by West, Sam
Glancing at her wristwatch, she saw that she had been lying there for ten minutes. The man next to her groaned, signalling that he was coming round. When he pulled himself into a sitting position, she made no move to attack him.
“Crazy bitch,” he muttered, getting to his feet and staggering away from her, clutching his head.
She let him leave, feeling reasonably safe in the knowledge that no one else would dare approach her.
She was right. Sad bastards that went dogging weren’t the type to use force on a woman. Under normal circumstances, they weren’t the type of men she would’ve gone after.
Lying there on the grass with her legs splayed, she let her thoughts drift. Was the mystery letter writer watching her right now? Yes, she felt sure that he was. And what about Jim? Was he watching her, too?
A fresh lick of shame shuddered through her, but more than that, she was worried for him. Him just being here was placing him in danger. It could anger her stalker – it might incite him to attack. And if she hadn’t ever known that this guy was following her, there was no way that Jim would know.
She knew this, but on a deeper level, she also understood that Jim was on his radar anyway, no matter what. If that psycho has his sights set on Jim, him being here or not probably wouldn’t make much difference.
Or at least, she hoped so. Slowly, the minutes ticked by, and no one came. The half hour passed without further incident and she got to her feet and buttoned her coat.
She smiled at the expanse of trees surrounding her.
I win, motherfucker.
Freya walked the mile home, wondering if her stalker was watching her. She couldn’t feel that anyone was, but then, she no longer trusted her night-time senses as she once had. She wondered where Jim was, if he had even been at the park in the first place.
Half an hour after she had arrived back at her flat, there was a gentle rap at the window. Even without looking she knew who it would be and she pulled the dressing-gown more tightly around her naked body, still damp from the shower.
She opened the front-door to Jim. Wordlessly, she stepped to one side to allow him to pass.
“Are you okay?” he asked when they were safely inside with the doors locked.
“Yeah. Did you see?” she asked, unable to stop her cheeks from flaming.
“Yeah. What you did to that guy was classic.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, despite the fact she was cringing inside.
He couldn’t have seen too much of me, she told herself, it was as dark as hell in that clearing.
Yeah, well, I should say he saw enough, wouldn’t you? another little voice taunted.
Clearing her throat, she went over to the sofa and sat down. “Why are you here, Jim?”
“I thought I’d spend the night. No, no, nothing like that,” he said, when she gave him the look. “I just want to be sure you’re safe, that’s all. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
After a moment’s pause, she nodded, figuring that it was a good idea. It would be safer if Jim stayed here, not just for her, but for him, too.
“Fine. I’ll get you a duvet and a pillow.”
“Come and sit with me a moment,” he said, patting the empty cushion next to him.
Without hesitation she went to him and sat down. Jim reached for her hand and pulled it into his lap. He smelt vaguely of outdoors, like the odour of the city had clung to him, underlined by a slight musky scent that was undeniably masculine. She closed her eyes for a second, made dizzy by his nearness.
They stayed like that for quite some time, just getting used to each other’s physical presence.
He was furious, more so at himself than at her. Freya had breezed through the task; he had underestimated it, and her.
In front of him, Lucy slept. Silently, he crouched down next to her, watching her. She was curled up in a ball on the concrete floor of the basement, her slight body shivering and jerking occasionally like a spastic’s. As beautiful as she was, as sleek as her naked body was under the glare of the fluorescent tube lighting, she was still no Freya.
But she was the one with him now, not Freya. He had taken his pleasure in her body many times over, and undoubtedly he would again before Freya joined them.
And Jim. Let’s not forget about him.
No, tonight had not been a good night. Technically, the fucking bitch had played by the rules, but he wasn’t interested in technicalities. He wanted her humiliated and hurt. By the time he killed her, he wanted her spirit broken.
But somehow, it wasn’t working out that way. This Jim was a fly in the ointment, an unforeseen wild-card; the last thing he had expected was for a romance to develop between the two of them. Jim was a man in love, if ever he saw one. What a stupid cunt. Freya was damaged goods, and he would make Jim see that.
Those cunts think they’re hot shit, fucking with me like that.
No matter. At this precise moment, Jim may be safely cocooned in Freya’s flat, but tomorrow, he had lectures all day. And when the stupid prick went home to get changed and pick up his books, he would snatch him and bring him here. That done, he would put the next part of his plan into action.
He had intended on writing another letter; one of a series of many, the idea being that each task he set would get progressively more depraved; maybe fuck a tramp here, murder a prostitute there…
But now, somehow, his ideas had lost their sheen and he figured he would just cut to the chase. Plans did change, after all. He didn’t feel in control of the situation anymore, and it was time he remedied that. He would speed things up, bring the bitch here, face to face with death. Make her see what she had done to him and his family.
Lucy groaned softly, snapping his attention back to the here and now. Her eyes fluttered open, and when she saw him kneeling next to her, she screamed. It was a pitiful sound, barely making a dent in the air around them, partly because electrical-tape covered her mouth, and partly because she was so weak. He watched her in fascination. She had lost a lot of blood from the foot amputation, and it had been touch and go there for a while with that fever she had developed.
He thought about fucking her, but then dismissed the idea. He really should get some sleep; he had a busy day ahead of him tomorrow.
It wouldn’t be long now. No, not long at all.
CHAPTER NINE
The previous night had taken on a dream-like quality. Her first – and hopefully last – foray into dogging…
And Jim.
Freya smiled.
Was this what like falling in love felt like, she wondered. This sweet sensation of falling, of floating, of being happy. Because there was the crux of the matter – for the first time in her life, that tantalising feeling was there, albeit just out of reach. Despite everything that had happened to her – was still happening to her – life seemed suddenly filled with possibilities. Romantic fantasies had never occurred to her before, not even as a susceptible teen watching the latest rom-com, but now, all that had changed. When she thought of Jim’s face, a smile tugged at her lips as surely as the encroaching tide, and life didn’t seem quite so bleak anymore.
She was only twenty-three; her life had only just begun. It didn’t have to be filled with misery and doom. She fully understood that this was such a simple concept, but it was still one that had never occurred to her until now. In fact, the simplicity of it astounded her.
If one decided to be happy, then did all one really have to do was just choose to be?
Am I in love?
Love.
She turned the word over in her mind, as if testing the weight of it. This alien emotion had also opened the floodgates to other alien emotions, with its sidekicks, Hope and Optimism close on its heels.
Maybe Jim is right. It makes perfect sense that Lucy would drop her flatmate an email if she was too humiliated to contact me or Gary. And as for this mysterious letter-writer, well, it’s just some lousy, cowardly, piece of shit from my past; all threats and no action.
It was a nice thought, even if it didn’t quite ring true.
Then her thoughts drifted back to the events of last night, specifically when Jim had come back to her flat. How they had just sat there in companionable silence for the longest time, and how not once had he made a move on her. After a time she had gone to bed, and when she had awoken in the morning Jim had been gone. He had left a note, which she had read so many times that she knew it off by heart:
I have lectures all day, but I’ll text you later. Stay safe, I’ll be thinking of you. X
Such a simple little note, but one that had gladdened her heart after her dismay at seeing him gone.
Her head clouded with these strange, new emotions, she floated upstairs to the staffroom for her fifteen minute, morning break.
Up in the small, communal kitchen, she discovered Jean at the kitchen table with her back to the door, her head in her hands. She was sobbing quietly, her shoulders hitching uncontrollably.
“Jean?” Freya asked, aghast.
Instantly, the older woman stopped crying. “Oh, hello dear,” she said, her voice fogged with tears. “Is it time to go down already?”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” she asked, instinctively remembering the woman’s kindness from the other day.
“I’m fine, don’t mind me. Best be getting back down, Esther will have a fit if I’m too long up here.”
She smiled, and it was a ghastly sight. The woman’s skin was waxy pale beneath the too-thick layer of too-dark foundation, and her mascara had run. Her blue eyes were bleary and bloodshot behind her glasses. She looked like she hadn’t slept a wink last night.
Freya pulled up a chair next to her and took her hand in hers. “Esther can do one. What’s happened?”
The old woman let out a strangled sob, her hand flying up too late in an attempt to disguise it. “The cancer has come back.”
Freya slumped in her chair. ‘Oh, Jean, I’m so sorry.”
Jean dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
This is what happens, she thought, at the genuine compassion that flooded through her. You let one person in, and then the floodgates are opened. You just can’t stop caring…
“Won’t you come round to dinner tonight? Keep an old lady company? Oh, I’m sorry, forgive me, I should never have asked such a thing. It’s just, I’m so lonely since my husband and daughter passed away. Forget I asked.”
She got up from the chair, visibly trembling.
“I would love to,” Freya found herself replying before she even really knew what she was saying.
“You will? Oh, my dear girl, you don’t know how happy that makes me. Would you like me to pick you up? I know you don’t drive.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Freya replied feeling slightly bewildered.
What the hell did she go and say yes, for? Christ, talk about being taken off-guard.
Stop being so mean, it’s the least you can do.
“Well, next chance you get, write down your address and pop it in my handbag hanging up on the door, and I’ll pick you up at around seven.” The old woman beamed at her. “You don’t know how happy you’ve just made me.”
And then she was gone, leaving Freya wondering what the hell had just happened.
CHAPTER TEN
The day at work had passed without incident. Jim hadn’t been due to make a delivery that day, which was disappointing. Still, his texts had made up for it.
Thinking of you. Have you had any more letters? one had said, swiftly followed by; do you want to meet up tonight?
No letters, and can’t, she had replied, not unless you want to make it a late one. I’m going round to Jean’s tonight for dinner.
Jean? As in old lady Jean from work? Will you be done by ten? I could come round to yours then?
She had replied that yes, that would be lovely.
It was now ten to seven and Freya was standing in her living-room, waiting for Jean to come and pick her up. She was dressed in jeans and a black pullover, feeling a little embarrassed that she didn’t have anything prettier.
I am going to buy only feminine clothes from now on, she decided.
Her attitude had changed so much the past few days, it really was astounding. She was learning to trust again, to let people in, and it wasn’t nearly as frightening as she’d always thought it’d be.
At five to seven she heard a car pull up, and she peeked through the blinds of the bay-window. Jean’s car, a silver Toyota Corolla, was parked up outside her flat, and Freya bounded out before Jean had a chance to ring the doorbell.
“Hello, dear,” Jean said, halfway across the pavement towards her front-door. She hugged her briefly, and her familiar perfume engulfed her. “I hope you like roast lamb.”
“I love roast lamb,” Freya said with a warm smile as she got into the passenger seat.
She noticed that the clothes she wore were not much different from her work uniform – a calf-length, sack-like skirt and a cardigan in a pale, powder-blue shade instead of navy. She even wore her hair in the same style as she did for a work in a loose bun on top of her head.
As they drove, Jean chattered on about this and that, and Freya spoke where appropriate. The strangest feeling of deja-vu washed over her.
It’s because she’s like the mother I never had, she thought wistfully.
They pulled up the driveway of a bungalow on a housing estate on the outskirts of town. It was a quiet area, and almost exactly the type of place that she had envisioned Jean living.
Before them was a garage, but Jean didn’t make any attempt to open it and cut the engine.
“Well, here we are, dear, do come in, I left the meat in the oven on low.”
Freya followed her inside the house. The hallway was sparsely decorated, much more so than she had envisioned. She followed her into the equally barren, medium-sized kitchen.
“Sit, my darling, sit. Would you like a glass of wine? I’ve got the most marvellous Merlot to accompany the lamb.”
“Thank you, that would be lovely,” Freya said, pulling out one of the four, wooden chairs that surrounded the oblong, country-kitchen style, wooden table.
The pale wood chairs were old-fashioned in style, with rounded armrests. She leaned her elbow on the armrest, breathing in the pungent aroma of roasting meat, obviously cooked in copious amounts of garlic and wine. But as delicious as it was, there was a bitter under-tang to it, something vaguely unpleasant.
“Dinner smells delicious,” she said.
“I’ve always been a dab-hand at roasts. Oh, I do so miss the family sitting round the table every Sunday, it was such a ritual. Ever since my boys Mike and Adam emigrated to Australia, I’ve just been so lonely.”
It wasn’t a ritual that Freya had ever known, and when she had been a kid, it had been her number one fantasy. The very idea of a kind, loving family sitting round a table together every Sunday had damn near broken her heart.
That aside, something slightly uncomfortable niggled at the back of her mind. For the life of her, she didn’t recall Jean telling her that her sons had emigrated to Australia. In fact, she’d always thought that Jean had a daughter who had tragically died in a car crash.
I must have got it wrong.
It suddenly occurred to her that she knew nothing about this woman and she vowed to remedy it that night.
The cork in the wine bottle eased out with a resounding pop, making her jump. Still with her back to her, Jean poured out the wine. It made a glug-glugging noise as she poured the wine into two glasses.
That done, she turned round and beamed at Freya. Placing the two glasses on the table, she pulled up a chair and sat down next to her.
“Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against hers.
“Cheers,” Freya said, echoing the sentiment.
She drank deeply from the glass, wincing slightly at the bitter taste. Freya didn’t know much about wine, but Christ, this one was bad. She took another tentative sip, and this time it was slightly better.
Then everything went black.
Freya opened her eyes to the mother of all headaches. She was groggy, confused, and the light pierced her retinas as surely as two needles inserted deep into her eyeballs.
Too bright.
She winced as the ringing in her ears reached a crescendo, then eased off again to that of a distant fire-alarm.
Groaning, she shut them again. Absently, she noted that her mouth felt funny too; kind of tight and numb. Christ, her head was throbbing, what the hell had happened? She felt like she had been hit by a car.
No. Not a car. Jean.
Her mind lurched in terror, balking at the sheer magnitude of the horror she found herself in. The truth danced tantalisingly just out of her grasp, but a large part of her was happy for it to stay there, the fuck away from her.
“Open your eyes, Freya,” said a familiar voice. Jean’s voice.
Except it wasn’t Jean’s voice – not quite. There were similarities, the basic DNA was the same, but this voice was deeper, less raspy.
Not wanting to, but knowing that she had to, she opened her eyes.
It was too much to take in and her head reeled with the sensory overload. Despite her blurred vision, heavy limbs and thumping heart, she attempted to stand, only to find that she couldn’t.
Fresh panic coursed through her when she realised that her wrists and ankles were shackled to the chair. She looked down at herself, in a heartbeat taking in the metal handcuffs that secured her wrists to the armrests and her ankles to the legs of the chair.
“Jean? What’s going on?” she tried to say, but it came out as incomprehensible grunting.
Tape over mouth, she thought in mounting horror. Can’t breathe.
