Willing Victim

by Carla Blake

Simon shoved her again and stumbling forward, she felt his chest pound into her back as he pushed her over the threshold and into the lounge.

  She gagged at the stench of vomit, then cringed when Simon’s voice in her ear hissed at her that she would pay for that later.

  He pushed her again, too viciously for the space they were in, and she stubbed her toe against the leg of the coffee table, gasping with the pain and then crying out loud when Simon flung her on the sofa and she landed face down, the taste of leather in her mouth and a flare of pain in her head that told her he hadn’t entirely let go of her hair before throwing her forward.

  She sat up feeling humiliating burn across her face. The back of her head throbbed where he had scalped her, and she rubbed it, refusing to meet his gaze, even though he was standing over her with the knife dangling loosely in his right hand.

  “I imagine you’re thinking about trying to escape.” He said when Rachel stubbornly stayed silent. “Well, a word of advice, my precious angel. Don’t even bother. The front door is double locked, the windows are sealed and we’re three stories up. Plus we have the sound proofing remember.”

  “And what about the concierge?” Rachel retorted, suddenly remembering that the officious little man had undoubtedly seen her enter the apartment with Simon. “Isn’t he going to start asking questions once he notices I never leave?”

  Simon shook his head. “I doubt it.” He smiled. “I told him you were running away from a violent husband and that you were staying here tonight before being whisked off to a secret location tomorrow. I also told him that if anyone comes looking for you not to say anything.”

  “ And you think that’ll be enough to keep him quiet do you?”

  “I imagine the couple of grand I bunged him might.”

  “Then I think you might have wasted your money. Someone will come looking for me Simon, and when they do it won’t take them long to figure out that matey boy down there is lying, and then what are you going to do? Deny it? Stuff me in a closet and hope I keep quiet? It ain’t gonna happen, Simon. You might be able to bluff your way with most people, but it won’t work with Polly. She’ll know you’re lying.”

  Simon smiled. “Ah, Polly.” He sighed. “I wondered when we’d get round to her? And what exactly is she going to do? Scare me to death with one of those ridiculous hats of hers or beat me up with a plant? Come on, Rachel, where have you been for the last few hours? I don’t care if she pounds on the door till her knuckles bleed. Let her, if that’s what makes her happy, she won’t get an answer. What she will get, however, is escorted out of the building and a warning that if she ever comes back, she’ll be arrested for trespass.”

  “And you really think that’ll stop Polly?”

  “The warning? Not a chance. But a big, fat security guard turning up on her doorstep might. This is a very exclusive place to live Rachel. The guards around here like looking after us. They get paid well. They get Christmas bonuses. They’re not above a little physical persuasion.”

  “So what you’re saying is, is if Polly dares to come round, you’re going to have her beaten up by some thug in a suit. Is that it?”

  “No. Not necessarily. Depends if she makes a nuisance of herself or not.”

  “You’re all heart.”

  “I know.”

  “And what about you? And your job. You have to go out sometime.”

  “Not when I can work from home. What do you think all the tinned food is for? To feed the homeless? I bought it so we don’t have to leave the building!”

  Rachel looked at him. He really had thought it out, she reluctantly conceded, because not only had he got everyone believing he was away on business, he’d bribed hired thugs to beat up anyone who came calling and bought enough food for a fuckin’ siege!

  “Okay.” She said at last. “You’re planning on keeping me prisoner. Why? For what purpose? To make me pay? To torment me some more? Or are you simply planning on raping me? Because if you are, then I wish you’d stop playing these stupid games and just get on with it!”

  “And I’d wish you’d stop asking these stupid questions when I’ve already made it perfectly clear why you’re here. And as for raping you! Well, I have no intention of doing that! I thought we’d watch a bit of TV.”

  Nineteen

  Rachel wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take.

  To her mind, Simon’s offer of ‘saving her’ had still not been properly explained and his lack of willingness to provide further details was now providing her imagination with ample opportunity to do it for him. It was also making her fear the worst. Or at least fear the pain. The mind games she could cope with. Confident that now she was free of him, at least as far as an actual relationship went, she could batter aside his sarcastic comments and attempts to belittle her with comparative ease.

  But it was the physical stuff that truly turned her stomach, because now there was no one to answer to, there was no reason to reign it in. He could do what he liked to her and when he liked, because who was there to see the bruises? There was no office to return to. No anxious Polly peering at her curiously, all ready to rip off the head off his shoulders if she so much as spotted the tiniest of contusions. She was on her own.

  Tearful she turned in her seat and gazed out of the window. It was dark outside and the glass was reduced to a mirror, reflecting her own haunted expression and the lights from the city that rippled across the glass like melting rainbows.

  She caught the strobe of a beacon and wished she was down there now, rushing to get home and part of the melee, instead of being trapped up here. With Simon. And the smell of sick.

  She then wondered if he would rape her, before dismissing the idea. He hadn’t wanted to make love to her when they had been going out together, continuously finding reasons why they should keep their clothes on rather than strip off and indulge in a steamy session, so there was no reason to think he would want to now. Unless, of course, this was the only way he could get turned on. Maybe that was it. Maybe Simon could only get a hard on if his women were tied up and submissive and completely at his mercy. But if that was the case, then why pick on her? Simon, by his own admission, had had dozens of girlfriends, surely one of them would have been only too willing to be shackled to his bed while Simon played master and servant, if only for the potential present they were likely to get afterwards. So why her? And if he did end up raping her, then what did he plan to do with her afterwards? Shut her up with gifts? Promise her a new car every year if she didn’t open her mouth?

  Maybe he’s planning to bump you off babe.

  Kate’s voice in her head was not exactly welcome.

  Particularly when it occurred to Rachel that she might be right. What if he was planning on killing her! He had a horribly vast assortment of knives in that kitchen and then there were the boxes of food. What if Simon had paraded those in front of the concierge merely as part of a smoke screen? Confident that if the glorified caretaker had seen him take them in, he probably wouldn’t question Simon carrying one of them out again- with bits of her body inside.

  The idea scared her. The possibility that Simon might actually be planning on murdering her suddenly foremost in her mind. But what could she do? He was right here in the room with her meaning any dash for freedom would be instantly curtailed, even if he did have his back to her. And she couldn’t reach the knife he’d put down whilst he sifted through his stack of DVD’s, for the damn coffee table! Which was probably just as well thinking about it, because even if she did manage to reach it before Simon stopped her, she doubted if she’d be able to stab him. Her flamin’ conscience wouldn’t allow it.

  So try something else! Kate shrieked inside her head. Don’t just sit there! He’s got his back to you.. Make a run for it. You’ll never know unless you try!

  Rachel snatched up the bin full of vomit. She wasn’t sure why she’d done it, not until it was
actually in her hands, but then she threw it at Simon and the disgusting contents splattered over his back and his shoulders, covering him with lumps of partially digested food as Simon yelped, dropped the DVD he’d been holding and lunged at her.

  But Rachel was already up and running, and sliding on the laminated flooring, she raced across the hallway and towards the front door, praying that if Simon had come in this way, he had forgotten to engage the second lock.

  He hadn’t.

  It was late. At ten o’clock Polly and Kate had watched the evening news, half hoping they might hear that the police had arrested someone for praying on unsuspecting woman- and if that was the case, seeing Rachel’s face appear unscathed on the screen- and half hoping they would hear nothing of the sort.

  They were all out of ideas. Polly had rung everyone she could think of, including the local pizza place in the vain hope Rachel might have ordered a take-away earlier on. But the sullen ‘no’ she received followed by the demand of whether she was actually going to order a pizza or not led her to believe she was speaking to the same delivery chap she’d turned away before Christmas and she gave up.

  Meanwhile, Kate tried the hospitals again and despite Polly’s advice that it would be a waste of time, the police.

  They didn’t have much to offer either.

  Rachel was an adult, they insisted. She could do what she liked. Kate should ring back when she had been missing for a serious amount of time or they had actual proof that she really was in trouble. Until then, keep trying her mobile. Or her boyfriend’s mobile? She should check her clothes as well, see if anything was missing? And her passport? Maybe she’d simply decided to take an impromptu holiday and forgotten to tell her about it.

  It wasn’t what Kate wanted to hear, and unimpressed, she was just about to ask them exactly what they did do for the taxes she paid, when Polly came up behind her and whispered in her ear that maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea to antagonize the police just yet. After all, she added, they might still need them later.

  Now, two bottles of wine down and still no sign of the alcoholic oblivion she’d been hoping for, Kate was on the point of total exhaustion.

  Polly, seeing her start to slide down the sofa, insisted she sleep. “And no arguments.” She added, getting up to carry the wine glasses into the kitchen. “Wearing ourselves out isn’t going to help find Rachel, nor is depleting my stock of wine. Now I take it you’re not going home, so where do you want to sleep? The sofa or Rachel’s bed?”

  “How about yours?”

  “Excuse me!?”

  “No! Nothing like that!” Kate added quickly. “It’s just that I don’t want to sleep alone. I know it sounds stupid, but I know that if I’m on my own I’m just going to lie there and start thinking all this horrible stuff.”

  “And you think lying next to me will stop that happening?”

  “No. But you might be able to stop me jabbering on.”

  “Yeah, I might. Okay, you can bunk in with me, but only because I’ll probably be doing the same thing myself. But no nicking the duvet okay? And you bloody well make sure you keep your hands to yourself!”

  Kate smiled. “Hark who’s talking!”

  Polly blushed. “Yeah, alright. I asked for that, but I know what’s it’s like when you’re worried. It makes you.. do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do. Just for comfort, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I promise I’ll be good and Polly?”

  “ Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  The journey from front door to lounge hadn’t been pleasant. For starters, he’d hit her repeatedly, slapping her around the head until her ears rang and her vision had started to blur. Then he’d forced her to her knees and deliberately stuck her nose inside the waste paper bin, forcing her to inhale the stink of vomit until, sickened to her stomach, she’d very nearly obliged him by topping up the levels.

  Only then had he dragged her up again and amused by the queasy expression on her face, dragged her into the bedroom, where shoving her on the bed, he’d warned her to not to move ‘a bloody muscle’, before rummaging though the bedside cabinet, pulling out a pair of handcuffs and clamping her right hand to the bed frame above her head.

  Then he’d left her. Alone in the dark

  And that’s where she was now. Alone in Simon’s bedroom, feeling cold, bruised and utterly frustrated that although her left hand was still free to roam, the only thing she could reach was another pillow.

  Carefully, she touched her face, grateful when her fingers found only tender spots and not the patches of warm, sticky blood she’d been expecting but still struggling to understand what it meant. She had thought, after he’d caught up with her at the front door, that he’d beat the living crap out of her. But he’d hadn’t drawn blood at all, only shoved her about a bit and forced her to inhale sick. But did that mean a few bruises and grazes were going to be the extent of his violence? Or was he saving the true blood letting for later?

  She could also smell wood again too. The unique smell of sawdust, but where was it coming from? The sound proofing he’d claimed to have had done? That wasn’t made from wood was it? So where?

  Rolling onto her side, Rachel gazed around the room. Like every other room in Simon’s apartment there wasn’t much to see. The bed she was tethered to, a couple of beside cabinets – had anyone ever used the other one?- fitted wardrobes and the door leading to the en suite bathroom. That was it. About five second of dusting’s worth.

  Yet she could still smell wood, and now that she knew she could, she could really smell it. Strong. Fresh. Her father’s shed all over again.

  Shaking her head in confusion, she rolled over as far as she could and dangled her left hand under the bed. Her fingers touched something soft and fine and when she withdrew them again they were coated in a fine coating of sawdust.

  Her head sprang to the obvious conclusion.

  Fire.

  Simon had heaped sawdust under the bed so that when he set fire to the apartment, as he’d threatened to do, she would burn good and hot.

  Terror sliced through her like a physical thing.

  Calm! She screamed at herself. You have to keep calm. The sawdust may be there for another reason and has Simon said anything about it? No, he hasn’t, which is a good thing. You know what he’s like. He wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to scare you silly, yet he hasn’t mentioned it at all, so stay calm. Breath. Play the game.

  Try and work out where he is and what he’s doing now?

  Keeping as still as possible, Rachel listened.

  Her heart thump, thumped in her chest.

  She breathed through her nose. Calm down, she whispered in the stillness. Calm down. You’re okay. Listen. It’s quiet.

  Its’ night. Christ, it is! Outside the window, locked and double glazed. Hell, probably triple glazed knowing Simon’s penchant for privacy, it was pitch black and not even the moon was putting in an appearance. On the other side of the road, as far as she could remember, stood a row of terraced houses whose upper levels didn’t quite reach as far as the level of the apartment windows, meaning Simon had an undisturbed view of sky and she didn’t have a snowballs chance in Hell of anyone looking out of their bedroom window and seeing her.

  She didn’t even think, if she could get free to open one of them, it would do her much good either. She was on the third floor. It was a long way down. The landing would be on concrete.

  A soft thump drew her attention back to the door and frowning, she followed the sound as it bumped again and moments later, repeated itself.

  Simon was cleaning the apartment.

  Despite her fear, a smile crossed her face. It was obvious now, now she knew what it was, and she could hear him, cursing the mess she’d made and occasionally gagging as he scrubbed at the carpet and shouted at the top of his voice that she was a filthy, disgustin
g bitch!

  Like she cared. She was glad she’d thrown up all over his precious furnishings and besides, she wasn’t the one having to clear up the mess.

  Half an hour later he’d finished and crashing through the bedroom on his way to the conjoining bathroom, Rachel watched as Simon, his wrinkled clothes reeking of sweat and vomit and his hair plastered to his head, grabbed a towel from the wardrobe, asked her what she was ‘bloody looking at’ and then disappeared into the bathroom to set the water running.

  He was in there for ages. The sound of water hitting the sides of the shower going on and on until Rachel wondered if he’d slipped on the wet tiles and cracked his head open.

  Her blood ran cold at the thought. Okay, so there was no denying that Simon deserved a taste of his own medicine - and if it hurt then so much the better - but if he was lying there unconscious or worse still, dead, then how did she think she was going to free herself from the handcuffs and get out of the apartment?

  The answer was, she wasn’t, and Christ it was a scary thought. She’d almost certainly die here if Simon was, trussed to a bed, slowly dying of thirst and with no way of redeeming her reputation once she was gone, because it was bloody obvious what everyone would think. They’d think she and Simon had been in the middle of some kinky sex game when he’d slipped, cracked his nut open and expired in the shower, leaving her here, forever waiting for a fuck that never came. Kate would be devastated. And Polly. Polly would give her seven shades of shit even though she was no longer around to hear her.

  Shit! He better not be dead.

  She waited, breathing shallowly and didn’t hear a thing. Not a wet footstep, not a swish of a towel, nothing.

  Okay, so I’m gonna call out, she thought, clearing her throat. See if he’s okay.

  But then she paused and her mouth twisting into a grimace of fury, finally worked out what was going on. How could she have been so stupid, she chided herself. So easily taken in. This was another of Simon’s mind fucks. Just another way to rattle her. She could even see him now, sitting smugly on the closed toilet seat, a watch in his hand, and a smirk on his face while he waited to see how long it would take her to crack. Well, he could wait forever as far as she was concerned. She wasn’t giving in to his mental torture. She was simply going to lie there quietly, enjoying the scent of his citrus shower gel and turning her mind to other things. Like the dry cleaning she had to pick up. Or the TV programme she’d been hoping to watch.