by Leona Turner
“Ok, give me a couple of days.”
“Good.”
The conversation fell flat as both men went back to their pints.
Chapter 18
Clare sat staring at the papers in front of her. When she had signed up for the psychology course, she hadn’t realised how hard finding the time to study would be. However, if she was honest with herself, it wasn’t the time management that was giving her the most trouble as far as her study was concerned; she found it unbelievably hard to concentrate on anything these days. Ever since she and Hannah had been assaulted, her life had changed beyond all recognition, and she longed for the days when her life had been normal. Normal to her, like most people, meant boring. Not anymore, though; her mind was continually racing lately and she wished it could just stagnate for a bit. As she got up to make herself another cup of tea, her mobile rang. Checking the number, she saw it was Dean again, and sighing loudly, she answered it.
“What do you want?” Clare’s voice sounded bored and that just served to incense Dean’s anger further.
“Well, I was just wondering what your going rate was?” Clare’s stomach dropped. He must have seen the website.
“I mean, if I had known I was going out with the local porn star, I’d have gotten my money’s worth.”
Clare hit the ‘end call’ button and threw her phone on the sofa. She went through into the kitchen in shock. If Dean knew, then how many others knew, as well? Ignoring the kettle, she grabbed the bottle of Bacardi she always kept now and poured herself a cupful. Knocking it back, she could hear her phone ringing loudly in the living room, each ring seeming to get louder and more aggressive. Picking up the Bacardi bottle, she went back through to the living room, and grabbing her phone from the sofa, she switched it off.
Dean stood staring at his mobile. The last time he’d tried ringing, it had cut him off. Dialling her number again, he listened to see whether or not it would ring. Clare’s phone rang straight through to her voicemail.
‘Fine then, don’t talk to me. I’ll just leave a message, and seeing as you won’t listen to this, I’ll have to make sure you get my message another way.’
Dean ended the call and grabbed the spray paint from his bag.
Twenty miles away, in a derelict farmhouse, Jon regained consciousness. Even with the gaping holes in the building, he could smell the stench of charred flesh. He looked down at his left hand and winced. When he’d first realised he was being abducted, he’d thought it had been for money; he had laughingly tried to bribe his abductor with fifty thousand pounds on the journey.
His businesses had been doing great recently. Originally making his money out of the organic industry boom, he had branched out into other areas. A little over a year ago, Jon had decided to take early retirement. Unfortunately the dream of retirement and the reality bore little resemblance when he found himself spending a lot more time with his wife, Joanne. Before the first week of his retirement was up, he’d purchased a new business, but it was a business he knew nothing about. He’d bought a small garage, and it already had a full employee quota complete with manager. Joanne, who knew little of his business dealings, believed he was putting full time hours in once more, whereas in reality he could pop in and out of the garage if and when he chose. Luckily they were all good lads, and had covered for him a few times. It had even meant he could attempt to make amends to his eldest son, the son he’d ran out on nineteen years ago. The garage had a booming business, so all the little extras he liked to spend on his extra-curricular activities didn’t raise too many questions at home. All in all, it was one of the best investments he’d made. It also meant that whatever his abductor demanded of him, he should easily be able to afford it.
When he’d seen where his abductor was taking him, he’d thought it had been for a cooling off period before they decided what amount of money they thought they could get out of him. When his abductor had produced a cigar cutter, he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. He’d seen them used in certain gangster films before to relieve the victims of their digits; he had thought it was a sick, depraved joke. His abductor had taped him to the chair that he was now sitting in, and halfway through the removal of his ring finger, the pain had become too much and he’d passed out. Looking at the bloody, blackened stub he now sported, he could make an educated guess at what had happened afterwards: the abductor had cauterised the wound. And judging by the lack of surgical equipment around, he assumed they had used the cigarette lighter from his car. Oddly enough, that thought calmed him a little; if they’d bothered to stop the bleeding then maybe they didn’t want to kill him after all. Or at least they wanted something more from him; either way it bought him more time.
Staring around the dilapidated room he was sitting in, he noticed something he hadn’t noticed before: on the wall opposite him there hung a clock that certainly hadn’t been there earlier. The abductor must have left it for him. According to the clock, he must have been here for at least five hours. As he sat there waiting, he noticed the first rays of light from the new days sun stretch across the room. Where the hell was his captor, where had they gone, why had they gone? Had they gone to collect the next instrument for this sadistic game?
Jon started to drift in and out of consciousness and dreams started blurring with reality, the most painful of which was where he woke up in the bed at Sarah’s apartment. She’d come in with two cups of tea, two cigarettes, and an ashtray. They would stay in bed most of the morning, debating the merits of various mundane things—in this particular case, tea-cosies—and then Jon would wake once more and find himself still incarcerated.
That part became harder every time.
Fitful sleep and a restless mind ensured Jon was far from being in a sound mental state when the persecutor arrived back at the building a full twenty-four hours later.
The persecutor strode straight up to Jon and ripped off his gag.
“Wake up. Wake up.”
Jon’s head slowly rotated up in the direction the command was coming from. He felt dazed, as if someone had been consistently hitting the back of his head with a rubber mallet for the last two hours. He decided to ask once more what they wanted, and looking them directly in the eye and summoning as much strength as he could muster he spoke steadily, in a voice that sounded much stronger than he felt.
“What do you want with me?”
“You’re thinking of leaving your wife, aren’t you?”
No answer. Sighing inwardly, the voice spoke again.
“Jon, as a supposedly intelligent man, I’d have thought you’d have known that if someone asks you a question, it is good manners to answer them.”
As Jon listened to the voice, he noticed it had an almost lyrical quality to it, quite at odds with the voice that had threatened to slit his throat the previous evening.
“No, I’m not thinking of leaving my wife; I am leaving my wife. Now if you’ve quite finished with the twenty questions, can you just get on with whatever it is you plan to do, because I’m bloody sick of waiting!”
“Ah, you’re sick of waiting, are you? I imagine a busy man like you hates waiting, people wasting your time—I know I don’t like the idea of five minutes of wasted time, so can you imagine how it’d feel to waste seventeen years of your life? Stuck with the same ungrateful bastard every day, all the time knowing he’s off having sordid little affairs with any two-bit scrubber that came along, and then after seventeen years of raising his children, keeping his house, and forfeiting any life of her own in a bid to keep him happy and at home, he suddenly decides to up and leave? Can you imagine how that’d feel, Jon? Can you?” The calm, lyrical voice had disappeared, and in its place was an almost hysterical scream. The last two words practically slapped Jon across the face.
“Well, hopefully you will understand a little more soon, Jon, ‘cause you’ll have plenty of time to think about it.” The soft voice was back once more and the cherubic face stared down at Jon as the gag was refastened.
> “I may not be able to give you seventeen years, Jon, but you’ll be amazed how long time can stretch when you’re in desperate need of something, whether it’s love, caring, understanding, or…”
The voice became low and malicious.
“…food and water.”
With that, his persecutor turned and started to head once more toward the exit.
The abductor could hear the muffled protests turning to desperate anguished grunts in the background.
“Bye, Jon.”
Chapter 19
Clare woke with a start. Her head was pounding, and she started to go through the previous evening’s events. After Dean’s barrage of calls, she ended up drinking herself into oblivion. Getting up, she retrieved her phone and rang Loretta’s number.
“Hi, sorry to call you at home at the weekend, but is there any chance I could see you soon?”
In her office Loretta leaned back in her chair and frowned; Clare had been anything but forthcoming the last few sessions they’d had. She had agreed to help Clare’s study, but Clare had seemed disinterested recently. Loretta had asked her what was wrong and Clare had assured there was nothing, so Loretta could only assume she’d lost interest in the course and Loretta had no time for half measures. She had considered calling time on the whole tutoring aspect; if someone didn’t give their all, then she didn’t see why she should have to give up her free time. Jimmy Holt had earmarked enough of that for himself lately, although she didn’t begrudge that; in fact, she admitted, she enjoyed his company. But this girl, she wasn’t being straight with her, and although technically Loretta was ‘off-duty’ with her, it was still a principle of her profession never to force any issues.
“Well, I’m going into the office later anyway to sort out some paper work. I can meet you there at three if you like.”
On the other end of the line, Clare’s face broke into a rare smile.
“That’d be great, thank you. I’ll see you then.”
Loretta hung up the phone. She made the decision to give Clare one last chance. She just hoped this meeting would be more productive than the last few.
Clare had finally managed to kick her hangover. She had been so relieved when Loretta had suggested meeting in the afternoon. Clare knew she’d been sailing close to the wind with
Loretta lately and that Loretta was becoming impatient with her attitude, so Clare had made the decision to come clean with her and let her know about the whole mess. Once the decision had been made she had felt lighter, as though she didn’t have to face it on her own anymore. She knew she had Hannah, but Hannah had been keeping her distance recently and Clare couldn’t blame her; they had both become reminders of that night to each other.
Clare stepped into the shower and enjoyed the feeling as the warm water washed over her, making her clean again. If only memories were so easily washed away. Ever since the attack Clare had stopped spending time on her appearance, so within ten minutes she was ready to go. She never used to be able to get ready so quickly, but now she felt that the less attractive she was, the safer she was. Grabbing her car keys, she slammed out of the flat, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. She chose to take the stairs down to the ground floor and the car park. Bursting out of the door into the car park, she spotted her car and suddenly stopped dead.
Her car was sat in its usual position, but the deep blue paintwork was scribbled with bright pink profanities. Drawing closer, she could begin to make out the words: “whore,” “slag,” “bitch.”
Clare stood stunned for a moment, watching her own car as if waiting for its next trick. Then breaking her stare she rushed to it and got in, sparking the engine to life she drove quickly to Loretta’s office. Parking her car in its usual space Clare made her way inside.
Loretta was already waiting in her office and Clare went in and sat down. Loretta didn’t bother looking up.
“Hi Clare, I’ll be with you in a minute. I’ve just got to finish this.”
“There’s no rush.” Clare’s voice broke and she started to sob uncontrollably.
Loretta put her paperwork down and gave Clare her full attention.
“Whatever’s the matter?”
“It’s hard to know where to start.”
“I often find the beginning as good a place as any.”
With that, Clare poured out all the events in detail, occasionally stopping to draw breath. Loretta sat solemnly, listening until Clare ran out of steam.
“Clare, what on Earth prompted you to keep all this to yourself?”
“Well, because it’s not just me who’s been affected, Hannah didn’t want anyone else to know, and I couldn’t go behind her back.”
“Did you report this to the police?”
“No, we think they used rohypnol, and by the time we realised what had happened, the drug was out of our systems. Besides, neither of us wanted to have to go through it all again.”
“And that is exactly why these attacks continue—the offenders rely on their victims’ humiliation to keep them quiet.”
“Well, it works.” Clare dissolved into sobbing once more.
“All too well, it would appear. Now, where’s your car?”
“Parked just outside the door—why?”
“Because I want you to take my car home; I’ll get yours sorted out and drop it back to you during the week. In the meantime, I’ll see about getting that website closed down.”
“How?”
“I know someone who’s good with computers.”
“It’s not the police, is it?”
“No. Look, I don’t want you worrying about it, just get home and get some rest, OK?”
Loretta pushed her keys across the desk toward Clare.
“Um, ok, as long as you’re sure…’ Clare went to hand Loretta her keys and then stopped.
“I really appreciate this, you know.”
Loretta’s hand was out for the keys and she replied without looking up.
“I know.”
Clare retrieved Loretta’s keys from the desk muttering her thanks once more she left.
Loretta watched out of her window as Clare got into her car and drove away. Clare had finally started being honest with her again and this gave Loretta a sense of relief. Picking up the phone, she started the first stage of the clean up process: getting Clare’s car picked up for re-spray. As Loretta dialled the number she wondered if she should mention this afternoon’s episode to Jimmy Holt. Technically this Adam Woodacre who Clare had named as the ringleader of this website had broken the law, so she could report him in good conscience. However that would mean she’d be breaking a promise to Clare, and even though she wasn’t Clare’s counsellor, she felt honour bound to uphold her professional principles. When the phone was answered on the other end of the line, she had made her decision: she wouldn’t report it to Jimmy.
Chapter 20
Joanne was shattered; she’d spent all morning cleaning the windows. She finished them off and walked back through into the kitchen, filling the kettle and putting it on to boil. She went over to the kitchen table and started sorting through bills. All but one was addressed to Jon. Where was her estranged husband staying? And more importantly, why hadn’t he called to tell her he’d be away so long? It was their eldest, Harry’s, sixteenth birthday on Monday, just two days away, and Jon hadn’t made any attempts to contact her about arrangements. He really was a selfish bastard at times. She could cope with her own embarrassment that her husband’s dubious reputation allowed her, but he had always been an outstanding dad for the most part. Joanne was used to him disappearing for days or even weeks at a time with his latest squeeze, dressing it up as a “business trip.” Part of her hoped he realised she was aware of the indiscretions and that she wasn’t just completely stupid. But then again, if he knew that she knew and didn’t care, that would be worse, wouldn’t it? Joanne tried not to dwell on these things too much; neither answer would please her.
She thought about how simple the whole ‘
marriage’ idea had appeared when she was a little girl. It had all seemed so very easy: find a nice man, marry him, and everything else would just fall into place. Home, kids, then grandchildren. She had had no comprehension of the hard work that a marriage entailed—continual, unrelenting work. She had also falsely assumed that the man you married was the one you spent your married life with. Again, not so; men were rarely as attentive once they had the ring on. It was like the wedding ring held special powers; once upon its owner’s finger, it was the key to the unlocking of civilisation within the home. Joanne knew that marriages required effort from both sides—her married friends had seen fit to tell her on her hen night. They had been quick to mention their own husbands’ shortcomings: praising their own gas, believing that wet towels lived on the bathroom floor, and that toenail clippings on the side of the bath constituted interior design. And at the wedding reception she’d heard from the husbands about their wives commonly held misconception: that they could “change” them. The most common way to approach this was to verbally beat the man into submission. Nagging seemed to be universally considered the wives’ number one weapon of choice in the war of the genders arsenal. One man had commented to Joanne, ‘I’ll rip my ears off if I have to hear about tile grouting anymore.’
Joanne had smiled politely at this. But even so, her friends marriages still remained strong, even now, seventeen years later, whereas hers had started to slip after the second year. Not helped by the fact that there was usually a third wheel. And she reluctantly had to admit, that third wheel was usually her.
She resigned herself to the fact that her husband was slipping even further away from the family home and opened the only piece of mail addressed to them as husband and wife—the joint bank account statement. Yanking the thick wad of papers that made up the complete statement out of the envelope, she started reading through it, and what she saw sent a chill of fear down her spine. A week and a half ago he’d made a transaction of fifty thousand pounds to an estate agent; he’d put a deposit down on a house.
