If You Only Knew: A gripping, debut thriller that you won't want to put down

by Cynthia Clark

  The sound of glass shattering pierced through the silence. The door was slammed closed and I saw his hand in front of me, dark hairs springing from his uncovered arm. Before I could think, he grabbed me with his other hand and turned me around. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his face contorted into an ugly scowl. The green eyes that had seemed so beautiful before were now blazing dangerously at me. I wanted to plead with him to let me go, not to hurt me. But it seemed that I couldn’t form the words. “We have some unfinished business,” he said, pulling me away from the door and pushing me into the room with such force that I fell onto my back.

  “I thought you were never going to wake up,” he said with a sneer. “I’ve been waiting very patiently so that we can have some fun.” I could only imagine what his idea of fun was, and even if I hadn’t yet guessed he made it clear by unbuckling his belt. I frantically looked around, trying to locate anything I could use to defend myself. But even my boots had fallen when he threw me into the room. Not that the rubber soles would have been much help against him.

  “Please, let me go,” I finally said, aware that pleading was the only thing I could do. But even as the words left my mouth I knew that they wouldn’t do much good. I could see in his face how intent he was to finish what he had started. He laughed in response, a cruel-sounding snort, as he took a step closer. I shrunk back, trying to move as far away as possible, forgetting the embarrassment of being half naked in front of a man. All I wanted was to get away. To close my eyes and wake up from this nightmare.

  But it wasn’t a dream. This was reality.

  He laughed again as he took a step in my direction, towering over me. He grabbed me by the hood of my jacket and pulled me towards the mattress, before he kneeled down next to me. I kicked my legs, trying to hit him but he was out of my reach. He laughed at my failed efforts and then his expression changed into one of anger and he slapped me hard across the face. I instinctively covered my smarting cheek with my hand, but he pried it away. “Are you going to behave?” he asked.

  He reached out for the zip of my jacket and yanked it down. It was an old jacket and the zip tended to catch, leading to a few seconds of fumbling to get it released. But this time it slid down without a problem. “Remove it,” he ordered. When I hesitated he hit me again, this time on the other cheek, making my head turn with the force of the blow. “Remove your jacket,” he repeated, and this time I did as he asked, ashamed to be following his orders despite not having a choice. “Good girl,” he said when I’d put the jacket next to me. His demeanour changed when I obeyed him. He brought his hand to my smarting cheek and stroked the burning flesh gently for a few seconds.

  He sat back on his heels. “Unbutton your shirt,” he said next. When I didn’t immediately do as he asked, a mask of anger descended over his face. “I said unbutton your shirt,” he snapped.

  With trembling fingers I fumbled with the top button of my flannel shirt. I was shaking so badly that it took me forever to undo it, the leather gloves not helping but I was in too much shock to remove them. “Hurry up,” he barked at me, his green eyes flashing with anger. I managed to open two more buttons but the next I couldn’t get undone. I met his eyes pleadingly. It was a mistake. His hand flew to my face, grabbing my jaw and squeezing tightly until I gasped in pain. “Do as I tell you,” he said. Then, fed up waiting, he ripped the shirt open, sending the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons flying across the room. “Remove it,” he ordered. And I shrugged out of my shirt, knowing that I had no choice if I had any chance of leaving this place alive.

  He snatched the shirt from my hands before I could put it down. He grabbed at my chest, tearing off my lace sports bra, leaving me completely naked and exposed. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to cover my breasts, aware of the ridiculousness of the gesture even before I heard his sinister laughter. “Let’s have some fun,” he said, forcing me back onto the mattress and leaning over me. I tried to push him back, but he grabbed my wrists and pinned them over my head, holding them there with one hand while he pulled down his fly with the other. I kicked him but again he laughed before his hand struck my cheek. I knew at that moment that there was no avoiding what was coming and I closed my eyes for a second, trying to distance myself from what was about to happen.

  I felt his heavy breathing in my face and then the searing pain as he tried to thrust into me. I screamed and he laughed. “This is my lucky day,” he said as he burst through the resistance of my virginity. Fat tears formed in my eyes and rolled down the sides of my head. I kept my eyes closed, willing it to be over. I tried to think of something else and stop myself from hearing his grunts as he continued to thrust into me in what seemed to be a never-ending nightmare. Finally, after what felt like hours, he stilled for a second and then pulled out of me, getting back up to his knees. “See,” he said, finally releasing my wrists. “That wasn’t too bad.” He scrambled to his feet before continuing: “Next time will be even better.” Panic unfurled inside my body like a spreading fire as my hopes that he’d let me go now that he’d got his fill were destroyed.

  Ashamed of my nakedness, I sat up, bringing my knees to my chin to cover as much of my body as I could. He walked to the end of the room and threw a crumpled ball of paper towels at me. “Clean yourself up,” he said. I picked up the towels and wiped the sticky blood from between my legs. “A little virgin,” he chuckled. “Who’d have known!”

  He turned round and picked up his jacket, which was hanging over the back of the chair, and rummaged in the pockets. My breathing grew heavier as I wondered what he was looking for, what was in store for me, and I almost heaved a sigh of relief when he took out his mobile phone. Turning back to face me, he dialled a number.

  “Hey, Terry,” he said gruffly. This was my chance. “Help,” I screamed, crying out as loudly as I could. But instead of rushing to shut me up or hang up, the man just laughed. “Yeah, that’s her,” he told the person on the other end of the line. “We got a feisty one here. A little virgin.”

  He walked towards me, covering the short distance in three long strides. His eyes never left my face as he bent down to pick up my jacket. Nestling his phone between his ear and chin, he rummaged through the pockets until he found my wallet. He opened it and started rifling through the compartments, until he fished something out.

  “Let’s see,” he said bringing my library card closer to his face. “Elizabeth Phillips,” he read out. “She’s as fiery as her red hair. I’m going to take my time with this one. I’ll call back when I’m done and you can come over.” Then he hung up, flinging my card and wallet onto the ground, placing the phone on the chair and walking towards the mattress.

  He stood in front of me and stared, an inhuman leer that took in all my shame and submission without pity. I don’t know how much time passed. Neither of us said anything for a while, but thoughts were rushing through my head. Someone else knew I was there. This other person must know what he was doing to me. Why were they coming here? Would they take me away or were they going to continue what he had already started? Or do even worse? I had to find a way to leave before I was completely outnumbered. I mustered the courage to speak, to try and argue with him to let me go. “Please, I have lectures in the morning,” I begged.

  He snorted with laughter, and moved towards me. I knew then that I shouldn’t have said anything. All it did was turn him on again. I knew what was going to happen and I knew there was no way out. Still, the slap to my cheek took me by surprise. “That will teach you to stay quiet,” he said. “You’re my slut now.”

  While I was still reeling from the pain to my cheek, he pushed me back onto the mattress, forcing my legs open and kneeling between them. “I didn’t think I’d be ready again so soon,” he said. “You’re the best I’ve ever had.” That’s when I realised that this was even worse than I thought. This was not his first time kidnapping and raping someone. This man was a pro. From the chloroform to the windowless room, he must have planned this well. I wondered
how many others there’d been and where they were now. How long did he keep them captive and did they finally manage to escape?

  I wondered whether he’d kill me. I thought of my parents getting a knock at the door and police telling them that they’d found the body of their only daughter. The thought of the pain this would cause them was more than I could handle. I punched him as hard as I could on the side of his head, but he just grabbed my arm and slammed it on the ground. I shrieked in pain as my hand landed on something pointy. As soon as he let my arm go, I felt around for whatever had pricked my gloved hand and my fingers closed around a shard of glass. I felt its jagged sides and pointed edge, remembering the beer bottle he dropped earlier. This was my only chance to escape. I grabbed the glass tightly in my hand, not caring about it cutting into my skin, and as he prepared to thrust into me one more time, I used all my strength and struck him in the side of the neck. I pulled the glass out and thrust again, this time hitting him just below his protruding Adam’s apple as he turned his head to see what was happening. I pulled the glass out again and was readying myself for a third strike when he fell on top of me, the blood gushing out of his wounds. He didn’t scream, but made a bubbling sound. I used the last strength I had to roll him off me. His eyes were wide and full of fear and his mouth was open as he tried to scream.

  In the dim light I could see the blood pumping out of his wounds, splattered everywhere, seeping into the floors. I thought about helping him, putting pressure on the wounds to stop him from bleeding out. Surely he was too injured to hurt me now. Or I could use this time to call for help.

  I ran to the door, pushing the chair aside and undoing the bolt. I didn’t care that I was naked. I opened the door and stopped short. We were in the middle of a field. It was still dark and all I could see were miles of emptiness surrounding us. I turned back around, grabbing my shirt from the ground to cover his wounds and stem the flow of blood. But before I could touch him I knew that it was already too late. He was dead. I had killed him.

  Chapter 3

  2014

  Glancing into the rearview mirror, I scan the road for anything out of the ordinary. A red Polo zigzags through traffic before pulling up right behind me. Craning my neck, I try to get a glimpse of the driver but the weak sun is reflecting off the windscreen.

  My panic is blaring almost as loudly as The Rolling Stones’ Wild Horses on the car stereo. Hitting the off button and clenching my hands around the steering wheel, I take ten deep breaths, counting each one, synchronising them to my movements in a practised routine. A hot flush starts at my toes and makes its way through my body. Closing my eyes I try to blank out the image of the red juice spreading across the white countertop. I had contemplated walking out on the mess. Keeping my eyes closed as I navigated around the island. Leaving the sea of red behind me. Maya would be over in a few hours to watch the children and she could clean it up.

  Instead I squared my shoulders and opened my eyes a fraction. Taking a deep breath, I swallowed the lump in my throat, reached behind me and grabbed the roll of kitchen paper. With my eyes only partially open, I crumpled a ball of Thirst Pockets on the countertop and winced as the white paper turned red. The sodden red towels made a squelching sound when they landed in the bin and I grabbed more clean, white sheets.

  My heels felt unsteady as I walked to the garage. Sitting behind the wheel for a few seconds, I struggled to regain my composure. My hand inched towards my phone as I ached to tell my husband about this morning’s nightmare, chide him for giving Leah red juice and leaving me to clean up. But his patience is wearing thin when it comes to my ‘quirk’. He’s begged me to talk to someone about it. But I know that’s impossible. I cannot risk anyone, especially an expert, prying into my deepest thoughts and trying to uncover my secret. No, I just need to soldier on and continue avoiding any of the triggers I know will make me lose control.

  Blocking out this morning’s chaos, I focus on the road ahead as the conversation with Jennifer plays back in my head. The lack of information frustrates me as I filter what I know from what I don’t. That familiar eagerness that always accompanies a new case bubbles inside me, the fascination of discovery, the desire to work out exactly what strategy is needed to win.

  My personal phone does its jazz melody. I exhale in exasperation at the prospect of having to talk on the phone while driving, not wanting to lose focus, risk hitting a pedestrian or crashing into another vehicle. I don’t want to hurt anyone else. But mostly, I want to avoid unexpected problems. My record needs to remain entirely clear.

  But it’s Mum. She’s one of the few people I make an exception for; her, my husband and the babysitters.

  “Hello.” My voice is upbeat.

  “Morning, Lizzy.” Her joyful voice comes on the speaker, raised above a familiar whirring sound in the background. It’s great to hear her. It always calms me, though I miss her straight away. It’s been a few weeks since we were able to drive to the sleepy coastal town I grew up in to see my parents.

  “How are you, Mum?”

  “Great.”

  “Are you baking?”

  “Yes. How do you know?”

  A chuckle escapes before I can suppress it. “I can hear the mixer.”

  “Oh, sorry.” The whirring sound stops. “I’m making a Devil’s Food cake for the church bake sale and this afternoon I have my book club. We’re reading Breakfast At Tiffany’s. I bet you most of the others will just watch the film.”

  “Is that what you did?” I laugh, my mood suddenly lighter.

  “Of course not,” she says indignantly. “If I’m going to discuss a book, I’m going to read the book.”

  “How’s Dad?”

  “Good. We drove to Bristol to meet his cardiologist yesterday and he said he’s doing well. He’s out for a walk now. That heart attack scared him and now he’s doing his best to keep fit and healthy.”

  We speak for a few minutes about everyday things while I manoeuvre the car through the morning traffic. The red car is still behind me. Despite the warm air blowing from the heater I shiver slightly.

  “How’s work?” Mum’s question snaps me back to the here and now.

  “Busy. There’s a new case that I’m considering taking. A teenage girl accused of running someone over.”

  “Is this one of your usual pity cases?”

  Rolling my eyes, I’m glad she can’t see me: “Everyone deserves a solid defence, Mum, and not everyone can afford to pay for it.” It’s a statement I must have repeated a hundred times to different people.

  “Just don’t take on more than you can handle.”

  A few minutes later I step into the marble-clad lobby of our building. It always feels like stepping into a new dimension, the oasis before the cutthroat corporate world I’ve come to know, the modern surroundings in stark contrast with the City of London’s narrow winding streets. Nodding at the receptionist, I head to the lifts, tapping my foot as I wait for one to ping open. When it finally does, I repeatedly press the button for the fifth floor. Stepping out into the sprawling space occupied by the law firm that I had opened a few years ago with an old university friend, I greet a few colleagues as I make a beeline for my office.

  Jennifer is sitting at her desk, typing furiously on her keyboard. “Hello. Would you like some tea?”

  “Please.” I take the letters that she hands me.

  “The case file we talked about is on your desk.” She scurries off towards the kitchen.

  In my office, I don’t even remove my coat before opening the file, quickly skimming over the charge sheet. Chloe Wilson is being accused of attempted murder and causing grievous bodily harm to Ben Grant, as well as fleeing the scene of the incident. No additional information other than what Jennifer explained earlier.

  There’s a knock on the door and Jennifer walks in, with a steaming mug of tea. “Have you read it?”

  “Yes.” I take the mug from her and take a sip, wincing when the sweet liquid scalds my tongue. “There�
�s not much to go on here. Can you get me Sarah on the phone, perhaps she can share a few more details?”

  Jennifer nods as she hurries out and a few minutes later my phone rings. “I have Sarah on the line for you.”

  “Elizabeth, thank you for considering Chloe’s case,” Sarah says immediately. “I’m swamped and really think she needs someone to focus their attention on her defence.”

  “I really don’t know if I can take this one on,” I warn. “It’s a busy period and frankly there doesn’t seem much to go on.”

  “I know her file is sparse, but I can fill you in on what we’ve got.” I hear muffled chattering in the background and assume she’s in court, waiting for her next case to start.

  “Did she tell you what happened?”

  “Barely,” Sarah responds. “It was like pulling teeth, but she finally said she didn’t mean to run him over. That she’d never driven before and hadn’t realised the car was in reverse.”

  “So why did she leave if it was an accident?” I probe.

  “She said she was scared and went back home,” Sarah continues.

  “Do you believe her?”

  “I don’t know. I want to, obviously, but she seems so controlled. She was so calm at the police station. Anyone else would have been freaking out. But she just sat down, barely moving. The detectives said she didn’t utter a word when they brought her in for questioning.

  “Do you think she ran him over on purpose? That she knew what she was doing?”

  “I wish I could answer that. I hope not.”

  “What about her parents? What’s your impression of them?”

  “See, that’s the thing, she doesn’t have a family. She’s bounced from one foster home to another since she was a baby. She’d only been with these people for a few months and they say they barely know her.”

  “Is she still living with them?”