‘Better?’ he said.
‘I’m sure it will be,’ she said. ‘Thank you. For looking after me.’ Another sentence she had been given by Maddie. She had said that the key was to give constant reminders of how people are supposed to treat each other. Craig reacted with a smile this time. He walked back out of the kitchen. He called back as the stairs creaked again. ‘Your bath is ready!’
Grace grimaced as she pushed off the stool. She moved gingerly through the hall. Craig was already up the stairs. The bathroom felt warm and steam hung against the ceiling. The bath was deep-filled with a plume of white bubbles that was taller at the tap end. Craig put the lid down on the toilet and used it as a seat. He looked over at her expectantly — then slapped his palm on his forehead.
‘Oh! Sorry, you need me, don’t you . . .’ He stood up. She was careful to pull her left arm through the sleeve herself, then she lifted the other arm and her side reacted with a twinge. Craig lifted her nightie over her head, leaving her stood in just her knickers. He threw the nightie onto the floor and stepped back.
‘Jesus, Grace! You do bruise easy!’ He expelled air through his nose, like he was forcing a laugh.
There was a mirror above the sink, and Grace was close enough to be able to see most of the way down her body. Her lower back and side were consumed by a dark purple bruise, which changed to a lighter pink around her hips. There were flashes of white too, where she had taken the impact from the sharp edge of the door. Her upper back was a bright red. That was new. She guessed it was from the scalding oven. Her long-sleeved nightie had covered her arm but she took her time to look at it now. She tried not to normally; the only time it was exposed was when she was sitting in her chair and then she couldn’t look at it. She sucked in air quickly to choke off a sob. Her forearm had a kink and its skin was pale, as if it was washed out of all colour. She guessed the blood wasn’t moving through it the way it should. She was pale overall but her arm was worse. There was bruising in a straight line along the bottom of her arm, this was the darkest purple yet. Her thighs, too, were bruised, a dark red that she knew would soon change to purple.
Craig was back sitting on the toilet, side on to her. His eyes roved all over her body but kept returning to her damaged arm. There was no hiding it. He didn’t seem to know what to say, how to look. His attention shifted from her arm to the bruising on her lower back. She had bruises elsewhere. Some were older and yellowing, but still tender to touch — on her shoulders and legs mainly, but she had one in the shape of teeth marks on her breast. That was from around a week before.
‘The bath should be just right,’ he said.
She was still trying not to cry. This was the first time she had seen her body for a long time. It was like if she didn’t look at her injuries, she could forget they were there — they wouldn’t hurt so much. It was ridiculous of course. She bit her bottom lip. Suddenly, sinking into warm water seemed to her like it might be painful. Craig must have sensed her hesitation and he stood up. She pulled her knickers down one-handed and stepped out of them. Craig was still watching her every movement as she turned to the bath. She heard him move behind her. He supported her right arm. He was gentle but she still flinched at his touch.
‘You’re cold!’ she lied. She stepped in. The warm water was soothing on her legs and midriff. She slid in further. Her arm ached a little more as her pulse quickened in the heat, but even that still felt a little better. She flinched when her upper back met the water where her scalded skin reacted, but she forced it under, her neck too. The pain eased quickly and soon she lay right back so that her hair folded in. She couldn’t remember the last time she had washed it. Her eyelids drooped closed. Just her face and her bent knees were out of the water now. When she opened her eyes again Craig loomed above her. He was staring down. She suddenly felt vulnerable, she had forgotten herself. But he was smiling. He didn’t seem to be offering a threat.
‘I’ll leave you to it for a while. I’ll come back in and wash what you can’t, okay?’
‘Okay. Thank you.’ She pushed herself forward to a sitting position and watched him out until he pulled the door to.
It was a good half hour before he returned. In that time, she’d heard a knock at the front door — their grocery delivery. Craig dealt with it. Afterwards, he was as good as his word. He washed her gently and they assessed her arm. She felt able to speak about hospital — maybe going while he was at work the next morning. He didn’t shut her down, he didn’t say anything; he might even have been considering it. He carried her to bed after her bath. He had a fresh nightie and underwear ready for her, then he left her to rest with the television on. An hour later he came up to bed himself. He brought her a hot tea and some more painkillers. She felt sleepy. She would need to get a good sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. Tomorrow she was leaving him. No matter what he had done tonight, she knew him too well: every now and then, when he thought he had gone too far, he could be like this. She had seen his eyes all over her body, lingering on her broken arm, seeing just how much damage he had done. She would milk it. She would take the opportunity to get a good night’s sleep and then he would get up and go to work in the morning.
And then she was leaving. She had to. She had promised her dad and she had promised herself. And everything was set up for tomorrow.
Chapter 14
Frank Dolton pushed through his own front door. Once again he was home long after the sun had set. Today he had given his staff the day off. He had found himself wanting to be alone more and more just recently. His driver had danced the equivalent of a verbal jig when he had called him on the phone to let him know he would drive himself home. Sure he had tried to conceal it, but Frank Dolton was astute enough to know a man punching the air on the other end of a phone when he was talking to him. He couldn’t blame him. Frank was not a man who worked regular hours, meaning his driver couldn’t either. Maybe he deserved a day off.
As did his cook, who didn’t approve when he said that he would just order in takeaway. She was mumsy enough to suggest that he ‘should be eating properly’, but she hadn’t put up much of a fight either. He knew he wasn’t easy to work for. He wasn’t easy to live with either. Hence he was stood in the hallway of a six-bedroomed mansion with no one to talk to but his reflection in the hallway mirror.
He tugged at the skin under his eyes. It stretched until he let it go again and then it crumpled back into puffy bags. He was looking old and tired. And fat. Hell, he was feeling old, tired and fat. He was best left alone when he felt like that.
Once in the kitchen, he threw the keys to the Bentley onto the burnished granite worktop and opened a bottle of Sancerre red, his favourite wine. Before the money, he had been a lager drinker, but he had invested in a wine cellar once it became necessary to host dinner parties for the right people and had discovered a love for red wine quite by accident. Now he savoured the smell of a freshly opened bottle and craved for the warm, muzzy feeling that started towards the end of his first glass. He had never really been able to handle his drink, even now that he was drinking more and more of the stuff. He kept telling himself that he would have a few nights off it altogether, but he certainly wasn’t going to start tonight.
He avoided turning on any of the main lights. They were too harsh and he didn’t see the need. Those hanging from the middle of the vaulted ceiling were decorative at best, bare bulbs with oversized filaments that glowed a copper orange — pretty to look at, but hardly efficient as a light source. He carried his glass back out into the hall. He would watch some television and then get an early night. The hall was darker still, just a lamp on a low table near to where he had come through the front door. His study was to the right of that and emitted its own glow; he must have left a light on. He popped his head round. The glow was a bright white. His computer monitor was facing away from him but it looked like it was the source. He walked in. He dropped into the chair at his desk, put down his wine and scowled at the screen. His home screen was
showing: a photo of him with his arm around one of the pit girls at the Monaco Grand Prix. Sebastian Vettel’s Ferrari was in the background, still wearing the blistered tyres in which he had finished the race. In the middle of the screen, just underneath his smile, was something he had never seen before: a digital clock. And it was counting down.
‘Seventeen hours, forty-three minutes?’ Frank said out loud, his lips turning to deepen his scowl. He looked around the room as if it might hold some explanation as to what the hell was going on. He had never seen a counter on this screen; he didn’t even know his computer had the function. He did some quick maths: 17 hours 43 minutes was 2 p.m. the next day. He considered that maybe it was linked up to the calendar on his email account and he had some important meeting, but he couldn’t think of anything significant.
‘What the hell happens at two p.m.?’ He moved the mouse and the screen flickered. The clock in the bottom right suddenly jumped forward a few hours as if it was a copy of the one newly discovered on his home screen. A symbol appeared next to his email icon: it showed that he had seven new emails. He opened it up; it was where he would find his calendar, too. Most of the messages were expected; things that could be dealt with later. One stood out — from someone called ‘Alexa’.
His blackmailer was back.
He clicked on it. The message was in the same font as the day before. The subject line was One More Thing . . . He read the rest.
Mr Dolton,
I did not receive the money. This will not be good enough. I know more about you than you understand. I know to you one million pounds is nothing. This is what I will need now. This can go away but you will pay one million pound UK sterling. This is what you must do. You already have instructions how.
Twenty-four hours is 2 p.m. tomorrow. This is your time. This countdown is yours. This is more than a video ruining your politics now. I know you. I know your family. Because you did not pay, they are not safe. Do not pay and tomorrow I will demonstrate.
I’m watching you. Speak to the police and I will know.
Alexa
Frank pushed away from the desk and stood up. He moved to the window and pushed aside a heavyweight curtain. He peered out at nothing but his drive and the flanking equidistant lamps that ran off into the distance. He looked back over at the phone on his desk. He considered using it, but who would he call? He didn’t know who these people were or of what they might be capable. He needed time to think. His eyes flicked back to the timer: 17 hours 39 minutes. The seconds were still counting down. His initial panic subsided quickly. He snorted and moved back out into his hallway. He wasn’t about to be taken for a fool by some chancer who reckoned he was a soft touch and was making an idle threat towards his family. He had an elderly mother in a home, a dad who was long dead and a brother he only spoke to if he really had to. There was no way this person knew him at all. If they did, they would have chosen to threaten something he cared about, something that was worth a million pounds to him.
He missed out the living room and went straight upstairs. He would finish his wine in the bath and get an early night. Tomorrow he had another busy day.
He left the computer on. He didn’t know how they had managed to interfere with his screen saver but he didn’t care either. Tomorrow he would dump the thing and start again with a new one. Maybe get some expert to set up his security this time. And he would close down his social media, too. But all that could wait.
The timer continued ticking down in the darkness.
Chapter 15
Thursday
Grace . . . Grace . . . Grace!
It was her name. It was whispered so gently, like her mother had done when she used to have to wake her for school. She turned towards it. She still felt like she was in a haze of warmth. She’d slept better than she had for a very long time. Deep sleep. She couldn’t remember any dreams, or more importantly any nightmares. Even her arm didn’t seem painful. It was as if she was in a little bubble that cold and pain couldn’t puncture. She opened her eyes. Craig stared back. He was smiling.
She breathed in deeply. She tried to say good morning. Her voice fell out in a murmur.
‘I have to go to work,’ he said.
She was suddenly awake, her bubble burst. ‘What time is it? I missed breakfast! There’s no lunch done for you!’
Craig was still smiling. ‘It’s okay,’ he soothed. ‘Don’t worry. You needed your rest.’ All the panic left her just as fast as it had come on. She slipped back to sleepy and warm. His face was softer than that she had seen for quite some time. She stretched her right arm. Her left was across her belly. As she closed her eyes in the stretch, she felt a hand push under her buttocks and another under her shoulders. She was lifted straight up in a strong grip. The sheets fell off her.
‘It’s okay, I can walk,’ she said.
‘I know that. Doesn’t mean I can’t help you down the stairs does it?’ She was moving across the bedroom. He slowed right down and turned to the side for the doorway. She pulled her left arm in and it twinged a little. She would ask for another painkiller before Craig left. They got to the top of the stairs.
‘I need to use the toilet? Don’t worry. You get to work. I can sort myself from here. Thank you for last night — for being so good to me.’ She was still sleepy, her voice still a murmur.
‘I have to go. I don’t have the time for the toilet.’ Craig’s tone had hardened suddenly. It caught her out and snapped her towards wakefulness. He was sideways again, taking her down the stairs.
‘Craig . . .’ she said, ‘where are we going?’
He didn’t reply straight away. At the bottom of the stairs he turned back on himself. He turned again to get her through the door of the living room. He wasn’t so careful this time, and she felt her ankle bang off the wooden surround. As they moved into the room, her eyes fell on the chair. The blanket had been swept off. The vice was on show. She started to wriggle, but felt his grip tighten; it got so tight that it felt like he had a hold of every part of her.
‘Craig, please! I can’t—’
‘You have to. I need you to stay here today.’ He was out of breath, struggling to keep hold of her. She was still wriggling but could only kick out with her legs; everywhere else hurt too much. ‘Grace! Stop it or this will hurt!’
He threw her into the seat. Her injured arm bounced off something. She cried out and he pushed his hand firmly over her mouth. His smile was gone, the softness gone with it. He pushed his face right up close to hers, his lips almost touching the back of his own hand. ‘You sit the fuck down and you stop moving,’ he bawled in her face ‘or I swear you will sit in absolute agony for the rest of your life, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?’ She’d felt some phlegm on her forehead and had slammed her eyes shut. She jerked a nod and he took hold of her left arm. She whimpered. His hand was still pushed tightly over her mouth and it made her breathing louder. Her arm was pulled away from her body. She felt the firmness of the steel underneath. He tugged up the sleeve of her nightie and it caught under her injured bone. She thought she might vomit with the pain, but did her best to breathe in deeply. She felt the first turn of the buttress thread and the rough edges of the plates slid smoothly towards each other, their touch was light and cold with the first turn. She knew the second turn was always the worst: once it was tighter, once the blood was restricted and the nerve endings trapped, it became a little more bearable, but that second turn was the one where she would feel every millimetre of movement.
The second turn came. She screamed into the palm of his hand.
Chapter 16
Grace finally had control of her breathing. Craig had been gone almost an hour. She had spent the time trying to calm herself down. Her panic came in waves. She was calm enough now to start looking around, to start thinking through her options. She couldn’t get her mind clear; she just kept thinking over and over that this was her own fault.
He hadn’t stayed long after he had trapped her in the chair. He never did. He alwa
ys looked at her with the same expression: it was horror, she was sure of it. He didn’t like seeing her in it. She had once considered that he didn’t know how else to control her and that’s what this was; she was convinced of it now. Before he left, he had said that he couldn’t risk her going to the hospital, like she had said she would the previous night. He needed to be sure she wouldn’t go. Talking about it had been a big mistake.
She had tried reasoning with him but he wouldn’t listen. She promised not to go anywhere but he reiterated what he’d said: they wouldn’t understand; they would ask questions and they would call the police. And then he left. She had begged him not to. She knew it was risky, that it could make him angrier, but she was desperate. She couldn’t stay in that chair. Not today of all days. Not today.
Now she could feel every movement through her forearm. It was agony. She knew it would eventually go numb if she could keep it still and bear it for long enough. She would be left with just an ache — she could cope with that.
An hour had passed. There was a clock on the mantelpiece that had a loud tick and chimed on the hour. She scrunched her eyes shut and concentrated on counting the ticking in the hope it might help. The plates gripping either side of her arm still felt cold. She thought about what she had to do. First she would retrieve her diary. She hadn’t written anything for yesterday but that didn’t matter. She would find the time later — that wasn’t her focus. Today was always going to be about leaving. She had built up this day for so long that she couldn’t contemplate anything else. The phone buried in the chair was her way out. She should be able to reach it; she’d managed before from this position when she wanted to get pictures of herself trapped in the chair. But that was earlier on — when her arm was less damaged, less tender and painful. Getting hold of it today would be agony. She knew that, but she had no choice. Today, she didn’t need it for pictures; today, it would secure her freedom. At last, she could be safe.
HE WILL KILL YOU an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist Page 13
