by Jake Barton
"Oh, right. What I mean is you’re not like most women."
"Oh? In what way?" Donna asked, with no more than a hint of edge to her words.
Gary didn’t notice. Too busy pissing about, tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as he concentrated all his attention on the recalcitrant key.
"Well," he said after an age. "Lots of things really. The way you get ready to go out for a start."
"What’s wrong with how I get ready?"
"Nothing, that’s the point. You just do it. Most women take forever. Trying on clothes from their own wardrobes, for fuck’s sake. You’d think they’d already know whether their own clothes fitted them or not. Earrings to try on. Shoes to get out of cupboards. All that standing around in front of mirrors only for the whole lot to be chucked back and a fresh set tried on. Then there’s make-up, hair combing and the whole bathroom grooming palaver."
"I do that. Some of it anyway."
"No you don’t. You’re more like a bloke."
"Didn’t this start off as a compliment, before it all went wrong?" Donna asked, bridling more than a little.
"That is a compliment. A bloke will get in from work, change his shirt, go for a slash, run his fingers through his hair, and be ready to go out again."
Donna said nothing. This did sound a bit like her style, she had to admit, but felt compelled to mount some form of defence.
"I do all that other stuff," Donna said. "Sometimes. I’m just more organised than most."
"Organised? You?"
Donna remained silent. She couldn’t sue him for slander, could she? Not when she found any form of organisation difficult. Unstructured and sloppy, Roper said. Admittedly she was certainly not tidy. In fact, she was a Grade A messer, so Roper may well be right for once. Given his background, it came as no surprise that he regarded her with horror. He’d often told Donna she wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in the Air Force. Right again. She didn’t like routine, unless it was of her own choosing, and didn’t accept orders very well.
The only person who Donna took any real notice of was Dexter. God knows why. Perhaps, because he talked sense. With Dexter, Donna could always see the reason behind what he said, and he hardly ever gave her a direct order. Suggestion would be a better description. Donna didn’t have any problem in going along with suggestions.
Maybe it was the respect thing again. Donna respected Dexter, so she went along with what he said, most of the time anyway, whereas if Roper had suggested the exact same thing, she’d argue or pretend not to hear. It was still early days with Gary, but if he asked her to do something, she’d probably do it. Like move in with him, perhaps? Now that was a thought. Would she?
Donna brought the barrier down on possibilities and followed Gary up the stairs.
*****
Angie teased a stray lock of hair back into place and debated the chances of her getting away with a quick ciggie before the upstairs staff finished their meeting when the telephone on her desk rang. Bugger, she said to herself as she answered.
"Hello, Curtis, Henderson and Rudd. May I help you?"
"Oh, I do hope so," the caller answered. "I need to contact your Mister Rudd at home, but I’m getting unobtainable from his home number. Do you happen to know if it’s out of order?" The voice was honey-smooth with a soft Scottish burr. Angie thought immediately of Sean Connery.
"I’m sorry, Mister Rudd had a fire at his home address and his usual number is no longer available. Can I take a message?"
"What I'd really like is to meet him at home. Can you tell me where I will find him later today?"
"I’m terribly sorry, Sir. I can't release that information over the telephone. Mister Rudd asked for all calls to be passed through this office for the time being."
"The thing is, I’m an old friend of Gary's, going back to when we shared a room at university. I’m in Liverpool for a few days and I'd really like to see him, but I'd like to surprise him, if possible."
"Oh, it's not about work you want to see him?"
"God, no. Nothing so mundane or unspeakably boring as work." She heard the way he rolled the R as he pronounced the word boring and Angie shivered at the delicious sound, wishing the owner of this wonderfully sexy voice was here in person, not on the end of a telephone.
"Well," she said, in a teasing manner. "I’ll have to see what I can do for you, won't I? The problem is that I don't have a permanent address for Mister Rudd. All I know is that he's staying at a friend's house for the time being."
The voice chuckled throatily. "Oh come on. Surely you're making this up to confuse me. I’ve known Gary Rudd for the best part of his adult life, and the miserable reprobate has no other friends at all. I’m the only one, and even I can't stand him for longer than half an hour."
" Oh, that's not fair," Angie complained loyally, throwing in a trademark giggle. Why didn't she ever meet men like this? "Mister Rudd, Gary, is a lovely man and you know it."
"How long have you known him?"
"Just over a year, I suppose."
"I can see the wretch has bamboozled you into mistaking his shallow nature for something more worthy. Ah well, I hope it won't be such a great disappointment when you find out the truth."
"Some friend you are," Angie giggled, swivelling on her chair in delight.
She loved the way that men, especially the intelligent creative types, could mock each other with such impunity at every opportunity, seemingly without any offence being taken.
Gary and his partners were exactly the same, invariably greeting each other with insults and making slanderous remarks about the character of other friends.
"Who's this friend he's claiming then? Some poor chap down on his luck who's so desperate for friends he has to accept the wretched company of Gary Rudd?"
"It's a girlfriend actually."
"Oh, now I know you're having me on. What would any girl see in a man like that?" The man paused; a more serious note entered his voice. "No, really? A new girlfriend? I’m so pleased for him. I never thought that, well you probably know about his poor wife?" He left the question hanging, and Angie responded to this more sombre tone by adopting a grave expression.
The friendly banter that had gone before was no longer appropriate.
"I know, I’m so very pleased for him," she said, trying for a note of sincerity and desperately hoping it masked the raging jealousy provoked by the appearance of Donna O’Prey in Gary’s life.
"Is it serious, then?" the man enquired.
"I’m not sure. I get the impression that it could be, but it’s not really my place to say," Angie confided, suggesting that she was privy to even the most intimate details of her employer's life.
"That's brilliant news. Well, that settles it. You have to help me track down the old bugger so I can congratulate him in person. I knew that under different circumstances he would have been interested in some girl he worked with, but he’s always had this idea that work and pleasure don't mix. He told me all about her the last time we spoke. I remember asking if he could arrange for me to meet her as she sounded so lovely."
"When was this, then?" Angie sniffed, thinking of the three secretaries upstairs with fresh contempt.
"Oh, last time we spoke. A blonde girl, blue eyes, freckles, big Liverpool fan. Angie, I think he said her name was. See, I can remember her very well for someone I’ve never met. Show's what an impression she’d made on Gary. On me as well, come to that." Angie said nothing. She was incapable of speech.
"Come on then, help me out here. Do you at least have a 'phone number where I can reach him?"
"Oh, sorry. Yeah, I can do that. Hang on a minute; I’ve got it here somewhere. Here we are." She read out the number.
"625? What's that, Chester?"
"No, West Kirby. He's staying with that girl like I said. Did I give you the address? No? Oh, sorry." Angie read out the address from off the slip of paper Gary had given her.
"You'd better tell me a bit about her," suggested the man.
"Help me out so I don't put my foot in it when I meet her."
"Well, her name's Donna O'Prey. She's about twenty or twenty-one I should say. Spiky hair. Needs a bit of help with that, if you ask me. She's not especially good-looking, but looks as if she runs or goes to the gym a lot, yeah?"
"Oh, sure, I know what you mean. I prefer someone a bit more like that other girl Gary told me about. A bit more glamour and not so many muscles. Anything else you can tell me? Help me out and I’ll find some way to make it up to you, I promise. I’m moving to Liverpool shortly with my work and I’ll be here for a couple of weeks at least while I find a house. I’ve been told I can buy something decent for not much more than a couple of hundred grand or so in the Albert Dock. Is that right?"
Angie thought of her previous boyfriend's basement flat in Toxteth, and determined to set her sights higher in future.
"Oh, I’m sure you'll find something to suit you. If you don't know the area, perhaps I could help you out with your house hunting?"
"You're an absolute marvel. I’ll get back to you in a couple of days and we'll make some arrangements. Perhaps you can think of a decent restaurant we could go to, perhaps over the weekend, if you're not too busy? Somewhere good, I like a bit of gracious living, especially with the right companion, and already I feel I’ve known you for ages. Is that a date?"
"Oh yes. Great. I’m here every day until six, and I’ll leave you with my mobile number." She reeled off her number. "I’m sorry, I don't even have your name," she concluded lamely.
"I don’t have yours either. You have my heart already and now you want us to reveal our names as well? I refuse absolutely to tell you my name. It may be a disappointment and I couldn't bear it if you were to be disappointed." That familiar joshing tone was back in his voice.
Angie laughed in delight. "Just make sure when you see Gary that you make sure and tell him how you had to wheedle it all out of me. He did say I wasn't to tell anyone where he was living, but I hardly think that applies to his friends. Not unless he wanted to keep it really quiet that he had moved in with someone and was worried about getting grief from his so-called mates."
"Oh, one thing's for sure; he'll get plenty of grief from me." Angie giggled. "One more thing," the man continued. "If Gary gets in touch with you for any reason, keep quiet about me being in town. I'd like it to be a surprise."
*****
Seated on a bench across the road, Marcus rang off and smiled at the mobile phone he was holding. With the discreet use of a small pair of binoculars, he could see the expression on Angie’s face from his vantage point and had watched her the whole time.
He deftly noted the name badge, the absence of a ring on her finger and the Liverpool Football Club coffee mug on her desk. And the number and address she’d given him, he’d committed to memory, though he’d made no effort to remember that last number.
A faint smile played across his features as he watched Angie spin round in her chair, her excitement clearly visible. Perhaps when he'd dealt with Gary Rudd, he really would make a date with Angie. He'd heard her delicious laugh.
Next, he'd like to hear her scream.
~ Chapter 16 ~
Marcus stood at the foot of the bed, his expression almost benign as he addressed Paula.
"Your brother-in-law, Gary Rudd, he's got a new lady in his life now. Perhaps I’ll bring you some more company soon. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Neither spoke, but Celine whimpered faintly. Paula faced him with a defiant expression on her face as she hugged her daughter tight. Marcus smiled, his eyes crinkling, an almost benevolent expression on his face.
*****
The waiting room was furnished with hard wooden benches and snuffling patients. Two kids squabbled over a wooden desk; their mothers too busy swapping infant development stories to notice. Donna managed to avoid eye contact with a woman she knew slightly, having no particular wish to get involved in conversation. Not that she was particularly objectionable or anything, Donna just didn't feel very sociable this morning.
She concentrated her attention on a big bloke at the front desk who was giving the receptionist loads of grief about a missing medical certificate. He looked like a docker, and had all the verbal attributes of the trade. Big coarse hands stuck out from the sleeves of his jacket. Reddened fingers with the nails bitten down to the stumps. A full head of dark wavy hair, without a hint of grey, swept back and liberally greased. He gave up eventually and stalked off, favouring his left leg, but seemingly fit enough to slam the surgery door behind him.
Donna hurriedly moved up as an old man limped in from reception. A thin angular face with high cheekbones, a jutting beak of a nose and a narrow mouth, he'd shaved himself poorly, a common enough failing in older men when the eyesight begins to go, with stray clumps of white hair under his chin and immediately below his nostrils. He limped across the room, looking for a place to sit, and in the end almost sat on Donna’s knee.
"Sorry love," he wheezed. "Was that you?"
Donna moved up a bit further, inching reluctantly towards a fat woman with the full set of hacking cough and streaming nose. A sopping handkerchief lay against the radiator, steaming gently. Ugh! How gross is that?
Dona shuddered. She’d come in five minutes ago, the picture of health and by now had probably caught every germ known to medical science. Peg had joined Gary in pressurising her to seek advice on the recent panic attack. Dexter, the rat, had mentioned it to Peg when she’d answered his ‘phone call this morning. Donna had still been asleep allowing Peg ample time to screw all the gory details out of Dexter.
When Donna told her Doctor about the panic attack he frowned and studied the depressingly thick bundle that contained her medical records. He took her pulse and blood pressure, looked into her eyes and pronounced everything normal. Fit as a fiddle were his exact words, just as she’d expected. He didn’t mention stress once, but advised her that a brief holiday would be of immense benefit. Regular hours, plenty of sleep and three square meals a day would see her right in no time. Some bloody chance of that at the moment.
*****
The slim figure of Marcus moved silently across the room and stood at the side of the bed. Dobson lay under a plain blue duvet, dead to the world. Marcus glanced at a small bottle of pills on the bedside table and nodded approvingly. Sleeping tablets would help to keep Dobson calm when the time came to wake him.
He could hear the low murmur of a television from the ground floor where the policeman stationed in the house to await telephone calls or other significant events whiled away the hours of boredom. A policeman on the premises meant that the alarm system was deemed unnecessary and made gaining entry a great deal easier. Marcus had entered by a ground-floor window and walked silently up the stairs without challenge. Too easy.
He removed a few items from his pockets and slid the bolt on the bedroom door silently across to preserve his privacy. Returning to the bed, he stooped over the sleeping figure and pressed a strip of thick adhesive tape over Dobson's mouth. Dobson spluttered into consciousness, the whites of his eyes registering shock and alarm in equal measure. Marcus pressed the point of a knife under the other man's chin and he was instantly still.
"Sorry to call unannounced," Marcus said, his voice quiet but conveying total authority. "I thought it time we had a chat."
Dobson struggled briefly, and then subsided.
"I’ve brought you a present. If I take this tape off, I need to be sure you will keep quiet."
He nicked the sagging skin under Dobson's jaw with the point of his knife and a bright bead of blood trickled down. Dobson flinched.
"Nod your head if you're prepared to go along with that. Remember, one sound and I’ll cut you. I know about the policeman downstairs."
Dobson nodded his head in acknowledgement and Marcus stripped away the tape in one rapid movement.
"I’ve made you a tape," Marcus said, holding up a videocassette in his left hand. "Would you like to switch on your video and
we can watch it together?"
"My wife, what have you done to my wife?"
Marcus smiled.
"All in good time," he said. "Don't make me have to ask you twice."
Dobson scuttled across the room and switched on a VCR machine and television built into a unit on the wall. He sat on the bed, feet swinging, not looking directly at Marcus. A spreading damp patch at the front of his pyjama trousers was evidence of his fear and confusion. Marcus slotted the videocassette into the machine and sat next to Dobson on the edge of the bed.
Celine's face filled the television screen. Her complexion was deathly white and she was sobbing. Dobson stiffened, and then slumped as Marcus showed him the knife.
"She's looking well, isn't she?" Dobson made no reply. The camera remained fixed on Celine's face and Dobson could now see that she was chained to the wall and unable to move away. In the foreground, another figure lay full-length on the floor. The features were obscured, but even out of focus, Dobson was aware that he was viewing the naked figure of his wife. Celine moaned as another blurred shape came into view and joined the prone figure on the floor. Dobson screwed up his eyes in shock as the two figures moved together in a familiar rhythm.
"Watch carefully," Marcus urged, his elbow digging into Dobson's ribs. Celine's face remained in sharp focus on the screen, her torment at her mother's ordeal clearly evident.
"Mother and daughter, the perfect combination, don't you think? I don't suppose you've had the girl? No? I thought not. Pity. You don't know what you're missing. She's hot, but not in the same league as your wife. She really loves it, doesn't she? Would you like to watch her again?"
"You bastard!"
Marcus wagged a finger in mock reproach. "Keep the noise down, or I’ll have to cut you."
Dobson slumped again, hardly seeming conscious as Marcus repeatedly rewound the tape, forcing him to endure the sight of his wife's ordeal again and again.
