Willing Victim

by Carla Blake

  “Fine.” Kate replied, blinking away her own discomfort. “I’m fine. When did you get back?”

  “About two hours ago. I was just going to put..”

  “I know. I’m mean, okay.” Kate interrupted. “Polly. Have you seen Rachel?”

  Seventeen

  God, she felt sick.

  Opening her eyes, Rachel stared up at the ceiling and waited for the nausea to pass. Her stomach rolled and she quickly turned her head, determined that if she was going to throw up again she was going to ruin Simon’s precious carpet in the process. But her stomach settled and she breathed deeply in gratitude, wishing the pain in her face would follow suit and go away, because it was bloody killing her, sitting there like some malevolent Gnome and gnawing away at her temples. It was hellish and painful and screwing her forehead into the carpet wasn’t bloody working!

  Something sharp was also digging into her left ankle and drawing up her knees, ignoring the protest of her stomach- sit ups had never been her thing and she’d always given up after three, loudly protesting that if this was the way to a flat stomach then she’d rather wait until the ‘muffin top’ came back into fashion, thank you very much – she swung her legs round until her back was resting against the edge of the sofa and she could peer at her feet.

  Her right ankle was bleeding, not profusely; just where the rope had rubbed against the delicate skin, formed a blister, popped it and then sawn across the open wound until it had created an ugly, raw patch Rachel was certain wouldn’t heal until the rope was gone and the site covered with some sort of dressing.

  It wasn’t a big hurt and ordinarily she would have just slapped some cream on it, covered it with a plaster and forgotten all about it until the plaster either came off in the shower or peeled off with her tights, but not this time. Today it seemed enormous and yet another obstacle to her getting on her feet and hobbling towards the kitchen.

  She looked at the clock.

  Four minutes past four. Roughly an hour since she’d last checked the time and roughly four hours since Simon had tied her up and buggered off. The proof that he hadn’t returned whilst she’d been unconscious, right there in the waste bin and baking nicely in the late afternoon sunshine. The stink of her vomit. A horrible stench that was now filling the room with a less than savoury stench and which, if Simon had been home, would have seen him go berserk with the air freshener, spraying left, right and centre, obsessed with getting rid of every last trace of the offending stench before it had a chance to contaminate him and his expensive furniture.

  Sniffing, Rachel rubbed her nose against her shoulder and looked around the room. The smell of sick was strong, there was no doubting that, and it was doing precious little to ease her queasy stomach, but there was something else as well. Another aroma, like wood, reminding her of the inside of her father’s shed. The place her dad would disappear to for hours on end only to emerge with something he’d hacked and planed out of a piece of Oak. He’d made her a sit-upon steam engine once, painted bright red with an ebony black seat and a plume of cotton wool ‘steam’ stuffed into the funnel. She’d puffed around the garden for hours on that, stopping at ‘stations’ and demanding her passengers – a teddy bear and a doll stuffed into a cardboard box tied to the back- sit down and keep their hands well within the ‘carriage.’ It was a fond memory and one she often thought about, but it was the smell of the shed and the sawdust and the glue and the off cuts of wood that remained the strongest memory, and it was this that she thought she could smell now. Wood. Freshly sawn wood.

  But why did Simon’s apartment smell of that?

  “What do you mean she’s disappeared? How can she disappear?”

  Polly and Kate were now sitting in the lounge. Earlier Polly, eager to get any residual awkwardness out of the way, had again apologised for spying on Kate and Rachel making love. But Kate, her mind full of other things, had simply muttered that it was okay, she should forget it, they had other, more pressing matters to sort out now.

  “And I don’t know where she’s gone.” She added, clearly agitated at having to go through it all over again. “She just went off to lunch and never came back. End of story.”

  “And you’ve tried her mobile and all that?”

  “Yes! Hundreds of times, but it always goes to message.”

  “Okay. Well, what if it’s deliberate? What if she’s planning some big surprise and doesn’t want you to get wind of it?”

  “Like what? It’s not my birthday for ages and she’d only have to listen to one of my messages to realise how bloody worried I am! And why would she suddenly disappear from work like that and not tell anyone? She didn’t even say anything to Veronica! I tell you Polly, something about this sucks royally. Rachel would not just vanish like this.”

  “So what do you want to do? Go to the police?”

  Kate shook her head. “There’s no point. All they’d say is that Rachel’s an adult and if she wants to wander off, then it’s up to her.”

  “But what if we tell them it’s not like her and that she’s never done anything like this before in her life.”

  “Then they’ll probably say she’s bound to turn up. It’ll be a waste of time, Polly. The only way the police will do anything is if we prove to them that there’s something more sinister going on. Then they might stir themselves.”

  “Okay, so forget the police for the meantime. We will search.”

  “And start where?”

  “At the place you last saw her. The office.”

  Rachel stood up. The smell of wood was still there; faint, but still discernable beneath the smell of sick and it gave her something to focus on. A tenuous, mental handhold that prevented her brain from focusing entirely on the fact that the rest of her wanted to flop onto the sofa and stay there for a very long time. Her head was still throbbing, the evil Gnome tap-tapping away behind her eyes, whilst the rest of her just felt weak and sick and liable to collapse without a moment’s notice.

  Feverishly, she turned her back to the sofa and gripping the seat, forced her knees to lock. Her ankle smarted and blood greased her skin. Her head ached and she breathed, in and out, in and out, concentrating on getting air into her lungs and clearing some of the fog that was clouding her brain.

  She looked down then looked back up again, alarmed by how quickly her sense of balance could go from feeble to down right dizzying. She breathed deeply again, looking straight ahead at the kitchen door and at the yards of carpet and laminated flooring between it and her. She wouldn’t be hopping this time that was for sure, hopping was bad. Hopping made her head hurt and caused her to pass out and she really didn’t want to do that again. Not after last time. Not after she’d seen where she’d fallen and how close she’d come to splitting her head open on the edge of the glass coffee table. No, this time she would shuffle like a Geisha. And okay, it might be slow and awkward and she’d probably loose a whole lot more skin from her torn ankle, but at least she might stay upright. And awake!

  Twenty minutes later she’d made it as far as the laminate flooring of the hallway. Her head had throbbed all the way and she’d nearly died with frustration at the length of time it had taken her to get there, but eventually she had done it, and leaning against the wall to exam her feet it was no surprise to find her right ankle was now bleeding as profusely as her left. But at least she was no longer feeling nauseous and when she looked down the only thing that happened was that she got a sharp twinge in her neck. Which was good.

  She stared at the front door.

  What if she could get it open and out onto the landing? Surely someone would come if she shouted loud enough, and even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t be that hard to work the buttons of the lift with her nose. Then she’d be in the foyer, with the concierge, and he would have to help her no matter how bloody stuck up he was. He could call the police as well whilst he was at it and then it would be game over for
Simon.

  The lock wouldn’t budge. She could turn it easily enough, even with her hands tied behind her back, but it just wouldn’t open. There was something stopping it, something she couldn’t see, unless she turned around.

  And there it was, half way down the door. A second lock. The kind that needed a key to open it. A key she didn’t have. A key Simon had made absolutely certain not to leave on the shelf to her left where he usually dumped all his loose change and other paraphernalia from his pockets.

  It was enough to make her cry and she did a little, frustrated at being thwarted by so tiny an object. Life was such a shit sometimes, she wept, letting the tears run off the end of her face and onto her blouse. She’d come so close, so close to getting out of this bloody apartment and finding Kate. Now she would have to hobble to the kitchen and hope she could find a knife sharp enough to saw her way through the rope and that was before she could search for the key!

  It was so bloody unfair! Where was Kate when she needed her? Or Polly. Even Veronica from work would have done. Just someone to help her and rid her of this awful feeling that at any moment Simon was going to reappear and finish the job, because she was really starting to believe he was going to. And soon. Because it didn’t matter how much she tried to convince herself he really had gone away on a business trip and abandoned her, she couldn’t quite see it. Before, whenever he’d shut her up in a cupboard or something, he’d always returned often, taking great delight in taunting her and kicking at the door and laughing his head off when she’d cried and begged and pleaded to be let free, so why wouldn’t he do so now? Unless… he really had left her to die. In which case she was well and truly stuffed!

  God, she wished Kate was here.

  Yes, because I wouldn’t be standing there feeling sorry for myself, I’d be bloody escaping!

  The sound of Kate’s voice made her shudder and certain for a moment that she could see Kate standing there with her arms folded across her chest and a disgruntled expression on her face, Rachel moaned with disappointment when all she saw was a plain, while wall and further to her left, the mirror.

  Christ, she thought, shuffling towards the mirror, I’m hallucinating now. I gotta be careful.

  Simon had done a proper job on her and gazing at her reflection, Rachel didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Her face was a mess! The right side of her jaw, where Simon had hit her, was one huge, purple bruise, the flesh around it swollen, and where his ring had caught her, a shallow graze now scraped across her skin. Her mouth also looked bloody, as did her chin, although she quickly realised this was just where she’d smeared it; but it was her bottom lip that was the worst. She looked like she’d had Botox.

  “Bastard.” She muttered and turning away, hobbled towards the kitchen.

  Today the basement really freaked her out, although she wasn’t sure why? Before, it had always been Rachel who’d grumbled and moaned and delayed for as long as possible the awful moment when she would have to descend the cold, concrete steps to the gloomy, damp subterranean bowels of the building in search of a missing file.

  But it had never bothered her. She hadn’t cared less if the walls were bare or if the crater masquerading as a squash court loomed dark and bottomless on her right hand side. She hadn’t even minded the peeling plaster or the weak light bulbs that created bobbing shadows where ordinarily none should be because before today it had always been just a basement. A place that smelt odd and felt cold, but had nevertheless provided the perfect opportunity to grab a crafty fag without alarms going off and written warnings landing on her desk.

  But that had been before Rachel had disappeared and worry had set in and Veronica, surprised to see her back in the office and with Polly in tow, had suggested she look in the basement ‘ just in case.’

  Now here she was alone. Big, brave Kate. All alone and wetting herself.

  “Rachel!”

  The sound of her voice echoing off the walls and down the long, gloomy corridor did nothing for her nerves, and nor did the sound of something ‘dropping’ in the squash court.

  Hastily, she flicked on the lights, and peered through the pale illumination to concentrate on the doors to the filing room. Nothing stirred and she called Rachel’s name again, taking a single step forward onto the rough and foreboding concrete. A chill finger ran down her spine, but she ignored it, walking confidently into the basement and determined to put on a brave front, her heels clicking quickly on the stone floor, then quicker still as she passed the squash court. What was down there, she shuddered, peering into the depths. Something? Nothing? Rachel? She couldn’t be, could she? Rachel hated the basement, hated the squash court even more, there was no way she would ever get so near the edge. She would still check it out though, after she’d checked the filing room.

  Kate crossed her fingers. Please, she employed to no one in particular, please let the door be unlocked and Rachel inside. Please let time rewind itself to that day when we first met and made love up against the old and creaking filing cabinet.

  But the door was locked and Kate’s heart sank. Why couldn’t she have been here, she thought, banging the door in frustration. Why couldn’t she have been trapped inside waiting for someone to rescue her, even though, God knows, that’s the last thing she would have wanted, for Rachel to be stuck in there, scared and worried sick that no one would find her for days on end. But shit! She would have given her eye teeth for that right now, because then it would be over and Rachel would be safe and they could laugh and hug and Rachel might even shed a few tears of relief and smudge her mascara, but, what the hell, none of that would matter, because Rachel would be safe and in her arms.

  Except she wasn’t.

  She knocked anyway, calling Rachel’s name and pressing her ear to the door, hoping she would hear sounds of movement from within, but instead hearing nothing save the whisper of her own heartbeat and the gentle fizz of the light bulb above her.

  Swearing, she kicked the door again and then shivered as the echo rolled down the corridor and disappeared into the walls. Hugging herself and wondering why she hadn’t noticed how bloody creepy the basement was before, she moved on, passing three more locked doors – heaven knows what was inside them- and a bulletin board still displaying a faded and slightly mouldy newsletter from 1963.

  Another flight of concrete steps waited for her at the other end of the basement and hesitating, Kate tried to work out where they went because like everyone else who ventured down to the Godforsaken bowels of the building, she preferred to retrace her steps and return to the office the same way she’d come, rather than walking that extra bit to use a flight of steps whose destination was a complete mystery. Except today, she didn’t feel she could do that. Today she felt that if she retraced the same steps that she had originally hoped might take her to Rachel, she would cry.

  She took them two at a time, her shoes scuffing up dust and bits of grit as she climbed the seldom used staircase. There was only one window, clouded with dust and home to a long dead spider and its rather optimistic web. Not one shred of useful light came though.

  Half way up, a light bulb blew directly above her head and she jumped, the tiny ‘ping’ and the absence of light that immediately followed seemingly perfectly timed to coincide with her presence. Telling herself not to be so stupid, she pressed on, occasionally looking over her shoulder and then pausing when it eventually dawned on her that her ears were picking up on something her brain was choosing to ignore.

  Holding her breath, she listened, not sure whether she wanted the sound- if there had been one- to repeat itself or not. If it did, then she would be forced to go back down there and take a look and she really didn’t want to do that, even if it was Rachel making it, but if she didn’t check it out and her cowardice meant that Rachel went un-rescued, then it would play on her conscience forever.

  Turning her head, Kate strained to hear through the hum in her ears a
nd wrung her hands together, struggling to understand why she was so damned scared. It wasn’t as if she was a kid anymore, afraid of the dark, and stories of monsters lurking under beds hadn’t bothered her since she was about six, so why was her stomach doing cartwheels? It was just a disused stairwell in a filthy basement; there was nothing down here. No monsters, no creeping cadaver ‘thing’ that was going to jump out on her and wrap bony fingers around her throat and drag her screaming into...

  Oh, for heaven’s sake! Stop it!

  She waited some more, shivering with the cold this time, but still determined not to leave until she was one hundred percent certain it hadn’t been Rachel she’d heard. She figured she’d waited long enough once the second hand on her watch had swept round twice and putting another stair between cold, damp misery and lovely, clean carpet she was relieved when the next light bulb remained intact and it’s feeble glow at least tried to cut through the creepy gloom as she continued to climb and realised that maybe she owed Rachel an apology after all. The basement was spooky and it was cold, even though the boiler room wasn’t all that far away. And it was dark, which was bloody nonsense when they worked for a power company for God’s sake- and there was that awful sense of being watched all the time, although to be honest, she hadn’t really noticed that before today. And what was with all those locked doors? Why were they locked? To stop her getting in or to stop something getting out? And the squash court. Since when had she ever run past that! She hadn’t checked it either, even though it had been her last place to look if she’d really thought Rachel was down in the basement, but she was damned if she was going back now.

  She was too flippin’ freaked out!

  Her foot touched the edge of a rough, outdoor mat and sighing with relief, Kate pushed through a faded, wooden door and found herself emerging from behind a curtain she’d always assumed shielded a window, at the far end of the clubroom. Mystified as to why anyone would put a curtain in front of a door, she blinked in the sudden light, waved at Joe the barman who was busy restocking the shelves and then told herself that she was never, ever going down there again.