The Keeper

by Diane Saxon

  She shifted uncomfortably, the pressure in her stomach growing. Glancing down at her injured hand, she studied it for a moment before deciding it hadn’t swollen any more, but it was still being squeezed by the handcuff. She had ceased to feel any pain there at all. She knew she should care, but somehow, she couldn’t summon up the energy.

  She raised her head, tilted it to catch any further noise while she stared at the door. There had to be a garage through there, and the other door must lead into the house. This was the information she needed to help her when she escaped. And she would escape. She needed to be free from her restraints, acknowledged, but right now she had to think positively.

  The familiar scraping sound of a key turning in the lock caught her attention and she squeezed her eyes closed as the internal door swung open.

  ‘Hello, my dear, nice to see you’re awake.’ His myopic stare already peered through thick lenses close to her face as she blinked her eyes open. He blinked back at her, slowly sending a quiver of revulsion to tighten her swollen stomach.

  ‘Toilet.’ Her voice rasped out, barely audible.

  ‘Oh, you need a drink, my dear.’ He raised his hand, stroked her forehead.

  Her stomach clenched. ‘No.’ She virtually squealed through her constricted throat, thrashed her head from side to side to rid herself of his touch and make him understand her desperation.

  Without warning, he fisted a length of her hair, yanked her head up to his. Nose to nose, his flushed face wobbled as small eyes beyond his glasses bored into hers. Pain shot through her scalp as he tugged harder and the clench in her stomach convulsed as his sickly minted breath puffed over her face.

  ‘Don’t…’ He wrenched her head sideways, following her movement so his face was in line with hers. ‘Ever…’ He screwed his fist into her long hair until his knuckles bruised her scalp. ‘Say no…’ He shook her head, bouncing it against the bed until her brain hurt as it rattled against the inside of her skull. ‘To me…’ Spittle flew from his wet lips to spray her face. The tear of her flesh burned as a hank of hair parted from her scalp. ‘Again.’

  She closed her eyes against the fury in his red, flaccid face as tears streamed down her temples. She squeezed out a desperate apology.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I need the toilet.’ But she knew it was already too late. Raw humiliation coursed through her as the quick scald of her own urine spread from between her thighs.

  From his instantaneous stillness, she could tell he knew what she had done.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered again and blinked through the wash of tears.

  His nostrils flared as the stench of ammonia rose. He leaned back to stare at her with barely controlled horror, his mouth pinched tight, his nostrils white with disgust. He narrowed his eyes to stare at her for a full minute before his whole face relaxed and a nauseatingly sympathetic look washed over him again.

  ‘Oh, my dear. I didn’t know you were incontinent.’

  Horrified, she tried to correct him, but his expression sharpened, his fist clenched in a painful twist in her hair to choke the words in her tight throat mid-denial.

  ‘We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?’

  Unravelling her hair, he flicked his fingers until he shook loose the hank he’d torn from her head. His eyes gleamed behind the thick glasses as he watched it fall to the floor. He wiped his fingers against each other, his mouth twisted in a tight line of disgust.

  A flick of horror crossed his face as he ran his gaze down her body and encountered not only the urine stains but, she imagined, the dark crimson of her period as another cramp seized her lower belly and the warm flood of it coated her inner thighs.

  He stumbled to his feet, revulsion creasing the deep grooves around his taut mouth. He dashed towards the door, his voice constricted as he tossed words over his shoulder.

  ‘You dirty bitch. Dirty. Dirty bitch.’

  Nausea burned a hole in the base of her throat and the wild flutter of her pulse pounded in her ears like a gush of torrential rain. He’d wanted to kill her. It had been right there in the manic gleam of his dark eyes.

  She twisted her head to look at the door he’d gone through. She needed to escape. He’d not locked it behind him, but there was nothing she could do about it. She was too well tethered to the cot.

  Exhausted, she rolled her head against the flat pillow, misery seared her as her urine and blood turned cold and clammy across the back of her jeans and down her thighs, soaking through the mattress.

  Humiliation clawed at the anger she held deep inside. How dare he? To treat another human in such a way. When she escaped, and she would escape, she was going to make him pay. Jenna would make him pay.

  She wasn’t a victim. Her body may be held prisoner, but her mind was free.

  Fliss heaved air in through her lungs and brought herself under control. The throbbing pain from her head intensified as adrenaline and blood surged through her and hate blackened her vision.

  The sharp metallic rattle cut through the black haven she’d retreated to, jarring her nerves until she jerked her head up to watch as the man came through the doorway, tugging a stainless-steel medical trolley behind him.

  Dread turned her veins to ice and she could barely breathe through the constriction in her chest as she skimmed her gaze over the contents of the trolley. Long, silver, sharp. Oh, dear God, what was he about to do to her?

  ‘Here you are, my dear. We’ll try this first.’ He raised what could possibly be an incontinence pad for her to see from the second shelf of the trolley. ‘Mary left them behind when she departed. She couldn’t control her bladder either. I’m sure she won’t mind if you need to use them.’

  Memory came in harsh flashes. The body. She’d touched a body. She’d held the woman’s hand in hers while the iciness of it had seared itself in her own flesh.

  Her stomach cramped again as her gaze flew to his and the simpering smile spread across his face.

  ‘Yes, my dear. That was my wife you met. Silly woman obviously had no idea what was best for her.’ His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘She ran. I thought she understood, I thought she’d learnt her lesson.’

  He raised his hand and Fliss forced herself not to flinch, to remain completely still as he stroked her mud-caked hair back from her face, so she had a better view of him.

  ‘You see, she’d been mine for so long. I was her keeper. Then she wanted to leave.’ He smudged his thumb beneath her eyes, stretching the delicate skin there. ‘I couldn’t allow it. We were good together. She was obedient.’ He dug his thumb into Fliss’s cheek, pushed hard until the flesh ground into her teeth, his gaze distant with memory. ‘Until Friday morning when she was no longer obedient.’ He trawled a glance over Fliss as though he’d just remembered she was there. ‘She ran. For no reason I could think of. Ran naked through the woods. She’d rather run naked than stay with me, it seemed. Stupid woman. She slipped and broke her neck. I’d followed, but there was nothing I could do to help. She was already dead.’ He leaned closer. ‘I knew she was safe there. No one could have found her. I had to go to work first, then I brought my car. I walked the high path, so no one would see me.’ He slipped his fingers down her bruised neck and the whimper she let out shamed her as he applied a little pressure, sharp eyes watching her all the time, pleasure flickering through them at her response. ‘And then you came.’ He pressed his thumbs deeper, his wet lips quirked up at the edges while she choked, desperate to pull in air as the tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, down her temples and into her dirty hair.

  ‘Please.’ Shamed, she willed him not to kill her. She wanted to live.

  His smile spread, sweet and condescending, and he replied as though she’d spoken her thoughts out loud. ‘I shan’t. Not yet awhile. Not unless you disappoint me.’ His gaze moved lower to study her neck. He reached out while she lay frozen beneath him, his fingers clasped at the tiny angel at her throat. ‘You’re my angel. Sent to me from heaven to re
place my dear wife.’

  He dipped his head and every nerve ending in Fliss’s body tensed to snapping point as he lowered his face into her neck. He fumbled for a brief moment and came away with the delicate necklace she’d had around her neck. The one Jenna had given her for her eighteenth birthday. The one she’d bought, she said, to protect Fliss. Torn between that and the locket her mother had given her for her twenty-first, Fliss had worn them both ever since.

  He dangled it in front of her face, the silver angel sent tiny sparks of light to dance in the air and give her hope. ‘My angel now.’ He slipped it over his head, and it disappeared as he tucked it into the neck of his jumper, dispelling all hope.

  There was no longer any fear, just a flat well of weariness and despair.

  Fliss closed her eyes and allowed the billowing black clouds to engulf her as the slippery eels of nausea writhed in her stomach. A minute, that’s all she needed to regroup, then she was going to kick his arse for him. Without letting it show, she allowed herself a smile inside. Jenna would approve. She’d tell her to stiffen her spine and not expect to be rescued every time something went wrong. She was responsible for her own fate.

  The sharp tug on the cuff of her jeans had her eyes springing open. The effort to lift her head proved almost impossible, but the distinctive sound of scissors cutting material forced her to strain her aching neck.

  He glanced up, his gaze met hers without him stopping what he was doing, the steady grind of the scissors against the thick material of her jeans grated against her skin. ‘Relax, I’m just going to see to your wounds.’ He smiled and zipped the scissors further up, slicing up the side of the seam to her hips. ‘It’s okay. I know what I’m doing.’ He applied pressure and snipped the waistband with what appeared to be a pair of industrial scissors. She flopped her head back onto the pillow, the effort to keep it up too much. ‘I trained to be a doctor, you know. For a full year. And then a paramedic.’

  Fliss wondered if it was her imagination, but she could have sworn he’d already told her. Perhaps he was proud of the fact that he was a failed doctor. Her head reeled as she attempted to imagine him as anyone’s doctor. He claimed his wife died accidentally, but his dead, hollow eyes had pierced her soul when he’d stared down at her.

  She forced her eyelids open while he moved to the other side of the bed, took the metal trolley with him and started on the other leg of her jeans. As he came to the waistline, he paused, and she turned her head to see what had caught his attention. He clipped the last piece of material and then placed the scissors on the trolley before he rolled his rounded shoulders down so his face was level with the side of the cot.

  He sucked air in through his teeth, made a quiet clucking noise while he took her broken and bruised hand in his as though it was the most precious of china. ‘Oh, my dear, you should have said something earlier.’ The fanatic gleam in his expression shot a visceral pain into her gut. If she could have curled into a protective ball, she would have, but the restraints on her ankles inhibited her from any movement.

  He smoothed soft fingers across the back of her swollen hand and sent shivers of revulsion through her. Currently, she could feel nothing, but he was going to hurt her, the maniacal blackness in his soul told her. He placed her hand on the edge of the bed, patted his pocket and removed a set of keys, the sharp jingle of them knifing through her nerves.

  Surprised at the efficiency with which he unlocked the handcuffs, Fliss studied her hand, a peculiar sense it wasn’t hers distanced her. Blackened to her wrist, the indentation from the cuffs dipped deep into her flesh.

  ‘You must have broken it when you slid down the hill. I never noticed. I’ve been a tad… preoccupied.’ He cupped it in his own pudgy, soft white hands, but as there was no sensation other than a deep throb from the flow of blood in her wrist, Fliss didn’t attempt to remove it. She’d not broken it sliding down the hill, he’d done it when he’d tried to choke the life out of her with the dog lead. She narrowed her gaze to study him while he was preoccupied. If she told him, he’d probably kill her as he seemed to believe fate had intervened to rescue her.

  Sod fate, her own hand and a desperate desire to live had accomplished the task.

  She pushed back the insistent waves of tiredness to watch him closer. With repulsively tender movements, he straightened each of her fingers, using his own to investigate the swelling, palpating her purple flesh. Perhaps he had no intention of hurting her and the manic light in his eyes was because he wanted to care for her in his own twisted way.

  The violent wrench of her hand soon disillusioned her of that notion as she almost shot off the bed while pain more excruciating than she’d known before sent flames licking up her arm. Her entire body spasmed and the scream that emerged from her throat was low and guttural, an animalistic cry for help. A cry no one could hear.

  ‘There, there. I’m just putting it right.’ He gave another sharp yank on the next finger and she pressed herself back on the bed, body arched to repel the pain while she sucked in deep breaths through her open mouth and dug her heels into the thin mattress. ‘It’s okay, just relax.’

  Once more, he twisted her hand; this time the grind of bone against bone had her clamping her jaw closed, desperate whimpers clawing past her damaged throat. Stop. She just needed him to stop.

  ‘It was so very remiss of me not to have tended to this earlier.’

  The black clouds she’d fought so hard against raced in to obscure her vision and block out the pain.

  17

  Saturday 27 October, 19:40 hrs

  Head in hands, Jenna sat on the hard-plastic chair opposite Adrian in Malinsgate Police Station canteen. She’d not eaten since first thing that morning and the vast quantity of coffee she’d consumed earlier had taken its toll. The fine shake in her fingers was evident when she’d picked up her cup a few minutes earlier, almost spilling the black liquid. She thought he’d not noticed, but then caught his expression. If he told her to cut down on the caffeine, she’d probably take his head off, but he remained silent, and then pushed his chair back and disappeared from the room.

  She took advantage of the silence while no one was there and allowed her mind to empty of all thought until he laid his hand on her shoulder. She whipped her head up, prepared to fight if he told her to go home.

  ‘You need to eat.’ He pushed a sandwich towards her.

  She stared at it for a long moment before reaching out. His offering was some kind of speciality bread stuffed full of ham and lettuce. ‘Where the hell did you buy this? There’s nowhere to buy anything here.’ She looked around at the stark whiteness of the room with its basic melamine topped tables and plastic chairs. ‘It’s only somewhere to sit while we eat.’ The days had gone when she could walk in and have a full roast meal, subsidised by the Force.

  ‘I went out earlier when you were in the incident room. I figured you couldn’t get into too much trouble under DI Taylor’s keen eye.’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  She smiled, the brief flicker of pain gave way to the desperate need to eat.

  He slipped into the seat opposite and gave the sandwich another nudge until it touched her elbow and forced her to move. She dipped her head, hesitated just long enough to convince herself she really needed to keep up her strength, then pulled it towards her.

  He picked up his own sandwich, took a bite while he watched her with narrowed eyes as though it was important she eat.

  She took her time to chew and swallow, her appetite gone as soon as it had made itself known, but she forced it down and took another couple of bites before she spoke.

  ‘I thought we would have found her by now.’

  Surprise flickered over his face at her confession, and he leaned in closer, elbows on the white topped table. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She took another bite, forcing it down as it turned to dust in her mouth. She glanced around the mostly empty canteen. ‘I just thought it all had to be a mistake.’ She lai
d down her sandwich to pick up her coffee, took a sip. ‘It was the locket. Seeing that seemed to make it a reality.’ She gave a jerky shrug. ‘I don’t know why, but I understand now why people want to hold on to something personal of the missing person.’ She gave a rapid blink, her mouth pulling down at the corners.

  Wariness flickered over his face and she wondered if he could deal with it if she cried. Whether he’d put a comforting arm around her or run like hell. Now wasn’t the time to test the theory.

  She pulled in a shuddering breath, picked up her sandwich and took another taste of it. He’d almost finished his and he’d had double the amount she had. She struggled just to take each bite. Each nibbling mouthful. To act normal when her world had fallen apart.

  ‘You know, our mum died a few months ago. Back in July.’

  It wasn’t discomfort on his face, but pure sympathy, giving her heart a deep wrench. She should shut her mouth. Stop talking, but somehow, she found she couldn’t. Easier to talk to a stranger than someone she knew; Jenna discovered the emotional tap had turned on.

  ‘It was sudden. So sudden. We had no idea. I’ve never had anyone close to me just die. It was the three of us, always. We’re so close. Were so close. Nothing defeated us. Not Fliss’s unbelievable trait of finding trouble, nothing.’ She broke off a corner of the bread and stared at it, unable to put it in her mouth. ‘When she was gone…’ She flicked a look up at him. ‘Mum, when she was gone, I promised her I’d look after Fliss. She’s my little sister, I’ve always looked after her.’ The sob hitched in the back of her throat and threatened to turn into a wail.

  ‘Hey.’

  Jenna glanced up as Mason shuffled his frame into the small plastic seat next to her and slapped a limp, white plastic breaded sandwich onto the table in front of him.