by Matt Shaw
“Yes.” She started to cry again. “I have children.” Hayley Chambers was thirty-five years old, married with two children. It was her kids who were at the forefront of her mind now, not the danger she was clearly in. She couldn’t help but think about her children growing up without a mother, the look on their faces when their dad would tell them mummy wouldn’t be coming home. She started gagging as the thoughts ripped at her insides making her feel the need to vomit everywhere.
“What are their names?” Emma asked in an effort to distract her.
“I don’t want them growing up without a mum,” Hayley wept.
“They won’t. I told you, we’re going to get out of this. Together. We just need to be strong and do what he asks of us for a while whilst we figure this out. Every day he drives for hours at a time, we have the time together where we know we won’t be disturbed. We can talk things through and try and figure a way out. But like I said, we need to be strong. Can you do that for me?” Emma-Jane Law was also married, a year younger than Hayley. Thoughts of her children, and Matthew - her husband - had slipped from her mind for no other reason than she refused to let them cloud the more important thoughts of getting away from this hell-hole. The moment she let thoughts of family life invade her mind, she knew she wouldn’t be able to think of anything but and she wouldn’t allow that. She refused to be a victim. Hayley didn’t answer her verbally but Emma knew she’d heard her as the young woman continued to fight back the tears until they’d almost stopped completely. Emma breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been here for a few days now. When she had been captured she hadn’t been the only girl in the chamber. There was someone else too. By the end of Emma’s first day, the other girl hadn’t stopped screaming, despite her voice giving in, and Chris could take it no longer. He snuffed her life, using her as an example to Emma.
If you behave in this way, you too will die.
With the exception of the odd sniffle from Hayley, the two girls remained in silence for a few minutes with Emma continuing to try and think of a way out of this and Hayley continuing to try and hold in her emotions.
“How are you doing?” Emma asked. She knew it was a stupid question but she thought it was better asked then allowing them to remain in an uncomfortable silence. If they could just continue to talk to each other, let each other know that they were together then it would help keep thoughts of family at bay.
“I’m uncomfortable,” Hayley whimpered. Of course she was. The cages weren’t big enough for people and these in themselves were a form of torture. Being pressed up against the steel bars it wasn’t long before a numbness took over your body and then - soon after that - the uncomfortable feeling of pins and needles causing everything to tingle. “I can’t move.”
“I know. It’s not like this the whole time,” she promised her new cell-mate. “It’s only for when we travel. He says it is for our safety. When we stop for the night, he tends to let us out and that’s the moment we need to be ready for.”
“How long have you been here?” Hayley asked. There was a tone in her voice which suggested she was almost too afraid to ask the question. This woman was stronger than her, much stronger, and that could only mean she’d been here for long enough to come to terms with the surroundings she found herself in.
“It doesn’t matter,” Emma said. “What matters is how much longer we’re both here for.” She didn’t want to talk about her time in the chamber. She didn’t want to think about how long she had been there and how much time she’d missed with her family. Emma wanted to keep her mind focused on getting out of there. She also knew that - in time - Hayley would get to read all about her story when Chris forced her to read that book. Part of her wanted to warn the new prisoner of what to expect from the book Chris often carried with him but - given how scared she was already (rightly so) she knew it would only make matters worse. For now, she was better keeping quiet about it. Emma didn’t sleep much at the moment. She was exhausted but every time she closed her eyes her body screamed at her, reminding her how uncomfortable she was. Her limbs were burning, on fire from the cramped position she’d been forced into. And even if she were perfectly comfortable, like she sometimes tried pretending to be, she still couldn’t allow herself to sleep - other than the odd, short nap - for other reasons too. The first, most basic, being the off-chance an opportunity came about for her to get away. The second being that she could not shut off her brain and forget the haunting words she’d been forced to read. She didn’t know whether the words had an ounce of truth to them; she even found herself willing them to be false, the product of a diseased mind. Considering where she found herself though, and what the bastard had done to the other woman, she knew the likelihood of it being entirely made up was slim to none. She knew that, despite her pleas for it not to be true, her best friend Tracey Ahmad was dead. Even now, the scenarios painted within the pages of that damned book, played on her mind…
#
I liked that girl’s look. She was different than the usual girls I had previously chosen. Where they usually had blonde hair, or sometimes brunette hair - she had opted for a completely different look by having a funky colouring added of red and pink. In a strange way it suited her, as grim as it may sound. I remember thinking - here is a girl who is clearly up for some fun. A girl of a big character. By choosing someone completely different, I believed she might have even lasted longer than the others too - maybe even lasting the distance and joining me on my journey until we reach the end, whatever (and wherever) that may be. I knew from the moment I laid eyes upon her, that regardless of whether she really would last the distance or not, I had to give her a try. When she woke up, that is.
Her friend, on the other hand, was irritating the living daylights out of me. A constant, high-pitched scream ever since I floored her best friend with a blow from the butt of the axe I’d purchased from the home depot store. When the axe connected to her face - with that loud crack - I wished, there and then, that I had been filming as I went along for there are no words to describe that sound accurately, despite it being one of the most satisfying noises in the world. Try and imagine the sound of someone’s knuckles cracking. Done it? Now magnify it by a thousand. The axe connected with her face. There was the crack. I pulled it away and she had the look upon her face I’d seen on many a woman before; the one where their eyes roll to the back of their heads so that only the whites are visible. And then, she dropped the floor - out cold. That’s when her friend started screaming.
I told her, “If you want to live, be quiet.”
She hushed up pretty quickly. I hadn’t been aware that the girl I’d come for had a friend over. I thought - middle of the day – she’d be home alone. I had stalked her for a few days prior to this and she was often home alone by herself during the daytime hours. By mid-afternoon she’d be on the way to collect the children and then, a couple of hours after that, her husband would come home. Once the whole family was in, it seemed they didn’t really leave the house again until the following morning.
“What’s your name?” I asked the quivering mess of a lady.
She stuttered out with, “Tracey.”
“Your full name.” If she was to go in my book - and that was guaranteed - then I needed to know the full name, not just the first name. Without telling her my intentions, I believe she’d want her full name documented too. Something for her to be remembered by so - in years to come - when people ask whatever happened to such and such, someone will be able to provide a full and accurate answer. She doesn’t realise this (she soon will) but she’s one of the lucky ones. So many people get born, live, and then die without leaving anything behind. Being in my book, being part of my story - she will live on forever. I should tell her. Give her something to smile about before I test the power of both my swing and the sharpness of the axe’s head.
“Ahmad.”
“Tracey Ahmad? I don’t like it. Are you married or were you born with that name? Kind of reminds me of Achmed The Dead Terro
rist. You remember that ventriloquist act?”
“I’m married.”
“So you chose someone with that surname?” Some people might have perceived me to be rude but sometimes - when you hear about women with strange names - you have to wonder as to whether the lady in question considered the surname when she believed she was falling in love. But then, for all I know, her maiden name could have been worse. Perhaps “Macey”, or something else which rhymes.
“What do you want?” she asked, just as they always do.
I asked her, “What is her name?” as I pointed, with the axe, back to sleeping beauty.
“Emma-Jane.”
“Very plain. Her name is Emma Jane?”
“Hyphenated. Emma-Jane is her first name.”
“Different. Could her mum and dad not decide which plain name to give her? Was there to be a group discussion sitting around a table whether they should opt for the common ‘Emma’ or equally over-used ‘Jane’?” I don’t know why I asked Tracey this. She wouldn’t know. It’s not as though she were sitting there at the table with the mum and dad as they tried to make their mind up all those years ago - and seeing Emma-Jane’s face up close… I’m not sure how old she is but it’s clear it was many years ago her ma and pa were having the discussion. “Surname?”
“Law.” Tracey continued again, “What do you want?”
“I want your friend. I’ve come to collect her. I’m terribly sorry, you weren’t supposed to be here.”
She told me, “I can leave!” and I couldn’t help but laugh in her face. We both knew - had I let her go, she would have run for help before I’d had a chance to get away with that which I had come to collect.
“It’s okay. You being here… You can help me before I leave.” I remember the look on her face. The words I’d chosen must have given her a false sense of hope, something I often seem to give people before bringing them back down to Earth with a crash. If you were to ask me, I wouldn’t be able to tell you whether this was intentional or not or just something I seem to do.
“What do you want?” she stuttered over her words just as most people do when they’re nervous.
“It’s like this,” I told her. “I’ve always wondered whether an axe can actually split a woman in two.”
“What?” It was at this point she started backing away from me, entering the room behind her (the kitchen).
“You know… From the top of the head, right the way down. Is that possible? Can an axe do that?” Before she had a chance to say anything, or even turn from me, I raised the axe high in the air and brought it down hard upon the top of her skull. The sharp blade easily cut through her skull, right down to her chin but - despite my best efforts - stopped there. Using all of my strength, I pulled it out, spraying both myself and my surroundings with bone fragment, brain, and blood. Tracey dropped to the floor with a clear gap between her eyes, running down to her chin. I raised the axe again and brought it crashing down again in the same location, this time cutting down to the bottom of her neck. A little wiggle and I pulled it free, raising it high in the air before bringing it down once more. More progress made down her body. That day, with more blows than I cared to count, I learned that an axe is indeed sharp enough to cut a human in half. When I was done, I dropped the axe into the pool of blood that had formed on the floor, spread out around either side of Tracey’s split body. It was weird, looking at the two halves and then trying to picture them back together again. Inside I could see various organs, some intact and some perfectly split right down (I presume) the middle. I’m not one for internal organs and such so I couldn’t tell you what each piece was. I just know it looked incredible - the kind of stuff you’d expect that crazy artist to present in a museum for the more morbid of the human race. Or maybe even one of the gallery displays by that serial killer from the news not so long ago, Arthur. Or - as he preferred to be called - Art.
I reached down, with a shaking hand, and pushed it deep into the right hand side of Tracey’s body - around the stomach area. I splayed my fingers out before closing them into a tight ball; a handful of something mushy clenched firmly within. I pulled my hand out - with the handful of whatever - and jumped back as what looked like intestines (some of them at least) slipped to the floor between the two halves. I couldn’t tell you why I had done what I did but then I couldn’t say why I was curious to see if an axe could split a person in half either. They were just two random thoughts which went through my mind; two thoughts that I needed to act upon. I opened my hands and let the gore slip between my fingers. It splatted onto the tiled floor of the kitchen; a sound not dissimilar to the noise you’d get when pouring custard from tin to saucepan. I lifted my bloodied hand up to my face and sniffed the guts. I gagged up a ball of thick, heavy phlegm into the back of my mouth. Could have been worse. Could have been vomit. The taste of it as it is sitting in a pool, in the centre of my tongue, suggested it could actually have been a little bit of sick had it not been for the heavy, slimy texture of snot. I rolled it around my mouth for a minute, unsure of what to do with it. I wasn’t sure whether they’d be able to trace DNA via it had I spat it to the floor. It felt disgusting in my mouth, rolling around - this thick ball of mucus. I closed my eyes and did what I thought best. I swallowed it back down my gullet and tried not to gag again as I felt it leave a snail trail down to my stomach. A pathetic reaction from just a smell. Those rank guts. A similar stink to when you find yourself smelling the dental floss tape after sliding it between tooth and rancid gum. It made me question what she’d eaten. Was it something she’d eaten to cause that gut-wrenching stink? Or do we all smell like that inside? Only one way to find out. I reached back down to one of the halves. I pushed into the warm intestines once more and felt around until I could feel what I was looking for - at least, what I presumed I was looking for. I pulled out; a bag - like a sack of some kind. Slippery. Using my nails, I dug them in and ripped the sack open. More liquids spilled out onto the floor, mixing with the rest of the mess. A light brown with a smell I couldn’t describe if I wanted to. Not just liquids on the floor though but food. Mushed up. Half-processed. I knelt down into the puddle and started sifting through the remains. It could have been a sandwich of some description. Damned curiosity rushing through me once more; would it taste the same half-digested? Why is it every time I find my curiosity piqued I need to satisfy myself with an answer. I scooped up a sludgy piece of what could have once been bread. I took it close to my mouth and parted my lips. My tongue jutted out a little ready to sample it. A gag… Another gag… A deep retching from my stomach as I coughed up a puddle of sick… Another gag as the taste hit my mouth… Stomach juices, acid and remnants of a shepherds pie I ate last night. Stomach acid, beef, cheese and potato. Vomit spewed from my mouth and through the nasal passages of my nose, burning as it did so. My eyes watered as I took a step back from the carnage… I closed them in an effort to block it all from my sight in order to calm myself down. For once: I do not need to answer my own posed question.
A soft groan from behind reminded me that this wasn’t what I was here for and I soon turned my attention back to the girl I’d originally come for. A quick punch to the face sparks her out cold once more.
I looked towards the door. On the wall there was a giant key hanging there, a decorative holding place for you to hang your proper keys. Among them hopefully being the one I needed most of all; the key to her car. Didn’t bring my truck. It would have looked a little conspicuous parked out in her road but - from following her - I knew she owned a car of her own. One I hoped she wouldn’t mind me borrowing in order to get her back to my lorry and her new home.
#
“Are you still there?” Hayley called out to Emma who’d gone quiet, lost in thoughts of what she’d read about her lost friend.
“I’m here,” she said softly. She tried to snap herself from the thoughts. Here she was telling her new cell-mate that they needed to be strong and think of a way out of this hell-hole and yet there she was
, getting caught up in the words from his book. Words, she reminded herself, that might not even be true. She hadn’t seen what had happened to her friend. Or rather what had supposedly happened to her friend. For all she knew she was at home, safe and sound. Maybe she was even out there somewhere, worrying about what was happening with Emma-Jane? Perhaps sitting with Matthew, Emma’s husband, offering him some comfort; kind words of reassurance. There, there, everything is going to be okay. A stupid thought, a little voice whispered to Emma, nothing is going to be okay. How can it be? You’re stuck in this cage and he doesn’t let you out until he is ready to do so. He isn’t stupid. Regrettably.
“What do you think is going to happen to us?” Hayley asked. It was clear she too was struggling with looking for the positive in this situation; the thought of getting away and back to their homes.
Emma-Jane took control of the situation again, “Nothing is going to happen to us. We’re going to be fine. We’re going to get out of here. Just keep telling yourself that over and over until it finally sinks in. We’re going to get out of here, we’re going to get out of here…”
“Do you believe it yet?”
Emma didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Not after what had happened to the last girl she’d been imprisoned with. What he had done to her only proved the likelihood that his words, within the book he’d presented to her, were true. Tracey was dead. For her, there was no Happy Ever After. Emma-Jane’s lack of response filled Hayley with no optimism.
5.
The lorry pulled into the specially designated carpark as the sun slowly started to disappear beneath the horizon. It wasn’t late. Just the annoying season where darkness consumed the landscape earlier than usual making people believe it was later than it really was. Chris didn’t mind this time of the year. It meant that - so long as he kept away from street lamps - it would make his features harder to make out and it give him more of an opportunity to disappear into the blackness of the multitude of shadows. Chris turned the engine off and pulled himself closer to the steering wheel. He arched his back to the sounds of cracking once more. Too many years driving too many miles.
