Willing Victim

by Carla Blake

  Sitting on his sofa, his feet planted squarely on the floor, Simon studied the object he was holding and wondered if it would be enough? Wendy had assured him it would be. Handbags, she’d explained, were so much more to women than just somewhere to shove their stuff. They were vital bits of equipment. Some girls kept their whole lives inside them, whether it be a bunch of keys, a simple lipstick, a spare tampax, or this, the item she had taken from Rachel’s and which he was now holding. She was bound to miss it.

  Simon hoped she was right because the last week hung on it. All the effort he had gone to, all the preparation. Everything hung on this one, single object.

  It had been a difficult week, he shuddered, full of toil and frustration and sweat and he’d hated not being able to feel clean no matter how many showers he took or how many baths he sat in. The bathroom had steamed up every time, the water hot enough to scold, as he’d scrubbed every inch of his body until his skin had turned pink and blood had beaded. He’d even scrubbed his cock and balls, screaming into his flannel when the pain had become too much, but not daring to stop, determined, at any cost, to rid himself of the filth he felt sure was clinging to him.

  But now it was over. And he was clean again.

  Getting up, he poured himself a glass of red wine and replaced the bottle in exactly the same spot he’d picked it up from. He sat back down again, resting his back in exactly the same spot on the sofa and placing his shoes in exactly the same dents in the carpet.

  Sipping his wine, he wiped his lips with a folded serviette and laid it carefully on his knee.

  He smiled.

  It was good to feel clean again.

  Sixteen

  When the e-mail arrived at eleven thirty Rachel was tempted to ignore it. Her stomach was rumbling terribly and she didn’t think she could cope with anything else until she’d consumed a large bowl of pasta and an ever larger glass of wine, and if it hadn’t been for the thought that if she didn’t at least see who it was from, she’d be thinking about it all through lunch, that she bothered to check out the name of the sender at all. Then she wished she hadn’t.

  The e-mail was from Simon and marked ‘urgent’, which meant that if she failed to respond in the next five minutes, he would inevitably send another and then another, each one increasing in sarcasm and virtual toe tapping, until she was forced to answer just so she could get a little peace.

  Warily she read the opening line.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you at the office’, it read. ‘ But I have something of yours. Wendy found it in the toilets at the restaurant and thinks it may have fallen out of your handbag. Meet me at Ennos today, twelve thirty sharp and I will return it to you. Simon.’

  How typical, Rachel thought, reading it a second time, only Simon would actually write the word ‘Ennos’ in italics, and only Simon would assume she could just drop everything she was doing and meet him even though it was obvious she was still be at work. Nor had he actually mentioned what it was that had fallen out of her handbag.

  Her reply was curt and her stab at the ‘send’ button wholly satisfying. As was hitting the ‘delete’ button.

  Then she tipped the entire contents of her handbag onto her desk and stared at it.

  Nothing seemed to be missing, but then it was difficult to tell amongst the mess. She kept loads in her handbag, make up, pens, tampax, keys, tissues, purse, her whole life was in there, not to mention a tiny portion of Kate’s- when exactly had her spare mobile found it’s way in here- and sorting through the junk to discover one, missing item was not going to be easy. Poking around with a finger wasn’t helping either. Nor was sighing.

  Veronica peered over the top of her monitor. “Lost something?” She asked, indicating towards a lipstick and a packet of mints that were making a bid for freedom off the end of Rachel’s desk. “I’m always doing that. Might help if you threw away all the junk first and then have a sort through. See what you’re doing then.”

  Receipts, chewing gum wrappers and several reminders Rachel had written to herself and never got round to reading duly ended up in the bin. As did a broken nail file and a pebble she’d picked up from Brighton beach. But she was still no nearer to discovering what the missing item was.

  “So let’s compare.” Veronica said, walking round to Rachel’s side of the desk and flopping down her own handbag next to the phone. “Purse. Got that?”

  Rachel produced her own.

  “Keys, make up and mobile. Got all those?”

  “Check.”

  “Okay. Address book. Got that?”

  Rachel rummaged. “Yeah - no, wait, I haven’t. That’s what’s missing.”

  “There you go then.” Veronica declared. “Mystery solved. Unless you’ve got it in another bag. What about the side pockets?”

  Rachel shook her head. “There aren’t any. Everything’s shoved in the middle or nowhere and this is the only handbag I’m using at the moment..”

  ‘Ennos’ was in the middle of town. Brand new and still so shiny the sunlight reflected off the frontage in dazzling spikes of eye watering intensity, Rachel could understand perfectly why Simon had chosen it.

  Newly opened restaurant hadn’t had time to accumulate a plethora of germs or acquire a less than vintage clientele, they were just so, clean, precise, still on their best behaviour and still worthy of Simon’s particular brand of pickiness.

  And there he was, surrounded by sparkling chrome and pristine pine, sitting at a table for two and methodically running a serviette across the already spotless surface.

  He looked, she thought, pushing open the door and stepping into a warm blast of cooking smells, the same as always. Smart, expensive, smug. And ready to slap her down with a sarcastic remark the minute she opened her mouth.

  He stood up when she approached, and smiled expansively.

  Rachel smiled back. Safe, she thought, seeing him grin, that’s his ‘safe’ smile. His ‘ I’m not going to make a scene because we’re out in public’ smile. Not that it would last. The minute they were out of the door it would slip from his face and be replaced by his mean smile. His ‘ I’m going to make your life a living hell’ smile.

  “So.” She said, reaching his table but making no attempt to sit down. “Here I am.”

  “Yes.” Simon agreed, looking a little apologetic. “Here you are, but I’m afraid it’s all been a bit of a waste of time. I’m sorry Rachel, but I’ve left it at the apartment. I thought I’d stuck it in my jacket pocket all ready to give to you, but I must have left it on the table in the hall. I’m so sorry. Have you got time to come back with me now and fetch it?”

  Faltering, Rachel didn’t know what to say. Simon, sorry? When did that happen? He was never sorry, or wrong. In fact, on the few occasions when he had been genuinely wrong and she had dared to correct him, he had argued and twisted her words to such an extent that she had been the one to apologise! Now he was expecting her to accept his apology without so much as a flicker.

  Clearing her throat, she met his expectant gaze.

  “I’m not sure..” She began, watching a waiter serve coffee at the table behind Simon. “ I wasn’t expecting..”

  “To have to go to any effort?” Simon offered unkindly. “Come on Rachel, it isn’t a difficult question. Can you come back to mine or do you need to rush off and ask that little friend of yours first?”

  “What friend?” Rachel repeated, recognizing from the tone of his voice that Simon’s patience didn’t have long before it blew. “And why would I have brought a friend with me? It’s only an address book I’m picking up isn’t it? Not a ten ton weight.”

  Simon nodded. “Clever girl.” He smirked. “You’ve worked out it’s your address book that’s missing, who would have thought it. Figure that one out all by yourself did you, or did you have someone help you?”

  “No I called out air sea rescue and they combed the depths
of my handbag till they discovered what was missing. Of course I noticed!”

  “And I bet you didn’t tell anyone you were coming to pick it up, did you?”

  “Why would I tell anyone? Or do you still think I’m frightened of you, Simon. Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not, and seeing as how you clearly don’t have my address book, I guess I’ll be getting back to work. I’ve only got an hour for lunch and it is only an address book after all, I’m sure I can manage without it for a little while.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Simon agreed, his manner changing from mild irritation back to solicitous charm again. “But if you don’t pick it up now I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait a lot longer than a ‘little while’.”

  “Oh? And why’s that?” Rachel enquired, crossing her arms. “Have you decided to photocopy the pages all of a sudden so you can intimidate my friends?”

  Simon sighed. “Actually, I’m going away on business. For several months.”

  “I see. Well, never mind, I’m pretty sure I can still manage without it. Or if you want to get shot of it, you could always post it to me, I’ll even give you the money for the stamps if you like. Will a fiver cover it?”

  Simon rested his chin on a steeple of his fingers. “You don’t understand.” He said carefully, briefly closing his eyes as if the effort of trying to make her understand was wearing him out. “You need to collect this before I go away. Not when I get back.”

  “But why?” Rachel frowned. “It’s only an address book.”

  “Yes it is. But it has money in it and not only do I not want that lying around my apartment whilst I’m away, I also do not want you accusing me of stealing it.”

  Now Rachel truly didn’t understand. What was Simon talking about? What money? She didn’t keep any money in her address book. The only cash she had was in her purse and that didn’t amount to much more than a few notes and a bit of loose change, so how come she suddenly had major folding tucked away between the phone number for her dentist and the address of her favourite beauty salon? It didn’t make sense. Particularly as she never stuffed money away like that and forgot about it.

  Simon begged to differ. “Have it your way.” He huffed when Rachel told him she couldn’t recall ever having put it there. “It’s your money and quite clearly your memory that’s going down the pan. But it’s there Rachel, so what do you want to do? Leave it at the tender mercies of the cleaners or come and collect it?”

  Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

  Rachel’s heels repeatedly tapped out the warning with every step, as she followed Simon across the pedestrian walkway, and towards the car park.

  She had, she noticed, only forty minutes to go until she was due back at her desk, and as the second hand swept round again, she battled with the idea of calling out to Simon to stop this ridiculous race against time. There was no way they could they make it to his apartment and then back into town within forty minutes, there were too many people, the traffic was too heavy and even if she left him now and rushed she would just have time to do a bit of shopping, grab a quick sandwich and then get back to her desk, red faced and too out of puff to eat it. The address book would just have to wait until Simon got back or, if he was really bothered, sent to her via recorded delivery. It didn’t really matter to her. What did matter was what she was actually doing now; following along behind him like some stupid lap dog, whilst he scowled at the way she was walking and grumbled at the state of her shoes and reignited all the old fears.

  It was wrong! Her head knew it was and her heart certainly did, pumping away nineteen to the dozen and making her sweat. Even her heels, clicking out a warning tattoo that unless Simon could pull off some super human feat and get her to and from his apartment in less than forty minutes, she was going to be seriously late back, also knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t stop herself. Something inside her head had gone tilt and here she was, trotting along behind him like a good, little girlie. Putting her trust in a man she absolutely knew would let her down and not give two hoots if she was late back or not. And that was always assuming he knew where her address book was. Knowing Simon he’d pretended not to be able to find it just to hack her off, and then when she finally did tell him that she had to get back to work like right now, he’d announce that he was terribly sorry and all that but he a meeting to go to and that she’d have to find her own way back.

  Why the hell did she always let him do this to her!?

  The Ferrari brought back a lot of bad memories.

  The smell of the interior the worst, and inhaling the aroma of leather, together with the faint trace of Simon’s very expensive aftershave, Rachel felt her stomach turn with the memory of fear indelibly ingrained in the upholstery.

  Nervously folding herself into the seat, she wondered what Simon would do now if she just got out and made a run for it? Would he chase her still? And beat her. Or would he shut her coat in the passenger door again and leave her running alongside? Scared out of her wits and screaming for help.

  Simon started the engine and locked the doors. Rachel stared out of the window. Too late now, she thought, watching an elderly couple load shopping into the boot of their car, I’m going back to Simon’s apartment whether I like it or not. But I’ll be okay. He won’t try anything in broad daylight. There’s too many people around, too many witnesses. And if he does try anything, then I’m going to scream my bloody head off, and I don’t care if he turfs me out of the car or leaves me standing stranded somewhere. I’ll just call a cab and get the hell out of there.

  The concierge appeared not to recognize her when they arrived, and so while Simon deliberately tried to irritate her further by chatting away as if he had all the time in the world, Rachel turned her back and patiently wandered the foyer, pretending to study the expensive, but frankly ugly, works of art adorning the walls.

  The lift took ages to arrive, and once inside, the sound of the piped music made her skin crawl. How many times had she stood here, she shuddered, listening to some classical piece or Enya crooning away about marble, bloody halls. How many times had she stared, white faced, at these doors? Dreading them opening with that peculiar swishing noise before Simon dragged her out and began shouting at her? Too many times, that’s how many and nothing much had changed since. She still felt anxious, still felt as if she were cowering beneath the sword of Damocles. Still wished she hadn’t bloody come.

  The left doors opened and they stepped out. The landing was the same. The same plant pots, the same fire hydrant, the same arty pictures on the walls. The same spotless, blue carpet, stretching towards a world of dread.

  And the same Simon, reverting back to type now he was on home ground.

  He started with the heels of her shoes. Did she know how much damage they were doing digging little holes in the pile of the carpet? And why was wearing stilettos anyway? They made her walk like a duck and silver! How common was that?

  Rachel pulled a face. Her shoes, she told him, were no longer any concern of his, not that they had ever been, and if all he was going to do was pick holes in her, she was leaving right now. He had no control over her anymore. None. They were through. Finished. She’d dumped him. Or had he forgotten that convenient little detail?

  Simon hissed that he hadn’t and criticized her coat. It was cheap, it was badly cut and the handbag she was carrying was out of date and clearly sodding useless, or why else would she have lost her address book out of it?

  Seething, Rachel mentally kicked herself. Why had she come back here, she asked herself? She was definitely going to be late back for work now and Kate would go bloody spare when she discovered where she’d been.

  Irritated, she rounded on Simon. “Know what?” She said through gritted teeth. “ You can shove it. Keep the soddin’ address book, I don’t care. Burn it, flush it down the bog, do what you like. I’m leaving.”

  Simon smashed his fist into her face.
>
  And Rachel, her head slamming against the wall, hit it with a sickening crunch before her legs folded and she slid unconscious to the floor.

  By two thirty Kate was seriously worried.

  By two thirty five she was at Rachel’s desk, sorting through her paperwork in the hope of discovering where the hell she was and noticing that Rachel’s handbag was not beneath her desk.

  Veronica eyed her from behind her computer.

  “Don’t suppose you know where she is then? “ She asked, watching Kate move the computer mouse to clear the screen saver. “It’s just that I was hoping she’d finish this report for me. Erm, what are you doing?”

  “Checking her e-mails.” Kate replied, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “She might have had a meeting we didn’t know about.”

  “And does she?”

  “Nope. There’s nothing in her diary at all. You haven’t sent her down the basement again have you, and forgotten about her?”

  Veronica looked offended. “No, I haven’t and if I had, I wouldn’t forget! Check her calendar. Sometimes she scribbles things on that.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Well then, maybe it’s got something to do with earlier. Her address book was missing and she seemed quite upset about it. Maybe she went home to look for it.”

  Rachel woke up lying on Simon’s sofa. At first she thought she was at home in bed, with Kate’s warm body next to hers and an arm slung sleepily across her middle.

  But then it struck her that Kate’s arm wasn’t there. Nor was her bed, or the giant Polar bear, or the alluring aroma of candles.

  Sleepily, she looked up, at a ceiling that was smooth and white and familiar. Sniffing, she frowned. She knew that smell too. An odd mixture of polish and air freshener and expensive leather that she had smelt before. When she’d been..

  Oh, shit!

  She was at Simon’s! Oh, my God, she remembered now! Simon had hit her! Smashed her in the mouth and knocked her out. She could still taste blood on her tongue and her head! It was bloody banging! But where was she? Not his bedroom. The sofa! She was lying on his sofa in the lounge. Where he’d put her.