by S. Quinn
‘We’re going to have a lot of fun with you.’ Her dark red lips move in the mirror. She has very pale skin, made more pale by white makeup. ‘You deserve a little pain, don’t you think? After what you’ve done.’
‘What I’ve done?’
‘To Giles Getty. He was one of our most loyal members.’
I shake my head.
‘Getty kidnapped me. I did nothing to him. Nothing at all.’
‘He’s in prison now, because of you. And our organisation is being investigated. We’re being forced into the shadows.’
‘Look, just tell me that Sammy’s okay.’
‘Don’t speak anymore. We don’t answer to you. You answer to us.’
The car drives on into the night.
73
We drive from West to East London, and I watch all the grand, beautiful buildings transform into tower blocks, narrow roads and the shells of market stalls.
The car comes to a stop outside a seven-storey building that looks like it’s been bombed. There’s no glass in the windows – it’s little more than a blackened, concrete carcass.
Yasmina gets out of the car and pulls open the back door beside me. Now I can see all of her, I notice her face is scarred quite badly under the white makeup.
The tiny black flecks of her eyes and the dark red of her lips are the only other colour to her.
She’s wearing black tapered trousers that finish at strappy high heels, and a black-leather waist cincher over a black blouse. The cincher pulls her waist in so tight that she looks like a wasp.
‘Out,’ she barks, grabbing my arm and pulling me onto the crunchy cement. I fling my hands forward as I go flying towards the ground, then pick myself up and stand tall.
‘Where’s Sammy?’
‘In there,’ says Yasmina, pointing to the tower block. ‘Follow us.’
Oh god, I feel sick. To think of little Sammy, somewhere in that building ... I want to throw up again, but I manage to hold it in. They’re monsters, these people. Absolute monsters. And Cecile has become a monster too.
‘Is someone with him? Is he alone?’
‘No more questions.’
I follow Yasmina, Cecile and Warren across the concrete, and into the shadowy depths of the tower block.
Dimly, I notice that Warren is carrying a large briefcase.
We walk up crumbling cement stairs that were maybe once carpeted, but are now nothing more than concrete built around iron bars.
Although it’s shadowy in the tower block, some light comes from the bright orange streetlights outside. They shine through big square holes that used to be windows.
The second floor looks empty, except for a weird sort of makeshift bar in the corner, made of wooden planks and stocked with whisky bottles.
I’m about to ask where Sammy is again, when I notice manacles screwed into the wall ahead.
My stomach pulls itself into a tight ball.
‘Where’s Sammy?’ I cry out, unable to hold back the tears any longer. ‘Please. Is he here? You have to tell me where he is.’
Yasmina and Warren laugh.
‘You really think we took him?’ says Yasmina. ‘How could we, with all the security around your cottage?’
Security. Of course. God, I’m an idiot.
Although I still feel sick and frightened, part of me is sagging with relief. Oh thank God Sammy isn’t here. Thank god.
‘Will you do the honours, Yasmina, or shall I?’ asks Warren, holding up his briefcase. He takes his leather jacket off, revealing a white, short-sleeved shirt with sweat around the armpits. There’s something really icky about his skin. It glistens like it’s wet.
‘I think Cecile should do it, don’t you?’ Yasmina replies, grabbing my wrist. I struggle, knowing I have nothing to lose now, and pull away from her.
I turn and run towards the concrete steps, but before I can reach them, Warren chases after me and throws himself at my back. He falls on top of me, and I go smashing into the floor.
I feel my body smack onto the hard concrete.
Ouch.
Something in my wrist makes a cracking sound, and I feel a throb of pain run down my arm.
Warren climbs roughly off me, then grabs me by the ankles. He drags me back over the concrete floor, so my whole body is pulled over the snaggy stones sealed in the cement. I hear my Belle dress ripping and tearing.
The next moment, I’m hauled to my feet and my wrists are snapped into a pair of rusty manacles.
The pain that runs up my left arm is unbelievable as my wrists are held up high. I struggle against the chains, and tears of pain sting my eyes.
Yasmina comes closer to me, her sharp heels clicking over the floor. I look right into her eyes, determined not to show fear.
‘It’s not the first time we’ve gotten rid of young girls,’ she says, taking the briefcase that Warren is handing to her. ‘We like to do it in our own special way. And out of respect to Giles Getty, we’ve brought one of our favourite torture devices this evening. To make sure your death is as unpleasant and drawn out as possible.’
The briefcase is clearly heavy, because Yasmina’s shoulders pull downwards as she takes it from Warren.
She comes closer – so close that I can see the zigzag pattern of the scars under her makeup. Then she opens the briefcase.
As the brown leather lid opens, I can’t suppress a horrified gasp.
Oh my god. I will not break down. I will not. I will not show them fear.
Warren and Yasmina are both transfixed by what’s inside the case. Their eyes are wide and glistening, their lips curve into smiles.
Lying on brushed felt is a large wrought-iron ring, about the size of a dinner plate. It looks rusty and black, like an antique, and there are huge tapered spikes on the inside. I feel like I’ve seen it before, and then I remember.
Years ago, my class went on a school trip to the local castle. We were shown down to the castle dungeon and allowed to see all the old torture devices. Racks. Leg irons. Saws. And something that looked a lot like this ring.
Jen and the rest of the class were fascinated, but I felt really sick, thinking of how awful human beings could be to one another. I didn’t want to hear about how bodies had been stretched and ripped apart. In the end, I pretended I needed the toilet so I could leave the dungeon early.
As I look at the wrought iron ring, my stomach beats so hard that I’m sure I’m going to throw up.
‘Beautiful when she’s frightened, isn’t she?’ says Yasmina, holding out the suitcase to Warren.
‘Isn’t she?’ Warren uses both hands to lift out the large spiked metal ring. It’s obviously heavy, and he takes a few steps back and forth to get his balance.
‘We call this device Svetlana,’ says Yasmina, running her grey fingernails over the ring. ‘She’s from Russia. A KGB torture device. One of our greatest prizes. She’s a very clever piece. Svetlana can be fitted almost anywhere on the body – leg, chest, head. And then tightened with this side screw.’
She smiles, her breathing quickening. ‘We tighten. And tighten. Until we see blood. And then we let our unfortunate guest bleed to death.’
Yasmina and Warren share a look that makes me shudder.
74
‘Svetlana is the only girl I never get bored of,’ says Warren. He moves closer to me.
I try to hold my body firm, despite the pain in my wrist and arm.
I know Warren will get off on me being afraid, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction. At the same time, though, the thought of his horrible moist fingers touching me makes me absolutely want to vomit, and it takes everything in my power not to shrink away from him as he comes closer.
Warren opens up the spiked ring and holds it at my waist. I can smell his awful stench – like rotten meat and disinfectant.
Fear climbs up my throat.
I try not to look, but my eyes keep flicking down to the device. Although it’s made of old, blackened metal, the ends of the spikes have clearly been sharpened
and are silver and lethal. It won’t take much pressure to pierce my skin.
‘Smile, darling,’ says Warren, feeding the ring around my waist. ‘You never know. You might enjoy this.’ His hands are trembling with excitement, and sweat glows on his forehead. ‘My favourite part is when I tighten so hard that we snap bones.’ His shoulders give a little shiver.
I’m beginning to lose it, my breathing running away from me. I know my eyes are wide with fear as Warren clamps Svetlana loosely in place. I feel the spikes pierce the fabric of my dress and press lightly against my skin.
Oh my god, oh my god.
It won’t take much tightening before those spikes start piercing me deeply. So deeply that they’ll cause permanent damage. And fatal injuries.
I blink away tears. I know it’s no good to beg. That’s exactly what they want.
‘After you, we get Marc,’ says Yasmina. ‘Of course, we’ll let him suffer for a few weeks first, not knowing where his beloved disappeared to.’
The thought of them hurting Marc is unbearable.
‘There’s no need to hurt Marc,’ I say, my eyes darting to Cecile. ‘He hates that Getty’s in prison. Getty is … a friend of his.’
Cecile’s gaze snaps away from the window hole.
‘Marc always talks about you, Cecile,’ I continue, catching her eye. ‘I’ve always wondered whether secretly he might prefer you to me.’
Cecile’s eyes widen. ‘He talks about me?’
‘I think he knows he made a mistake. That you’re the one for him, after all.’
‘She’s stalling,’ says Warren, his whole body beginning to twitch with excitement. ‘We have her here now. Let me play with her.’
‘Wait.’ Cecile walks towards me. ‘Marc talks about me?’
‘All the time. Maybe the two of you can be together after all. Why not just take your revenge out on me? You don’t need to hurt Marc. He ... he always wanted to be friends with Getty again. Marc is innocent in this. What happened to Getty was all down to me.’
Yasmina laughs. Then she fixes me with her black eyes. ‘You really are quite an incredible actress. I would believe every word you just said, if I didn’t know better. Marc hates Getty. He’s turned his whole security team over to protecting you from him.’
I shake my head. ‘No. He wishes Getty wasn’t in prison—’
Yasmina puts a grey fingernail to my lips. ‘You’re lying. After we’ve killed you, Marc will be next.’
Cecile shakes her head. ‘Yasmina, what if she’s telling the truth? If Marc is innocent in all this, he and I could be together ... I could have money again …’
Yasmina rolls her eyes. ‘Sophia is lying. Marc doesn’t care about you at all. But I’m sure after a few minutes in Svetlana, we can find out for certain.’ She turns to Warren. ‘Take Sophia to the brink – just far enough to make her tell Cecile the truth. But don’t go too far. We don’t want anything to be over too quickly. It’s a slow, painful death for her. Getty deserves nothing less.’
A horrible dark look falls over Warren’s face. ‘Play time.’
He turns the screw at the clasp of the device so it locks tighter around my waist.
The spikes drive further through my dress, and I can feel them poke my skin like a ring of needles.
I suck in my breath, feeling dizzy. Sick. Faint.
‘Tighten it again,’ says Yasmina. ‘When she sees blood, she’ll tell Cecile the truth.’
I see Warren’s glistening bald head bob down to tighten the screw.
Oh my god, oh my god. I breathe in as tightly as I can, trying to hold myself away from the sharp spikes. But as Warren tightens, I feel stabs of pain all around my waist and cool metal drives into my body.
Warren steps back, his eyes fixed on my face, his chest thumping with excitement.
I daren’t move. I daren’t talk. I daren’t look down at the damage.
Fear comes over me in one great rush.
I know now, beyond a doubt, that Warren is capable of killing me. But I won’t tell them what they want to hear. Not if there’s still a chance I can stop them hurting Marc.
‘I’m not lying,’ I manage to say, all in a rush of breath. The spikes dig into me, and I quickly suck in my breath once more. ‘He and Cecile should be together. I’m the only one who should get hurt.’
Yasmina and Warren look at each other.
‘Hurt her more,’ says Yasmina.
‘Oh yes,’ says Warren. ‘Not a problem.’
I summon all my strength.
‘Do whatever you have to do,’ I say. ‘I won’t tell you anything different. It’s the truth.’
Warren takes a step back, cocking his head to watch my face.
‘It looks like you’ll have to work a little harder,’ says Yasmina.
Warren bobs down and tightens the screw again.
The spikes go further through my skin this time, and it’s all I can do not to scream. It feels like someone has just run a burning knife around my waist.
I can’t help looking down, and when I do I see blooding seeping out onto my dress in a ring of red dots.
‘Anything you want to tell us?’ Yasmina asks.
I shake my head.
‘I believe her, Yasmina,’ says Cecile.
‘You’re either with us or against us, Cecile,’ says Yasmina. ‘We’re going to punish Marc for what he did to Getty. You’d better work out which side you’re on. And quickly. Because PAIN have no time for cowards.’
Cecile turns away from Yasmina, looking at the night sky through a huge square hole in the wall. ‘Fine,’ she whispers. ‘Okay. I’m with you.’
‘Good girl,’ says Yasmina. She nods at Warren. ‘Time to leave.’
‘But—’
‘No Warren. Any more and she’ll be dead too quickly. For Getty’s sake it should be slow. Painful.’
Warren doesn’t seem to hear Yasmina at all. He’s staring at my waist.
‘Warren,’ Yasmina snaps.
Warren’s eyes become more focused, but he’s still looking at the blood on my dress.
‘We’ve done what we need to do,’ says Yasmina. ‘She’ll survive a few days. In constant pain. Pretty soon, she’ll be begging to die.’
Warren’s eyes glisten. ‘Begging.’
Yasmina moves closer to me. ‘And then on Sunday, we’ll come and collect the body.’
75
After PAIN leave, I begin to scream. Weakly at first, and then as loud as I can.
‘HELP ME PLEASE! HEELLLPP!’
But no one comes.
When I’m all screamed out, the panic of being totally alone hits me. Shackled to the wall like this, with no food or water, blood running freely from my waist, I’ll die within days.
Outside, it seems like the night is getting darker and darker. I feel like I’m being choked by blackness. It crawls down my dry throat and dances around the spikes in my waist.
Hours pass, but I have no way of knowing what the time is.
At some point in the night I must pass out, because I open crusty eyelids to see the dawn rising, and feel an odd sense of hope as the sky turns dusky grey.
My wrist is totally numb now. It must be broken, but I think some sort of natural painkiller has kicked in.
The blood around my waist keeps coming, though. Every time I breathe, the spikes pierce my skin and keep the wounds open.
I feel vomit heave into my mouth and swallow it down. My mouth is so dry.
I watch the sun rise from a far window and see the black dots of birds fly past.
‘Help,’ I croak again. ‘HELP! HELP! HEELP MEEE PLEEEASE!’
But no one comes. Way up here in this abandoned tower block, there’s no one to hear me.
After a while I smell petrol fumes and realise the daily traffic must have started. The sun climbs higher in the sky, until it disappears over the tower block and I can’t see it anymore.
I keep screaming, ‘HELP! HELP!’ until my voice is hoarse, but still nobody comes.
<
br /> I think of Marc and my family. I love them all so much. I’d gladly sacrifice myself for any one of them. But I ache to think of how my disappearance must be hurting them, scaring them, right now. And the thought of never coming back to them, to Marc ... it’s unbearable.
I pull at the manacles, but only succeed in creating a fresh ring of pain around my waist and a new flow of blood.
I’m trapped. Totally and utterly trapped. And nobody knows where I am.
I must fall asleep again somewhere around midday, because for one glorious moment I think I hear Marc whispering in my ear, telling me everything is going to be okay. But when I open my eyes, I’m still alone, shackled and getting dizzier with every breath.
The sun begins to set once more, and I think about Marc. My time with him was so beautiful. So very beautiful.
76
As dusk falls, I look down at the torture device, then up at my hands. There must be something, something I can do to get out of here.
I give a few more weak shouts, but my voice is so wrecked that I can barely hear myself, let alone get someone else’s attention.
I can move my legs, but not without causing a great deal of pain around my waist.
Holding my breath, I bring my knee up as hard and high as I can towards the torture device, thinking maybe I can knock a hinge out of place or something.
The spikes press right into my flesh, digging in deeper than they ever have before, and the air is knocked out of me as fresh blood pours down my skirt.
I’m dizzy for a moment, trying to focus.
My knee didn’t even make contact with the metal. It came nowhere near.
As I’m wondering whether to try again, I hear the echo of shoes hitting the concrete stairwell, and my breathing goes from fast to turbo.
Oh my god. Someone is coming. Someone is coming!
‘Help,’ I croak. ‘Please help me.’
A shadow appears at the top of the stairwell, and gets bigger and longer.
For a glorious moment, hope lifts me and I feel light and free of pain. Then I see who it is.
Oh my god, oh my god.
It’s Warren, his face drenched in sweat.
He has a crowbar in his hand, and his low voice echoes around the empty tower block.
