— Can we start again? In case you’ve forgotten, my name’s Mark Lendall.” He extended a hand.

  Kerry ignored it.

  “He’s done a number on you, hasn’t he? Made you paranoid. Jesus…”

  “Jesus won’t help me.” She gulped her coffee, scalding her mouth. “Nobody can.”

  Shut up. Shut. Up.

  He settled more comfortably and slung one arm across the backrest. “You don’t know that. Someone somewhere can always help. Just depends whether or not you let them.”

  She snorted, angry at the situation Dan had put her in. That he knew her so well, knew she’d want to open up to this man. “And if I let them? What then? He’d find out, I’d get punished, and it really isn’t worth it.”

  Mark moved to touch her, but she flinched and yanked her arm away. His face showed confusion, hurt even, but her anger overrode any sympathy. Who the hell did he think he was, being in cahoots with Dan and giving her more stress?

  “Listen,” he said. “I don’t need any extra hassle in my life, so I’m sorry for bothering you, sorry for stirring up whatever I stirred up.” He stood and looked down at her. “And for what it’s worth, have a nicer life than the one you seem to be living now. It’s too short, believe me, so get yourself out of whatever situation you’re in and go and find someone to talk to.” He stepped around the table, strode to the door, and left the shop.

  Tears stung, and she silently berated herself for allowing him to get to her. Everything she’d endured in her life came to the fore. She let the tears fall without uttering a sound, as usual, and stared out of the window at people bustling from shop to shop.

  I want to be them.

  Chapter Eight

  Early evening, after a day at work, Dan drove down the lane towards home and smiled. His house, situated on a slight rise, stood out in the near distance. He’d had it built to his specifications ten years ago. Rumours had reached him, nosy wankers wondering how he could afford it on his wage. He wasn’t about to tell anyone the aunt he’d never seen had taken out an insurance policy on herself. Upon her death, he’d inherited the money.

  None of their business anyway.

  He deserved the house after what he’d been through as a kid. Deserved the status it elevated him to. Deserved to live how the fuck he wanted.

  Vivaldi’s Four Seasons floated from the speakers. The music soothed him, gave him a sense of being upper class. Yes, the man in the suit with a high-profile job knew how appearances deceived and how a basement and handcuffs came in handy.

  Kerry would find that out all too soon. The bitch had gone out early this morning, so why had she spent all day out of the house? The tracker showed the vehicle’s current location as the shopping centre car park in Gradley. She probably went to buy a wreath for the ginger fatty, or even some flowers for the relatives.

  He pulled into his driveway and pressed a button on his key fob. The double garage doors lifted, and he drove inside and parked. Clicking the door closed, he left the car and entered the house via the kitchen. The scent of bleach greeted him, and he sighed with pleasure at Kerry’s dedication to his wants. He cocked his head. Listened. The tap dripped—Kerry would have to get that seen to—and the wall clock ticked a steady, tedious beat. The fridge hummed, and the coffee percolator snapped on, the gush-suck-gush startling him for a moment. Bloody good purchase, what with the timer and all that, but it meant Kerry had known she’d be out this long. Annoyed, he slammed the car keys on the island and went to the cupboard. Tumbler in hand, he poured a large shot of brandy, tossing it down in two gulps. The liquid burned, pooled in his stomach, heat spreading.

  I wonder if she called the man to fix the floor tile. She obviously didn’t think it important enough to have him come and replace it today.

  “Fucking bitch.”

  He placed the glass on the worktop and walked to the fridge. No note. In the living room, he checked under the iron sculpture of a nude on the mantel. No note.

  “Fuck!”

  Ire rising, he ran upstairs to their bedroom, breaths coming in short pants. Her vanity table displayed the usual paraphernalia. But no note. What the hell was she thinking? He stormed downstairs, grabbed his keys, and, in his car, seat belt on, gunned the engine and clicked the garage doors open. He checked the tracker. The green dot denoting her car’s location blipped.

  She was heading out of Gradley. Away from home.

  He smacked his palm on the steering wheel. The horn blared.

  Teeth clenched, he backed out of the garage, his rear wheels trampling the border of flowers along the drive. The garage doors closed, and he swung around to face the main road. Foot down, he sped along the drive and took a left. Hiked in a calming breath and slowed. Last thing he needed, being caught drunk driving.

  The tracker bleeped, signalling Kerry had changed direction. She now headed for home. Dan nodded, satisfied his hold on her remained, despite it looking like she’d had thoughts of running away. He giggled, thought about where she’d go, how far she’d get before he found her arse and dragged her back home.

  Anger returned. Who the hell did she think she was, deciding to leave like that? He clamped his teeth and drove towards Gradley, his mind spinning with what he’d say to her, what he’d do to her. God help him, but if he got hold of her scrawny neck, he’d… No. No, he must remain calm. One slip, one mistake, and his career would be ruined. He hadn’t built himself up for some bitch to knock him down.

  He drove for a while without thought, his focus on spotting Kerry’s car. Along the winding road, a small vehicle appeared on a rise and drove down the slope, the last of the day’s sunshine glinting off the chrome bumper. He stopped and reversed into a thicket of bushes, scratches to the bodywork be damned. Used to waiting for what he wanted—hadn’t he done enough of that as a child?—he let the engine die. In short time, Kerry’s car slowly went past.

  In no rush to return home.

  He snorted. “Knows what’s coming to her, I’ll bet.”

  Five minutes passed. The tracker showed her almost home. He started the engine and eased out of the bushes. On the road, he made plans for the evening. He’d need dinner—she’d left it too late to cook anything. Perhaps she’d picked something up? He’d have to see about that before he jumped to any assumptions. He turned the stereo up and tapped his fingers
on the steering wheel in time to the music. The melody soothed his raw nerves, and he hummed.

  On his driveway, he drove in the dips Kerry’s tyres had created and tried to imagine her thoughts as she’d taken the same journey. Did her heart hammer a painful throb that hurt her chest? Did her hands shake when she parked in the garage, relieved his car didn’t occupy the space next to hers? Was she frantically running around the house now, gathering clothes and personal effects, ready to fuck off?

  No. She wouldn’t do that.

  He stopped the car before the garage doors, blocking the way in case she attempted to leave. His feet crunched across the gravel, and he inserted his key in the front door lock. Pushed the door open. Strains of a love song filtered from the kitchen, and he stood in the hallway, jaw tight at the sound of her singing.

  Singing? What the fuck has she got to be happy about?

  He slammed the door and strutted through the living room, into the kitchen. She jerked around, eyes wide, the song’s words no longer on her tongue. Hands by her sides, she presented a pathetic picture. Though he had beaten her into submission, a small spark of fury ignited inside him at her stance. She’d taken to doing exactly what he asked. More and more lately he’d struggled to find things to hit her for, but today, ah, today he had the lack of a note and her lateness to spur his fist into action.

  It caught her lower jaw, and her head snapped back. She staggered against the sink unit, her hand out to steady herself. She gripped the edge, knees buckling, and stared at him, her other hand pressed to her chin. Tears pooled but didn’t fall, and her control of them further exacerbated his rage. He rushed at her, gripped her throat, and squeezed. Her eyes bulged, and her mouth worked in an attempt to suck in air. She grasped his wrists, tried to pull his hands away, but he clamped harder. Kerry’s face reddened, turning purple as the seconds ticked by. Dan saw her non-compliance, her utter disregard for his desires, her rudeness…

  Her legs gave way, and her feet slipped on the tiles. The movement jolted him out of his trance, and he flung his hands off her, held them up as though telling her she’d been mistaken, that he hadn’t placed them around her neck. Kerry slumped to the floor, her breaths heavy, rasping, and her hands went to her throat.

  Those tears are falling now all right, bitch.

  He grabbed her biceps and yanked her upright. She sobbed, giving him some measure of satisfaction, and he dragged her towards the basement door. Kerry shook her head, her mumbled ‘no’ hoarse, useless. He wrenched open the door and released her, poked her back to indicate she should go down the steps. Hands braced on the walls beside her, she descended, her head low, her shoulders stooped. Quiet cries issued from her, and Dan smiled, following.

  At the bottom, she opened another door, took a few paces forward, and halted, her back to him. She shuddered with a hiccough. Dan flicked on the light and shoved her towards the wooden chair in the centre. He pushed her onto it. She sat, head still bent, hands in her lap. With a practiced move, he took one wrist and handcuffed it to the ladder-back, repeating the action with her other arm. Her ankles bound the same way to the chair legs, he stood before her, arms crossed over his chest.

  “No note, Kerry. Explain that to me.”

  She looked up. Tears and snot streaked her face, and his stomach churned.

  “I-I—”

  “Do. Not. Start. Every. Sentence. With. I.” He released an angry sigh. “It smacks of self-importance.” He laughed, throaty. “And you, dear Kerry, are not that important.”

  “Sara’s death…it made me forget. Needed to get out of the house.” She hiccoughed again. “To digest it all.”

  “See how easy it is not to use that word? See?”

  She nodded.

  “And where’s dinner?”

  “Began cooking it. You arrived…”

  “Ah, so it’s my fault it isn’t ready, is it?”

  Kerry shook her head. For a second, he wondered if she hated him.

  “I’m glad to know you don’t blame me for that. Now, perhaps a night down here will teach you a lesson. It’s worked in the past, hasn’t it, so I don’t see why it won’t this time. Think about what you’ve done, Kerry. Think about what you haven’t done. The tile is still cracked. The tile!”

  Dan booted her knees, and the chair toppled backwards. Her head smacked on the concrete floor, and she blinked, winced. Didn’t cry out, though. A tear streaked into her hairline.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He marched to the bottom of the stairs and switched off the light. Her sob echoed, and he smiled, taking the steps two at a time.

  * * * *

  The darkness absolute, Kerry waited for her eyes to become accustomed to it. Shapes took form, black shadows against the now-grey basement. Her head ached, the pain so fierce it hurt to blink. As she’d struck the floor, her knuckles had scraped the concrete. She wiggled her fingers, and pinprick pains shot up her arms. She turned her face to the side. Her hair heavy, she suspected blood coated it. She lowered it again, vowed to remain still, keep the blood flow to a minimum. Last time she’d been down here, she’d thought about what she’d done, anxious, so anxious to make things right in the morning. Desperate to please her husband, she’d begged forgiveness, took all the blame, and Dan had smiled, pleased with her acceptance of being at fault.

  Now, she raged inside. Yes, she had purposely not written a note. And yes, she had returned home knowing this would come, but without proper preparation to leave him for good, she had no choice. She’d started to drive out of Gradley in the other direction but changed her mind. Better to return, to suffer now while she made plans than get caught at the first hurdle. Time would stretch tonight, and she’d use it to formulate her escape—if sleep didn’t claim her first.

  Her eyelids drooped, and she remembered someone telling her once that if you slept after a severe knock to the head you might not wake up. At one time she’d have closed her eyes and hoped for death, but her instinct for survival had kicked in. She was a human being worthy of respect. She didn’t deserve a coward of a husband who treated her like this.

  She held her destiny in her own hands, and by God she was going to shape it.

  Lendall sprang to mind. Mark. He seemed so genuine, but hadn’t Dan at first? Another thought struck her. Dan hadn’t mentioned where she’d been, who she’d been with. Did he know? Why wasn’t be bothered about her milling around Gradley all day? Was he saving the information to punish her with tomorrow? His cruel capabilities were endless. Her husband revelled in his abuse of her.

  Mark. What if he was genuine in his claim to hate Dan? If she could just believe him, trust that he was someone who saw Dan like she did—an arrogant bastard—she had a lifeline.

  Kerry wallowed in the scenario. She pictured herself telling Mark everything. She’d leave. Dye her hair, buy different clothes. She’d keep the sunglasses, this time to hide her eyes in case Dan caught up with her. Could she live in fear for the rest of her life, always running?

  No different from the fear here.

  She laughed bitterly, and fresh, hot tears stung her skin. Her jaw ached, and she ran her tongue over her back teeth. One felt loose. She shrugged—ouch—and smiled at the irony that if the molar fell out, she’d have a gap to match the one on the other side from a previous beating.

  Footsteps at the top basement door shuffled, and she held her breath until Dan walked away. She released the air through shaky lips and contemplated her options. The same options she’d contemplated on too many occasions to count. She could drive a few towns over and sell the car, buy another, and continue her journey to God knew where. Maybe she’d get lucky and manage a few months undetected. Maybe she’d have the courage to speak to someone at another police station and pray they believed her. Or maybe she could find Mark and…

  Could she? Could she do that?

  I’ll deal with whatever Dan dishes out until I can get away again.

  But what if Dan went too far next time? He’d nea
rly strangled her to death earlier, stood on the border between abuse and murder. It had shocked her that she’d wanted to breathe, to live. A streak of the old Kerry still resided within her then. She clung to it, hoped she’d grow strong again, strong enough to fight the bastard.

  From past experience, she knew to remain in her uncomfortable position. An attempt to render the chair upright on a previous occasions had resulted in her crashing back down again, her cheek meeting the floor. The concrete had scraped the skin off her face, and for days afterwards, translucent liquid had oozed from the wound.

  Her legs ached, and she rotated her ankles. The handcuffs at her ankles grated on the chair legs, their tightness on her skin painful, but she continued her movements. Time passed, though she had no idea how much. She guessed it to be around eleven p.m. when Dan’s footsteps went up the main stairs. The house settled with creaks and groans, and the air chilled. With no windows, she couldn’t gauge when morning came, so rested her eyes, thoughts of her next moves flitting through her mind.

  She prayed for fortitude, that if there was a god he heard her, knew she’d taken all she could. Then she pondered on whether this particular test in her life was one she could pass with an A-plus.

  Please…

  Her mind drifted, and images faded, thoughts receded. She relaxed, and despite the discomfort, allowed sleep to claim her, knowing she would do all she could to get the hell away from here in the morning. Staying was no longer an option.

  Chapter Nine

  After Mark had left the coffee shop, he’d gone home and berated himself for pushing Kerry too hard. The poor woman had enough to deal with, what with her friend’s death. He suspected his harping on about her husband only added to her worries. What sort of number had Stone done on her?

  Mark thought about what she’d said. Did she really think Stone had sent him to follow her, get her to slip up and tell him stuff?