by Carla Blake
“And why would he do that?” Kate asked, blowing smoke towards the roof of the car. “For all he’s knows we might live there!”
“Except we don’t and he’d know it. Come on Kate, you know what it’s like in these places. They recognize every single person who lives in the apartments and keep track of every single person that goes in or out. That’s one of the reasons why they’re there, for the additional security. And while we’re on the subject of not getting in, even if he wasn’t there we still wouldn’t be able to manage it. Entry is by keypad only.”
“So what you’re actually saying is that it’s all my fault we’re sitting out here in the cold doing nothing.”
“Isn’t it?”
“NO!”
“Then whose fault is it? Mine? I was the one who tried to stop you remember?”
“Oh, really? Well then maybe you should have tried a bit harder.”
“And maybe you, madam, should have listened to what I was saying instead of throwing a hissy fit! You’re not the only one who’s suffering here you know. You’re not the only who cares about Rachel and is tying herself up in knots worrying about her. I care too! But it still has to be all about you and what you want doesn’t it?”
“Well excuse me for giving a shit!” Kate hissed, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. “ And for wanting to try and help Rachel instead of sitting on my backside staring at the clock!”
“And you think I don’t want to help her?” Polly cried, turning in her seat to stab a finger in Kate’s direction. “I’d give my right arm to know where Rachel is right now, but I don’t know and you agreed! Wait till morning and then try and get in when the concierge is still half asleep, that was our plan. So unless you can come up with something better, I’m going home! Unless you’d rather sit here shivering until the bloody sun comes up?”
“No.”
“Good. And Kate.”
“What?”
“Don’t ever take your temper out on me again. I’m not the enemy here, Simon is - potentially. And if he does have Rachel, then I promise, we will get her out.”
“So you see.” Simon went on. “Things are going to have to change. Oh, don’t look at me like that! I’ve fed you haven’t I? Kept you warm. I’ve even cleaned up after your puke and sacrificed a perfectly good toaster to your pitiful attempts at trying to escape, so why shouldn’t I have my bed back?”
Rachel shrugged.
“My thoughts exactly.” Simon smiled. “There’s no reason at all, aside from the fact that I’ll have to change the sheets and hoover the mattress. So. Want to know where you’ll be sleeping?”
Rachel shrugged again.
Simon didn’t seem to mind. “Okay then, I’ll tell you.” He said jovially. “It’s somewhere warm and toasty where you won’t have to worry about getting a chill. Now. I’m going to have to untie you Rachel. Are you going to be good or am I going to have to hurt you again?”
Rachel looked at him. “I’ll be good.” She said.
“Glad to hear it. But you know what? After last time, I don’t think I believe you.” And leaning over the bed he drew back his hand and slapped her across the breasts. Again and again until the Signet right he was wearing rippled open her right nipple and Rachel, half mad with pain and screaming, finally lapsed into unconsciousness.
She woke standing up. Or rather dangling from her wrists, and for a moment, suspended in darkness and confused as to why she was no longer lying on the bed, she hung there drunkenly , trying to work out where she was.
It was difficult to think. Pain was everywhere, numbing her senses and making it impossible to string more than two coherent thoughts together and miserably she gazed down at her breasts, wincing in horror at the way her right nipple looked as though it had been dipped in red paint and at the shallow abrasions that ran across the pair of them.
He’s cut me, she breathed thinly. Sliced through my nipple! When did he do that? When he was hitting me or afterwards? Why don’t I remember? Why isn’t it bleeding? No, that’s a good thing. If I’m not loosing too much blood, I can still live. Where the fuck am I ? Why’s it dark? And warm. Why’s it warm? Christ, my head hurts!
She straightened up, ready for the pain this slight movement might cause in her shoulders or breasts, but completely unprepared for the explosive shock she got when her buttocks brushed against something hard and extremely hot.
Hissing, she pulled away and turned her head to stare into the gloom, half expecting to see Simon standing there with a malicious grin on his face and a red hot poker in his hand. What she wasn’t expecting was the copper cylinder, standing mere inches from her naked back and radiating the kind of heat usually reserved for blast furnaces.
“The airing cupboard.” She whispered. “He’s put me in the airing cupboard. It’s the emersion heater.”
It also explained why she hadn’t immediately felt confined or claustrophobic. She was used to it. Simon had shut her in so many cupboards over the months that instead of flagging up an instant warning, her weary brain had simply registered it as more of the same! But this, this was something else, and now that she knew where she was, it made her sick to think of him removing the lagging jacket, because that’s what he’d done, and then the thick, insulating layer, knowing full well that she would scold herself if she leant against it.
How the hell could this get any worse?
Minutes passed, and Rachel stood there, hanging from her wrists.
Her legs hurt but the way she was tethered wouldn’t allow her to favour one leg over the other without catching her backside on the burning metal. Her shoulders stung, but there was little she could to ease the ache in her muscles and little by little she felt herself beginning to weaken then cry, the tears she had promised herself she would not shed welling up in the corners of her eyes and then spilling over the sides, proving once and for all, that Simon had won. Simon had broken her. Simon was always, always going to torment and torture her and there was nothing she could do to stop him.
The door opened and Simon stood before her.
Rachel raised her head. “Wanker!” She said, sounding tougher than she felt and wishing he hadn’t turned up now while she was still crying. “Why don’t you drop dead?”
“Well, I could, but who would look after you then?” Simon replied. “Here, you forgot your drink.” And cupping her chin in his hands, he raised a glass to her lips and poured the contents of the tumbler down her throat, laughing when Rachel nearly choked and then growling with rage when Rachel spat a lot of it back into his face. “Fine!” He shouted, tilting the glass until water poured down her chest. “If you don’t want to drink it, then go without. But I hope you’ve had your fill because that’s the last you’re getting from me!”
“ At least you won’t have to worry about me needing to pee!” Rachel coughed, coating him with a fine spray of water and pleased to see that some of her old defiance was returning. “I’d hate to put you to any inconvenience.”
“You think I care?” Simon said, glancing with disgust at the amount of water staining his bathrobe. “Pee all you like. I’ve put newspaper down.”
“What? You shit?” Rachel roared. “You fuckin’ bastard! I hate you! I hope you rot in hell!”
“Really?” Simon replied. “Looks like you’re already there.” And he pushed her back against the immersion heater.
Rachel had no idea how long she blacked out for this time, but when she finally came round, still in the airing cupboard and still handcuffed to a rail above her head, it was to discover that Simon had not only applied some sort of crinkly bandage to her backside, but that he’d also replaced the lagging jacket as well, effectively sealing off much of the heat and ensuring she didn’t get burnt again.
Rachel allowed herself a grim smile. It scared you, she thought, forcing herself to take deep breaths to clear her head and her knees to lock
to take some of the strain from her shoulders. You knew you’d gone too far and it scared you. That’s why you replaced the lagging jacket and bandaged my arse. You knew you could have killed me and it frightened you. Or at least I hope it did. Cos if it did, then that would mean you still want me alive and I still have a chance to get out of this bloody place!
Time crawled, or at least she thought it did. With no light and after having spent some time unconscious, it was difficult to know whether it was still night or whether she had made it to the next day. Flexing the muscles in her backside and noting the skin felt peculiarly tight around the scorched area, Rachel clenched her left buttock and then groaned when something suddenly burst. Blisters she thought, I’ve burst a bloody blister! Sod it. He must have really burnt me, the bastard. I might even be left with a scar. And my breasts! He’s done a real number on them. My nipple looks like an overripe raspberry ready to explode and Christ, the fucking bruises!
They were everywhere. Up her legs, across her body, even in places she hadn’t even realised she’d been hurt. But those could have been sustained whilst she’d been unconscious, because who knew what Simon had done to her whilst the lights had been out? He could have beaten her some more for all she knew. Pinched her. Kicked her. Raped her even.
Revolted, she clamped her legs together and tried to detect if her vagina felt sore or particularly used, but without the use of her fingers it was impossible to tell, and aside from a small contusion near the top of her inner thigh there was no other clue. Simon, then, had probably not touched her. He thought her dirty anyway. Contaminated, if she wasn’t very much mistaken, which meant he probably wouldn’t have gone near her even if she’d been lying there stark naked with her legs spread, begging him to give her one.
Flexing her shoulders, she winced at the stabbing pain that swept through her muscles and swore under her breath. Fuck! Why did everything bloody hurt? Even her toes felt sore and she hadn’t done anything to them. Not like her ankle. That still throbbed.
And, God all bloody mighty, she needed to pee again!
Spreading her legs as wide as they would go, Rachel relaxed her sphincter muscle and peed on the newspaper, appalled by the splattering noise it made and annoyed that Simon had not only reduced her to such a base level but had also denied her the small satisfaction of peeing on his floor.
Finished, she used her feet to wad the soggy newspaper into a ball and then kicked it into a corner.
She took a deep breath.
Okay, she told herself, it’s not likely Simon will be coming back anytime soon. He’s fed and watered you and seeing as how it has to be pretty late in the evening – yes it has to still be night because hadn’t Simon turfed her out of his bed so he could get some much needed sleep - it was unlikely he going to bother her again for some time. So this was it. Her best chance.
Looking up, Rachel studied the metal pole she was tethered to. Roughly three inches above her head and bolted to the wall by four, shiny screws supported by a circular mount in which the pole was sitting, it appeared to have no other discernible purpose than to hold her prisoner.
It reminded her of the pole Polly had kept hidden under her bed in case of burglars. The pole whose strength she had decided to test by smashing it against the garden path until she had run out of puff. Even so, it had remained virtually undamaged, whilst the path had sustained some serious cracks to the concrete and Polly had declared it indestructible, which under the circumstances wasn’t particularly comforting.
She breathed. Conscious of her nakedness, and of the pull of the bandage on her backside, and of the drying urine on her thighs. The air felt warm and tasted stale and she was reminded again of how tiny and narrow the inside of the airing cupboard was.
A thought struck her, and for a moment she scuttled around after it, afraid it would disappear before she had the chance to formulate it properly, but then she got hold of it and Polly’s face floated in front of her own, her friend’s cheeks streaked with grime, her clothes the oldest things she owned because they were moving in. To their new house. Where chaos reigned and boxes were piled everywhere. The kettle the first thing they unpacked, leaving it steaming furiously in the kitchen whilst Polly thundered round trying to remember where she’d put the teabags and heaving aside her suitcase in the process. Tutting at the tired, old state of it and picking at one of the faded and brittle travel stickers that categorized it’s many destinations but was now a temporary home for her ‘ best’ linen and towels and sheets because the airing cupboard in the house had been too small to accommodate them. The additional shelf they had eventually got round to installing, pulling away from the wall after only two weeks, the weight they had put on it too much for it to bear.
Which was exactly the kind of situation she was in now
This airing cupboard had not been constructed with the pole in situ. This airing cupboard had been designed to house the immersion heater and judging by the floor space, a couple of storage boxes. The walls, therefore, were probably flimsy and thin and nothing more than glorified sheets of hardboard. It was a miracle Simon had got the pole to stay up in the first place.
Twenty Two
Five thirty and Polly and Kate were again getting ready to leave.
Nervous and jittery, thanks to their planned sleep quickly degenerating into copious drinking of coffee, pacing the living room, and in Kate’s case, ducking out of the back door every five minutes to smoke a fag without choking Polly to death, they’d both faced the morning feeling somewhat jaded.
Now however, having showered, made up and dressed in smart business suits, they were ready to go. The only barrier between them and potentially finding Rachel, an over zealous concierge, an apartment building based on Fort Knox and Simon. The biggest obstacle of them all.
Thrusting a leather folder into Kate’s hand, Polly told her to hang on to it. “It’ll make you look more efficient.” She said, fishing out her car keys from an equally expensive looking handbag. “And with a bit of luck, like you’re supposed to be there.”
“And how’s it going to do that?” Kate asked, eyeing it doubtfully. “By making me look like a double glazing salesman? Boy, that’s really going to swing it.”
Polly smiled tightly. “That’s not quite what I had in mind, but you’re on the right track. What we do is this. We park up down the road and walk towards the apartment building. We don’t go inside and we don’t try to. Do you have your mobile?”
Kate nodded.
“Right. As you walk past I want you to start looking around you, as if you’re looking for the right address. Then I want you to back track and stand right outside the apartment building with your mobile to your ear. Then I want you to pretend you’re shouting and I want you to look totally pissed off, and make sure the concierge sees you.”
“Okay. I can do that. Then what?”
“Then you wait, very impatiently, for me. Look at your watch. Sigh. Use your mobile again, consult the folder. I don’t really care what you do but make sure the concierge gets the impression that you’re very pissed off and that standing in your way would not be a good idea.”
Kate snorted. “Believe me, right now, that will not be a problem. Okay. So I’m standing there and I’ve got the raging hump. What happens next?”
“ When I get there you shout some more. You don’t actually have to, I doubt if he’ll be able to hear you through the glass doors anyway and we don’t want to attract anyone else’s attention by starting a fight, but look like you’re really tearing me off a strip. Point and stab at your watch, jab your finger at me if you like. In fact do that. It’ll give me the opportunity to really shout back and then whilst all that’s going on, I’ll tell you what we going to do next.”
“Why not tell me now?”
“Because I don’t know how matey boy is going to react to our little squabble and until I do, I don’t want to get our hopes up.”
Curling her fingers around the bar again, her knuckles showing white, she held on fast and put every ounce of strength into yanking the bar free. It didn’t move. Instead, loosing her grip, her hands slid a couple of inches across the pole with a high pitched squeak before coming to a halt.
Bugger, she thought and allowed her wrists to dangle from the handcuffs. Bugger! Sod and damn!
Kate couldn’t remember the last time she’d ever felt so stupid. Or maybe she could. Sam’s birthday, three years ago. A celebration she really hadn’t wanted to go to, purely because she’d harboured the sneaking suspicion that the club he’d chosen to party in would be full of his like minded friends who were all heavily into Star Wars and Star Trek and to her mind, the completely bonkers idea that everyone on earth had either directly evolved from aliens, or had been especially flown in from the planet Zarg to populate a world otherwise destined to be nothing but rocks and dust and tiny pools of stagnant water.
Sam, though, had managed to persuade her otherwise, and against her better judgment she had gone along, dismayed to find that she had been right and that spending the evening clinging to the back wall whilst trying to avoid the eye of a particularly stupid article who had thought it funny to dress up like a Vulcan, was the only way she was going to survive.
She’d also drunk too much as well, and half way through the evening had found herself swigging from a bottle of beer that had tasted odd on first swallow and even weirder after a visit to the loo.
Challenging Sam about it hadn’t been her finest moment either, and after demanding to know where he’d got his beer and whether he had kept the receipt, he finally and reluctantly confessed that he’d spiked her drink with vodka. A lot of vodka. A hell of a lot of vodka. His rather weak defence being that she hadn’t looked like she was having a good time and he thought a shot of the ‘good stuff’ might help to cheer her up.
