by Sam West
It’s Saturday, today... Chloe’s meeting my parents tonight…
His stomach flipped in apprehension. Just nerves, he told himself, but knowing that did little to allay the tide of negativity.
The bathroom door opened and Chloe appeared wearing a towel. Her hair was dry and piled into a gleaming, gold bun on top of her head. “I’ve decided to go to the police by myself,” she announced. “Then after that I’m stopping off at my place to catch up on a few things.”
“Don’t you want me to come with you?”
“No, I’d rather do it myself, if you don’t mind.”
Greg didn’t know if he did mind or not. On one hand, he was selfishly pleased to stay at home alone and maybe watch the lunch-time match, but on the other hand, he was a little put-out she didn’t want him there.
Maybe she won’t even bother going to the police, and she’s just saying she is to shut me up.
“I don’t mind. Whatever you want. Just promise me that you are actually going to the police and not just saying that you are.”
She stopped her rummaging through a cupboard for underwear, the towel clutched to her chest and turned round to face him. “Are you calling me a liar, now?”
Shit. He’d only just woken up, the last thing he wanted was a row, his head couldn’t take it. “No, I just want to be sure.”
She regarded him icily. “It sounds to me like you don’t trust me. You do trust me, don’t you, Greg?”
“Yes, yes, of course I do,” he said hastily.
“Are you sure you still love me? Are you sure you still want me to give up my house and move in with you when the time comes?”
“Oh baby, of course I do, we’ve been through this a thousand times, it’s pointless you keeping your place on.”
Chloe still rented a terraced house in the heart of Canterbury, and hadn’t gotten around to giving it up, yet. She claimed to be tied into the rental contract for another month, then after that she was free to go. Greg had been keen for her to move in properly with him. But now? He wasn’t so sure.
Of course I’m sure. I love her.
I do love her.
“You’re looking at me funny, again,” she said.
“What? No, I’m not.”
She dropped the towel and bent over to step into her knickers. Greg admired the sleek lines of her body and not for the first time marvelled at her complete lack of modesty. At the beginning of the relationship it had been refreshing; he had never known a woman like her.
But now, it seemed a little…
A little what? Exhibitionist?
You mean slutty.
Horrified at the turn his mind was taking, he tore his gaze off her nude splendour. It was an effort to get out of the bed without wincing, but he’d be damned if he was going to let on that he had a hangover.
By the time he’d emptied his bladder and come back out of the bathroom, she was dressed in a pretty, summery, floral dress that skimmed her knees. She stood in front of the mirror to apply a coat of mascara.
“My God, that was quick,” he said. “You in a rush, or something?”
He studied her profile, taking in the angelic features with the cute, little snub nose and the most curious feeling enveloped him, like he was looking at a stranger. She finished applying the mascara – apparently her sole make-up of choice for the day – and threw him a dazzling smile.
“I’ve just got a lot to do and I want to get the police visit over with early on.”
He didn’t bother asking what her plans were for the rest of the day, the truth was his headache had become all-consuming and all he could think about was the Paracetamol in the downstairs kitchen cupboard.
“Sure, baby, I hope it goes well with the police. Are you going to take the laptop with you?”
“Why would I do that? I’ll just show them the message on my phone.”
“Oh, yeah, of course.”
“I’ll be home around four, you said you wanted to leave for your parents around then?”
Had he? “Yeah. Four. Sure.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
“Yeah.”
She frowned. “Is everything okay? Have I done something?”
“What? No, of course not. Just a bit of a headache.”
“Oh. Okay. Bye, then.”
“Bye,” he said, kissing her chastely on the cheek. “Have a good day, I’ll see you later.”
He remained standing where he was, listening to her retreating footsteps on the stairs. As soon as he heard the front-door go, he flopped face-first onto the bed and groaned into the pillow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Susan Armstrong came to, her brain fogged with confusion. She tried to open her eyes but couldn’t – there was something covering them and they ached like merry fuck. She let out a whimper.
Oh God I’m blind I’m fucking blind…
No, don’t panic. Think…
She tried to remain calm, to access her situation coolly and rationally.
It was very difficult.
“Help me!” she screamed at the top of her voice, but all that came out was a hoarse cry that hurt her throat.
She was just so fucking thirsty, she hadn’t had a drink since…
Since I shared a beer with Greg.
The memory of throwing herself at him slammed into her mind, and ordinarily she would have been mortified. But right then such trivialities could not have bothered her less. All she cared about was the nightmarish situation she currently found herself in.
She remembered back to the reason why her eyes hurt. After letting Greg know that she was in love with him, she had walked home in tears. Half an hour later there had been a knock at the door. She had thought it was her flatmate who had left five minutes previously, back to retrieve whatever it was she had forgotten before heading back to the bloke’s house she was currently seeing.
It wasn’t Beth.
In the second that Susan had thrown open the door, she was sprayed in the eyes. She didn’t get a proper look at her assailant, all she remembered was that he was taller than her, and was wearing a thick, black hoody with the hood pulled down over his eyes.
She remembered thinking; it’s fucking pepper spray, which was swiftly followed by an explosion of pain in the head. And then she must have passed out because she sure as shit didn’t remember how she got into this room.
I have to focus. Her mum’s voice popped into her head: Do not seek death. Death will find you…
Fuck off, Mum.
Just that one, fleeting thought of her mum threatened to be her undoing. She forced herself to focus on the here and now, not on her mother. That great tide of despair would come and wash her mind clean away if she let it.
She tried to get the chain of events clear in her mind. She had opened the door to the stranger; he had sprayed her in the eyes then knocked her out. She assumed her assailant had dragged her into a waiting car. It was possible that her neighbours had seen, but it was not a guarantee, there were a lot of student house-shares on her street and everyone was entirely insular. Susan doubted she would even recognise her neighbours, let alone stop to talk to them….
You’re losing the thread, you have to think…
So the assailant had brought her to this place, wherever ‘this place’ was. All she knew was that she was in a room that was either situated at the back of the house away from any passing traffic or she had been taken to somewhere isolated. She prayed that it wasn’t the latter. The room was silent, save for her whimpering and the gurgling of a water tank. She was blindfolded and lying face-down on a scratchy carpet. She was still dressed in the same silk blouse and black pencil skirt she had worn to work, and her hands were tied behind her back. Her ankles were bound too, for she couldn’t separate her legs.
How long have I been here?
She thought that perhaps this was the second time she had come round, although she didn’t know for sure. The raging thirst was the worst, she would have given anything for a
glass of water. The gurgling water tank reminded her that she was desperate for a drink of water….
And that from the waist down she was pissed wet through. Literally. She let out a howl of despair.
Who would do this to me? She had no answer, for as far as she was concerned, she didn’t have a single enemy in the world.
“Please, help me,” she sobbed.
“No,” a voice growled.
Susan screamed, but the sound was weak and pathetic. “Who’s there?” she gasped, her heart hammering painfully hard.
Whoever it was in the room with her didn’t answer.
“Leave me alone,” she whined pathetically. She strained her ears, but all she could hear was her own ragged breathing and sobbing, the blood whooshing in her eardrums and the wet gurgle of the water-tank.
“Who’s there?” she repeated in a shrill voice.
Just as she was beginning to think that she had imagined the voice, that she had lost her mind, she felt a hand on the side of her face. She screamed in shock at the contact and tried to shuffle away from the offending skin on skin contact.
The hand pushed down harder on her cheek, mashing the other side of her face firmly into the carpet. Pain stabbed behind her eyes, sending fresh waves of panic coursing through her.
“What do you want from me? Who are you?”
The hand pushed down even harder in answer. The palm of the hand ground into the soft spot between her cheekbone and jawline, and then she felt pressure on her eyes.
“Oh no, please…”
Her pleas gave way to terrified sobbing when the probing fingers pushed against the blindfold that covered her eyes. The pressure increased, and she screwed up her eyes tightly in protest.
It didn’t do her any good. She gasped in absolute shock when the pressure of those fingers intensified, crossing over into the territory of pain. Her dark world was bathed in a flash of light, as if someone had briefly pressed a torch to her blindfold. Agony accompanied that horrible light, along with a horrendous popping sound that reverberated inside her skull.
The consequences of the pain were too terrible to comprehend and a scream drenched in misery was wrenched up from the depths of her guts.
Fresh pain exploded in her lower face, cutting the scream short.
Punched me in mouth, came the disjointed thought, and she retreated into herself in an effort to block out everything that was happening to her.
Dimly, she was aware of her sodden skirt being yanked up her bare legs and then cool air on her rump where her knickers had once been. A heavy weight bore down on her back, pushing her front flat against the floor and forcing her head sideway.
A grunting sound reached her ears, then fingers probing her arse-crack. The fingers were replaced by something hard and big, pressing against the entrance of her rectum.
And then all thoughts of her eyes were forgotten. The man held onto her shoulders, grinding her big breasts into the carpet. Ordinarily, this would have been a source of much pain and alarm but given her current predicament it barely even registered.
With a low grunt, the man pushed his cock inside her anus. With each hard thrust her body skidded up the carpet and she gurgled on the blood that filled her mouth and slid down her throat. She felt something give deep inside her rectum; an explosion of pain that was a firework going off in her guts.
The man’s thrusts grew harder and quicker, his passage lubricated by blood. He slammed into her, moaning in pleasure.
Greg should’ve chosen me. It wasn’t a conscious thought – she certainly didn’t care or know why she thought it – but it was his face she saw in her mind’s eye as the man hammered away inside of her.
With a final grunt of satisfaction, the man went slack on top of her. She didn’t move and concentrated on breathing, trying not to think about the pain that held her in its thrall.
Instead she thought about Greg; nothing specific, just him. The way he unknowingly strutted like John Travolta when he walked, and his ruggedly handsome face that drove her wild with lust. He was all she saw in her mind’s eye as she drifted in and out of consciousness.
The weight lifted from her back and she came to her senses. A new, sharp pain like an insect bite stung the side of her neck. For the first few seconds it didn’t bother her as it paled in comparison to the agony in her head and rectum, but it escalated quickly from a mild sting to blazing agony. Her face was flooded with hot wetness.
My blood, came the detached thought.
“Greg,” she whispered, the last word she would ever utter.
She passed out, mere seconds away from death. On her short journey to her demise, the pain thankfully dimmed to nothing and she was sure she heard someone screaming – a high-pitched howl that grew quieter and quieter until it faded into silence.
CHAPTER NINE
Greg put a protective arm round Chloe’s shoulders, pulling her closer in the cool, evening air. Together they crunched up the grave-drive of his childhood home in Ramsgate. The house was fully detached and situated on Ramsgate’s West Cliff, overlooking the harbour.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.
“Why on earth wouldn’t I?”
Because the last time you met a set of in-laws they were slaughtered in front of you, he thought, but didn’t say.
“You know, because of everything that’s been going on,” he said lamely, not wanting to get into a full-blown discussion seconds before he was about to introduce his fiancée to his parents.
“I told you, the police said it’s probably nothing to worry about and they’re looking into it.”
“Yeah, well, that hardly fills me with confidence.”
“I appreciate your concern, but they know what they’re doing. And don’t forget the phone number they gave me.”
Greg sighed deeply. Chloe had been given the personal mobile number of the guy in charge of the investigation concerning the Jones’ case. She had a hotline straight to the top, and if she so much as dialled 999 the police would be on their doorstep immediately without her even having to open her mouth.
And that, he supposed, would have to do.
“I think you’re incredibly brave,” he said, pulling her tight against his side. “Are you sure you’re up to meeting my folks?”
“We’re here, aren’t we? It’s a bit late to back out now, and it’s got to be done, right? I love you, Greg, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you and I can’t wait to meet your parents.”
Greg instantly experienced a rush of hot shame and guilt. “I love you too,” he replied honestly.
How could I have let Susan kiss me like that? I am a complete cunt.
In that second he decided he was going to do everything in his power to make things perfect with Chloe. She was the woman he loved, no one else. He was lucky to have her. In fact, he had spent the whole day thinking about their relationship, and if it was what he really wanted. And now that they were together, here on his parents’ doorstep, he decided that yes, she was most definitely the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
“I guess this is it, then,” he said. “The moment of reckoning. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she said, smiling up at him.
Greg knocked on the door and the most ridiculous thought slammed into his mind: It’s like banging against a coffin lid…
His forearms puckered with goose-bumps at his preposterous flight of fancy and a bad feeling squirmed in his guts.
The impending sense of doom was pushed to the back of his mind when his mum flung open the door and pulled Greg towards her in a fierce hug. Greg stooped down – his mum was only five-two – and she laughed in delight.
“Oh Greg, it’s so lovely to see you,” she gushed.
“I only saw you three weeks ago.”
“Yes, well, it’s not enough, is it? And who is this beautiful young lady you have with you?”
“This is Chloe. Chloe, meet my mum.”
“It’s a plea
sure to meet you, Mrs Larson.”
“Oh please, call me Janet.”
Greg smiled down at his mum, wondering what Chloe would make of her. His mum had been a real looker back in her day, and she wore the passing years well. The classical beauty of her youth had given way to the forces of gravity and time, but her blue-eyes still sparkled with good-humour and her lines spoke of a million laughing fits rather than bouts of misery. She still wore her hair in the same way she had as a girl – a chin-length, brown bob set in neat finger-waves that looked decidedly nineteen-twenties.
He hoped that they would get on.
“You have a lovely home, Janet,” Chloe said, as they followed her into the house.
“Thank you, dear,” she said over her shoulder. “We bought it when Greg was tiny, houses were so cheap back then. Well, I suppose everything was back then, wasn’t it? It could do with a makeover though, but you know what it’s like, never enough time or enough money. And when you do get both, you’re too old to do anything about it. We have managed to do the kitchen, but these things take time. A long time, when it comes to my husband, anyway…” Greg only half listened as she went into mum-mode, or Have-A-Chat, as he had affectionately and very-secretly nicknamed her in his mind. “So, Greg tells us you’re a writer. I’d love to read one of your books.”
“I’m not sure they’ll be your thing, Mum,” Greg said. “A bit too gory for you.”
Janet threw back her head and laughed in that easy way of hers. “Oh, I don’t know, I like a bit of James Herbert, sometimes.”
“Chloe’s books make James Herbert look like Winnie the Pooh.”
“Can’t say that sounds like my type of thing. Not that I do much reading,” his dad said. “Hello dear, it’s lovely to meet you at last.”
Greg watched as his dad got up from the sofa and folded the newspaper he was reading into a neat half and placed it on the coffee-table. He wasn’t one for being overly tactile and awkwardly he shook Chloe’s hand. Greg fleetingly thought how frail he was looking, how he seemed to look older every time he visited. Years of hard, manual labour had left him arthritic and stooped, and his once-handsome, weathered face was as lined as crepe paper.
