by Adam Nevill
‘Yeah,’ Knacker said quietly.
‘Show me.’
A whisking of a Gore-Tex coat.
‘And what about the other fing?’
In the corridor outside, Stephanie heard a rustle of plastic.
‘All right,’ Fergal said. ‘I find you is lying about doing this, I’ll kick the last few teef out your face. Don’t you unlock her till she’s cold neither.’ At that, Fergal walked back to the stairwell, presumably to attend to his own business with Svetlana.
The subtext of the conversation, and the fact that they didn’t care what she heard, brought Stephanie close to a faint. Momentarily, she could not feel her legs or her arms, and was so frightened she could no longer see straight.
And then Knacker shuffled into the room to kill her.
SIXTY-TWO
‘We best get this done quick, like.’
Knacker couldn’t look at her as he spoke, nor as he winced and limped inside. As if for a reassurance of privacy for what he was about to do, he shut the door behind himself. ‘You know this is coming, so let’s have no fuss. None of that, yeah?’
Her mouth hung open and she panted from something that felt like heartburn. She must have looked like she was going into shock. Maybe she was. Then she felt sick but managed to tighten her fingers around the mirror-knife. Can I even lift it?
Knacker’s face was so horribly disfigured it helped to shock her out of the wilt of terror. One of his eyes was sealed shut, the eyelid purple, blue and black, and grotesquely distended like a plum was attached to the front of his face. His nose was twice its former size, and split horizontally across the bridge. A thick band of black blood indicated where the skin had been broken over the cartilage beneath. The second eye was defined by its red discolouration about the blue iris. His bottom lip resembled a dirigible.
He struggled to bend his right leg and she could see the evidence of a swollen knee through his jeans. He appeared to have lost the use of an arm too, which hung limp at his side. Either that or his ribs were broken and he was cradling them. In the hand attached to the slack arm was the bottle of acid.
He saw her looking at it. ‘Didn’t fink it would come to this, like. Sorry about that and all, yeah? But fings is set in motion, like. You know how it is.’
He raised his other hand. The fingers gripped a blue plastic bag; she recognized the variety from the Sikh grocer’s that was close to the end of Edgehill Road. Knacker swallowed, licked his top lip. ‘You know the score, girl.’
For a few seconds she didn’t understand what the bag was for, and then she realized he intended to suffocate her by putting it over her head and holding it tight about her throat.
‘Yeah? You know?’ he said, as the comprehension in her eyes must have given away her sudden understanding of how she was to go.
He held the bag out front and shook it to make sure he had her full attention. ‘Better be quick, like. Not that others here appreciate it, but I’ll get the job done, yeah? And quicker if you help me out wiv this fing. You won’t feel nuffin’. Promise.’ A slither of the old bull-shitter, the wheedler had reappeared to convince her that she should surrender herself to murder and die without any fuss.
‘Better if you put it on, yeah? It’s just like going to sleep.’ He said this as if he’d performed the act on himself a hundred times. But under the bruises, his face paled and became more colourless than she’d ever seen a human face go before. He bent double. Spat some blood onto the carpet and then vomited. ‘Ah fuck. Ah fuck. Ah fuck,’ he said to himself, then straightened his back. ‘Fuck’s sake.’ He sniffed and looked at her again with that one red eye.
Stephanie glanced at the door and wondered if the lanky baboon was outside, listening; Fergal could move discreetly when he wanted to. So she kept her voice down and spoke quickly. ‘Acid. Throw the acid in his face. I will tell the police you were a prisoner too. I swear. You won’t get in trouble. I promise. I promise.’
Knacker swallowed. ‘Nah. Ain’t gonna work, Steph.’
‘Let me go. There’s two of us. We can do it. He’ll kill you too. You know it.’
She was tempted to produce the mirror knife and say, ‘I have this’, `but another more implacable instinct made her keep that hand concealed.
Knacker shook his head. ‘We gotta do it this way, like I explained. Or I’ll have to use the bottle.’
With a wince he partially raised the hand holding the acid. ‘Clock’s ticking. Put this over your face, like. You know, like a hood. Or I gotta burn you, girl. If I was you, I know which I’d rather have.’
Stephanie swallowed. Gripped the shard of mirror in her hand. ‘OK. Do it now. Before he comes back. I’m ready.’
Knacker looked surprised, but was so eager to get the job done in case Fergal came back and kicked his teeth out, that he shuffled to her side without further delay. Then extended the arm holding the bag. ‘Here. Just put it over your ’ead, like. Then I’ll hold the back tight. Be done in no time. No holes you can breave froo. I checked. You won’t suffer, like. Swear on me muvver’s life.’
If it goes over your face you won’t be able to see where you stab. Do it when he’s close.
She took the bag.
Knacker’s red eye watched her take it from his fingers, but he stayed back, out of reach; he was hurting enough and didn’t want to risk any more pain.
She shook the bag open with a hand that felt like someone else’s, and tentatively placed it on the top of her head so it perched like a paper hat from a Christmas cracker.
‘All the way over, like. Don’t work otherwise. Right down to your chin,’ he added in a business-like fashion, as if he were instructing someone how to wear a motorcycle helmet. ‘Use both hands, like.’
She had no choice; she had to put it over her head, because he was only going to come closer to tighten the bag around her throat to suffocate her. And when he was that close she would have to strike.
She pulled the plastic down to her forehead using one hand. If she used both hands, she would need to put the shard of mirror down and might not find the makeshift knife once the bag was on her head.
Maybe he’s going to use the acid anyway, but doesn’t want to look you in the eye when he pours it over your head.
But there was no other way to lure him closer. She had a go at the bag with one hand, then slipped the knife around her buttocks and held it under her thigh so he wouldn’t see the spike.
Nervously, she pulled the bag further down her face, and then at the back of her head. The bag rustled over her eyes and she was engulfed with the stench of plastic. She looked down and could see the floor and her body through the top of the bag that opened around her neck.
And then Knacker was behind real quick, breathing hard.
He was impatient. Aware of the time and Fergal’s threat, he must have rushed in to smother her. The bag tightened around her throat. The light went out.
Too late!
Knacker’s knees thumped into her back. He was sat on the bed behind her to keep the bag tight at the nape of her neck.
Stephanie sucked in her breath and the plastic bag crumpled around her face. She breathed out and the bag partially inflated. There wasn’t enough air inside the bag to take more than a shallow intake.
She panicked, got to her knees, her spine a bow with his knees trying to hold her in place. But it was his eagerness that lit her up like a match had been dropped upon a trail of gunpowder; a trail that started in her stomach and rose to her brain. She flashed red and hot and burned black all over and inside too. And she surrendered to the hateful, vengeful chaos that heated her blood. She thrust a hand backwards. Slapped his face.
‘Eh, eh. None of that, like. You’s too fond of having a go, ain’t ya? You fink I’ve forgotten how you give me a slap? Eh? Fucking gob on me, bitch, and this is what you get.’ His tone of voice had changed; the resignation and bedside manner of the reluctant executioner had gone. Another act.
Stephanie leaned her shoulders and head
backwards like a gymnast and drew her fingertips down his face as he pulled his head back.
‘Fuck off,’ he whispered.
She slipped her fingers inside his open mouth and felt his tongue like a nervous sea creature recoiling at an intrusion inside its shell. And before he could spit her fingers out of his mouth, or bite them, she clenched her fist as hard as she could with her thumb positioned under his jaw.
Her nails were long and sharp. And they went through his tongue like the prongs of a large fork through a thick slice of ham.
Knacker gargled around a scream.
She held his jaw tight, her thumb deep under his chin and pressing his pronounced Adam’s apple. And she yanked his head down at the same time she twisted her body about to face him.
The bag had come loose around her throat; he had let go of it to claw at her hand inside his mouth. And to her satisfaction she realized that Knacker couldn’t bite her fingers because she was holding him by the lower jaw. Elation leapt inside her; she’d bridled the pig with her fist and had to grit her teeth to stop herself screaming from the joy of having this thing in her hands.
Knacker stood up fast and pulled her upright with him. The leg chain rattled taut. But she did not let go of his jaw, even though his mouth was leaking spit and blood all over her knuckles. He made a choking sound that refused to become the word he tried to shout. It sounded like: ‘Ergoo, Ergoo, Ergoo.’ Fergal.
A timely reminder of how fast she needed to work.
No messing. Kill him.
It could have been someone else’s voice inside her head. She did not recognize it and was briefly shocked by the sound and the sentiment that the voice expressed. Though she was compelled to agree with the instruction.
She brought the hand with the mirror shard up from her side. Using the thumb of that hand, she hooked the hot plastic bag entirely off her head. Then peered down at Knacker’s red and gasping face which she moved closer, just above her waist-level. She noted he was trying to get the lid off the bottle of acid, but was struggling because he only had one eye to see with and only one arm that was much use. So the limp arm was probably broken. Fergal should have controlled himself; he should never have disabled his ally.
Stephanie shook Knacker’s head about like she was playing with a dog that had its jaws clamped on a rubber toy.
Knacker gargled, sputtered, dripped.
Quickly, she brought the glass shard up and punched it through the thin skin of his throat, between his Adam’s apple and the tendon at the side of his bony neck. Only after the glass went in deep, and until her knuckles brushed the stubble on his jawline, did she realize that she was smiling with all of her teeth.
Hot blood jetted over the back of her hand. Something that felt like warm water from a garden sprinkler speckled her face. She dipped her head, blinked her eyes clear.
Knacker dropped the bottle of acid at his feet and brought both hands up to a throat that ran bright red right inside the collar of his jacket.
She held him tight by the jaw and lowered his head to the floor. He went down and sputtered like he was choking on a bone. She had no idea a human mouth could produce so much saliva.
He took one hand away from his wet throat and briefly flailed it at her face.
Keys. He put the keys to the cuffs in his pocket.
One thing at a time.
Bleed him. Bleed his strength away.
She kicked him hard between the legs and forced his head against the floor. She raised her uncuffed foot and pressed the sole of her trainer against the side of his head. He kicked out his legs like a farm animal in a slaughterhouse. His feet shot under the bed and he could not pull them back out. Knacker’s strength was ebbing and his visible red eye started to turn up inside his skull.
Stephanie was standing in a puddle. ‘Do you want to know somefing, you bastard?’ she said. ‘You’re bleeding out, like a pig. It’s what you deserve.’ She knelt down beside him and looked at the door. It was still closed but would not be for long. Keys.
She let go of the mirror shard and used that hand to go through one of Knacker’s jacket pockets with her free hand. She fished out her phone, her purse. Threw them on to the bed. Slipped her hand around his stomach and into the other pocket of his jacket and pulled out a tobacco tin, Ryan’s engraved Zippo lighter, a condom, the keys to the door and another set of smaller steel keys that looked like toy keys. Handcuffs.
Confident she could now take her hand out of Knacker’s mouth, she released his jaw and withdrew her sopping fingers.
Knacker began to rasp, loudly, so she kept his head still with one foot. His legs still kicked about under the bed, though the actions better resembled spasms. A final surge. His last.
Using both hands, Stephanie slipped the small key inside the steel cuff about her ankle and unlocked it with one smooth turn. The cuff opened and she kicked it off her foot. Breathing hard, she took her other foot off Knacker’s head.
As she uncuffed herself, Knacker managed to pull the mirror shard out of his throat with one twitching hand. But to put up a struggle at this stage he’d probably need most of the blood that was soaking into the carpet to still be inside his body.
Stephanie picked up the medicine bottle filled with acid. ‘Gonna use this on me, yeah?’ Her voice was quiet and calm now. She tried to unscrew the bottle cap but it swivelled around and made the clicking sound of a childproofed lid. She pressed the lid down and gingerly removed the cap. The stench that came out of the bottle made her whip her head back.
She took a step away from the shuddering, jerking thing on the floor that gulped at the air. She leant over and carefully poured half the bottle’s contents onto Knacker’s crotch. And then stamped on his face. His nose cracked and slid sideways like a snail’s shell under the sole of her foot.
She stepped away and surveyed his suffering with disgust, but also with a surge of satisfaction and pleasure that was near sexual.
Recapping the bottle quickly, she made sure not to tighten the lid; she’d need to get that off quickly when the time came to throw the rest of the acid into Fergal’s face.
Svetlana. Get up there now. Might not be too late.
Stephanie snatched up the blue plastic grocery bag and hooded Knacker’s head to muffle his gurgled shrieks. ‘I’m free and I’ve burned your cock off. And now I’m going to open that skinny prick…’ She picked the piece of mirror from the floor while Knacker choked through the sizzle and the steam of his death, that had just gotten so much worse than he ever could have imagined. ‘… with this,’ she said, and rewrapped the blood-drenched stocking around the base of the mirror shard. The end of the glass spike was chipped, the chip somewhere inside Knacker’s throat.
With the acid bottle in one hand and ready for launch, Stephanie opened the door and checked the corridor. The dismal passage was empty.
She locked the door behind herself with her old set of room keys. And walked away from the gargling sounds that choked under the door as if a large fish were trying to breathe on land.
She tapped 999 into her phone keypad.
There were preliminaries when you called 999.
Which service?
What’s your number?
What’s your full name and address?
Can you calm down and tell us where you are?
After Stephanie issued the address in hushed tones, her calm, or her shock, broke down and into, ‘They’re trying to kill me … They’re killing another girl now. Have killed others. They killed Ryan. His body is in the garden. The house is full of dead people. Bennet killed them. They killed them…’ The information was coming out too fast and she was angry at herself because she was worried that she wasn’t making sense. But something in her voice must have informed the operator that she wasn’t faking. The phone made some clicks and the operator’s voice lost its softness. Stephanie was told to stay on the line and that a car was on its way.
‘Come quick. Please. Fergal has gone upstairs to kill Svetlana.’
>
The operator told her to calm down. Then asked her to leave the house.
She could. Oh, God. She could bolt down those stairs, run along the ground floor corridor, open the front door and run into the street. Her legs were soaked in blood. A car might stop in the street.
Svetlana.
She might still be alive.
Not now. He’d have done her by now. Get out. Run.
‘Stephanie, are you still on the line? It is very important that you stay on the line. Do you need a doctor? Are you injured?’
She didn’t answer the operator. Instead she was mostly listening to the house. The house was quiet. And she remembered her fear in that room, while chained to the bed, when Knacker had come inside to choke out her life inside a plastic bag. She looked down at the bottle of acid in her fist and ran for the stairs. She panted as much as spoke into the phone handset. ‘Leaving phone on. Gotta help Svetlana. He’s killing her.’
She slipped the phone handset inside the pocket at the front of her soiled hooded top and began an ascent of the stairs to the second floor.
SIXTY-THREE
Struggling to breathe easily, Stephanie stopped twice on the stairwell; the second time she stopped she hovered on the verge of passing out. Her vision shrank behind what looked like black smoke speckled with diamonds and she was convinced the walls were moving. She clutched the banister. The strength and resolve to get this far was deserting her fast.
Rounding the staircase slowly she looked up at the gloom of the second floor, and at where she had started at 82 Edgehill Road. Where it had all started. Pushing on with soft feet, up one side of the stairs to minimize the sounds of her ascent, she forced herself to regulate her breathing or she would be good for nothing.
She was soon looking at three closed doors of painted red wood. All of the rooms appeared to be occupied. On the right hand side, where she first heard the Russian girl, and where Margaret must have died, she could hear muffled sounds of grief: a chest-shuddering sound of a young woman wracked with misery.
One of them.
