She needed to get out.
Chapter 18
Ian Hughes’s hands still gripped the steering wheel, despite the car having been stationary for almost an hour. It was 1.20 p.m. He knew Craig went back to his depot most days between one and two. He’d sat outside and watched him pick up his afternoon deliveries a few times now and each time he had planned on getting him alone. He wanted to speak to him, to tell him what he thought of him. But more than anything he wanted to teach him a lesson. But each time he had bottled it and ended up watching him leave while he thumped the steering wheel in frustration at his own weakness. Craig was a lot bigger than him and no stranger to violence — Ian was sure of that. But Ian had been building up to this. He had anger on his side — fury, in fact. And it had worsened after his last visit to his daughter. He couldn’t even think about the man without his heart racing, his veins flooding with adrenaline, readying him for the fight. Previously he had let him go. The last time he had got as far as following him for the first few deliveries. But then he went home like every other time, promising himself that there would be another chance.
But this was his last chance. Grace was leaving him today. She had told him that. She might already be with the police now and soon they would arrest him. He should go away for a long time. He hoped they would throw the book at him. British justice seemed to come down hard on men who beat up their women. But whatever they did, it wouldn’t be enough and it wouldn’t be him. He wanted to dish out some punishment of his own first and he wanted to look into the bastard’s eyes while he did it.
Ian wore a hooded top with a large pocket running across its front. The pocket was stretched; the brass knuckleduster made a real dent in the material. He’d had it for ages, since he was a kid. Then it was just a prop, something he would show off to his mates. It soon got thrown into a drawer but he never dreamed he would ever use it for its actual purpose. He was not a violent man. His wife had been the fiery one; she’d always said that he was too easy going, that people could walk all over him. But everyone has a breaking point.
A silver VW estate car rolled past. The parcel depot was on the outskirts of Ashford, a large, bleak-looking warehouse with constant comings and goings. He knew the car. He knew it was Craig. It rolled across the front and then turned to go round the back where it would stock up with parcels for the afternoon. He had seen Craig come out with his car so full he would barely be able see out. Today he was only gone ten minutes, and when he reappeared the windows were clear — a quiet day.
Ian had parked his car in a row of others against a chain-link fence that marked the perimeter of the depot. He slunk in his seat a little as the VW moved back across his path, albeit on the other side of the fence. He could see Craig’s face side on: he was looking straight ahead and didn’t seem to be paying attention to what was around him. Ian couldn’t see anyone else in the car. It turned left and came right past him. Ian had borrowed his mate’s car, a dark blue Vauxhall. He didn’t think Craig knew his own car but he wanted to be sure. He couldn’t risk relinquishing the element of surprise.
He pulled out from his parking spot. Numerous car dealership forecourts lined both sides of the road. Craig continued over the roundabout ahead that took him past a McDonald’s and then took a right towards the town centre. Ian was able to hang a few cars back. The traffic was steady. He took one hand off the steering wheel to feel for the brass lump in his hoody. It was still there. Even through the soft material it felt solid and unforgiving. Today, he would need to be the same.
They continued along a two-lane A road past a shopping outlet and left the mainly industrial area to move into a housing estate. The area looked bleak and tired in general, with grey-fronted council houses on both sides. There was just one car for cover in front of him now. He saw Craig’s brake lights through its windows. He backed right off. Craig passed a house with a three-seater sofa rotting in the front garden. This was the last house in the row before a gap where a square of concrete wrapped round a dismal-looking pub. Craig pulled onto the hard standing and parked his car in a bay near to the entrance. A man in a thick jacket and a woollen beanie hat looked up from rolling a cigarette at a wooden table with a shredded umbrella leaning through its middle. He seemed to acknowledge Craig’s car. Ian pulled in, too, but he continued to the furthest end of the car park. There were two cars up on ramps among a few more that looked like someone was storing them for later. Much later. The two cars either side of his had grass and nettles pushing up under their grills. He checked his mirror. Craig was already out of his car and striding into the pub. He looked like he was in a rush.
Ian walked across the car park and the man with the beanie hat looked up. The cigarette was between his lips now and his cheeks sucked in as he lit it.
‘Alright,’ Ian said. He was aware his voice sounded tense. He held his right hand firmly into his front pocket where he had already pushed his fingers through the thick brass. The man offered a nod.
The entrance was via two slim wooden doors that fell back together with a clatter. It was a big place. The bar was directly in front. A woman sat behind it on a stool with a newspaper laid out in front of her. A freshly poured pint was still settling on the bar. The stool beneath it was pulled out, whereas all the others had their feet hooked over an iron rail that ran along the bottom of the bar. Bunched up untidily on top of the bar was the jumper Craig had been wearing moments earlier. The barmaid looked up. There was no other movement, save for the energetic lighting of a fruit machine pushed against the wall on the right. A brown, battered-looking door was just beyond it. It had a sign that read Toilets.
‘What can I get you?’ the woman said. She folded her paper up and pushed it away.
‘I, er . . . I was meeting my mate. I think he just came in here?’ Ian pointed at the newly poured pint.
‘In the loo. Can I get you anything?’ She looked him up and down. He didn’t belong in here and they both knew it.
‘Oh . . . Yeah, I’ll have the same.’ Ian stepped to the bar. His wallet was in his back pocket and he had to take his fingers out of the knuckleduster to get to it. His fingers were so tense it took a few goes. She was busy pouring his drink when he dropped a five-pound note on the bar. He looked over to the toilets and sucked in a breath. He could feel his heart pounding. The rage was still there, but now there was an undercurrent of nervous tension. This was it: what he had been waiting for. He had thought this through enough times: he always planned to go in hard and fast, to get some shots in. He needed to get him down on the floor and then he wouldn’t stop. He pushed his right hand back into his hoody pocket. His fingers found their place in the solid brass. He stepped towards the toilets.
* * *
Grace had been sucking in her breath. She let it out suddenly in a rushed sob. The pain had caused a feeling of nausea so strong that she had leaned over, her mouth trailing over the side of the chair, waiting for the inevitable. It didn’t come. She recovered a little. She had two problems. The pain in her arm was unbearable; it came in waves and each was worse than the last. She couldn’t do much about that. The other issue was her bladder, which felt like it was fit to burst. She was fighting it now and in extreme discomfort. She’d had pain for a couple of months when she went to the toilet. It stemmed from when she had been pregnant. She had confirmed it by a home test and told Craig straight away, hoping it might act as a wakeup call, that it might change the way he treated her. He had been happy at first. It lasted a day. After that, Craig was worse than ever. He beat her — and she was sure he targeted her lower body. Her miscarriage was inevitable, as was his refusal to let her see a doctor. She had somehow made it to the toilet and then she’d sat with her back against the door, sobbing all night. Craig had stayed downstairs. Every now and then she would hear him get up for something, he would pause the television. But he didn’t speak to her. He didn’t say a word all night, even when he had gone to bed, leaving her to spend an uncomfortable night on the toilet floor, too scared to move
.
The next day he’d acted like nothing had happened. He was as nice as she had ever known him to be. He’d taken the day off work and they’d gone for a walk; it was a sunny day. She had struggled a bit at first but it got better. They still hadn’t talked about what happened — certainly not about why. Now, urinating could still be painful, but holding it in was agony. She knew she was going to have to let it go.
She took one last look around the room, desperate for an alternative. There was none. She pushed her right arm into the seat cushion to assist with lifting her hips. It was an immediate sense of relief. Then she balked at the feeling of a soaking warmth and the smell of urine. She had to lower herself back down. She sobbed openly.
She focused on her breathing, concentrating on getting it deep and rhythmic. But though she’d found this to help in the past, it didn’t seem to make a difference today. She had been trying to free her arm for a few hours now. She needed to rest, but she was going to have to try again. She looked down at her arm. It had swollen, noticeably so since she had started. She was getting rougher as she got more desperate. Nothing she tried seemed to work. She couldn’t pull it back, her elbow was against a metal plate and pushing it forward just pinched her skin and worsened the pain. The only way it might move was by wrenching it straight up. She had to be quick and powerful and hope that somehow it came free. There was no point waiting for the pain to die down. It wasn’t going to.
She would do it on the count of three.
Her right hand had developed a shake. She noticed it when she moved it across and pushed it under her left arm. She would lift her left arm and try and push it up with her right at the same time.
‘One . . . two . . .’ She abandoned the attempt with a sob and her body slumped forward: she wasn’t ready; the pain was so bad — she couldn’t imagine how much worse it would get. She looked up at the clock — it was just gone 1 p.m. She still had the luxury of time. She didn’t have to panic just yet. But the sooner she did this the sooner she got free — the sooner she could get something for the pain.
She focused back on her breathing.
‘One . . . two . . . THREE!’ Her last word was screamed, she wrenched upwards with all her strength. Her left arm flexed from the middle of her forearm with a sickening crunch where something gave. It wasn’t the vice, she was still held tight. The pain seemed to consume her whole body and the nausea was back in an instant. She barely had time to turn her head to the right before she was violently ill. Another wave of nausea quickly followed, she couldn’t catch her breath, she wretched again, a little more fluid came out but it was mainly coughing and spitting foul-tasting mucus. Saliva hung from her lips. Finally she could get a breath. She lifted her nightie to wipe her mouth. She dared look at her left arm. Her forearm was now misshapen enough for her to see a raised lump. The pallor of her arm was a shocking white with the exception of the angry red where the dimpled jaws held tight.
She looked away. The sight of her injury and the pain made her feel sick again. She leaned back over the right arm of the chair. Her eyes fell to where her diary was still lying open on the carpet. She gave another whimper. She wanted to give up, to just sit still and try and cope with the pain. But Craig would be finishing at around 4 p.m. He would be home soon after. She couldn’t imagine what he would do. She didn’t want to.
The pain didn’t matter. Somehow she had to make sure she was not sat there when he got home. She summoned as much energy as she could to yell for help. She knew it wouldn’t do any good. Her neighbours worked during the day — most of the road did — but she was desperate, she had to do something.
* * *
Ian pushed open the first door to be presented with a short corridor and two more doors. There was also the distinct smell of public toilets. Both doors were off to the left. The one labelled GENTS was the furthest away. The carpet thinned out the closer he got to the door. He rested his left hand on the handle while his right made a tight fist around the thick brass of his weapon. He pulled open the door.
Craig leant over the sink, fiddling with his face in the mirror. Ian saw Craig’s eyes shift to see who was coming and they made eye contact for a brief second. Craig started to turn. No words were exchanged but he must have read the intent in Ian’s face.
Ian moved forward and swung his right hand with all he had. He was aiming for Craig’s face. Craig was already moving the top half of his body away and Ian wasn’t quite quick enough. The metal grazed something soft then made contact with something firmer. Craig shouted out in pain and surprise. Ian was close enough to see Craig’s head jerk back and blood slither from his nose. He’d hit him! But there wasn’t time to assess his handiwork. Craig recovered quickly, hunkering down and throwing himself forward. His right shoulder caught Ian under the chin, closing his mouth so firmly that he heard as well as felt his own jaws clatter together. Craig’s full weight followed right behind the blow. Ian was lifted off his feet and felt himself falling backwards. His back and head bounced off something hard that then gave behind him. He heard the door smack off the plastered wall and he forced his eyes open to see the corridor he had just walked through — but as a blur. He was sent sprawling onto his back, the wind knocked out of him. Craig landed on top of him and quickly shifted his weight to sit up. Ian felt a strike to his thigh, then another quickly. He was trying to get his breath but no air was coming in. He felt himself grabbed by his hoody, a big bunch of material in a bigger fist. He was dragged to his feet and bundled back through the toilet door. There were more blows to his upper body and to his face. He was starting to feel them through the adrenaline and still he couldn’t breathe. He flailed out with his right hand but his eyes were blurred, he could only make out the white of Craig’s T-shirt. He missed hopelessly.
He was grabbed again. He felt himself shoved through another door and pushed backwards until his legs met something solid and he folded to a sit on a toilet. It was a slim cubicle. There was no real room to swing his arms but it would have been useless anyway: he was still struggling even to breathe. Suddenly he was hit hard in the face, the hardest blow yet. It was with the underside of Craig’s shoe. Ian looked up groggily. Craig had his arms out, anchoring himself against the cubicle walls and he kicked out again. Ian took the blow to his chest this time and was propelled into the solid porcelain of the cistern behind him, which stabbed brutally into his kidney, before taking another hard strike to the face — then another. His blurred vision was now starting to fade altogether.
The blows stopped. He managed to rush a breath in but his stomach felt nauseous.
‘WELL?’ Craig’s face loomed over him. He realised that Craig had been yelling at him for some time. He hadn’t made out any of the words. He felt his head loll as if his neck muscles would only work on one side at a time and he still hadn’t quite got his breath back. He had lost the knuckleduster somewhere. He lifted his right hand to his face. It came away bloody. He had no idea where the blood was from.
‘WHAT THE FUCK?’ Craig shouted.
Ian smiled. He took his time. His whole body was suddenly racked with pain. He knew he was beaten, but it didn’t matter. Not now. He lifted his head. Craig’s face was still blurred round the edges and a blackness seemed to be coming in from all sides as he loomed over him.
Ian’s hands relaxed and fell into his lap; he was resigned to his defeat. He spat to the side, his saliva tinged red as it bubbled on the cubicle wall.
‘You’re a piece of shit, Craig. A bully. Nothing else. Someone had to teach you a lesson . . .’ He sucked in another breath. He could only speak softly and even that took effort.
‘And this is my lesson is it?’ Craig sounded a loud, mocking laugh. Ian reacted to the sound with a flash of anger but he couldn’t even lift his arms, let alone act on it. ‘You’re a sad, pathetic old man and you know what? Your Grace knows it, too. She doesn’t want anything to do with you any more!’
‘You don’t know Grace . . . She’s the one teaching you a lesson,’ Ia
n growled. ‘She’s played you for a fool, Craig!’
‘You think? She does what she’s told when she’s told. It’s taken a while and she’s had to learn the hard way, but now she won’t have a bad word said about me. You reckon you can say the same, old man?’
‘She was right! You really don’t have a clue do you?’ Ian managed to rock forward so that they were closer still. ’Where do you think she went today — right after you left for work?’ He inhaled through his nose. It made a snorting noise. His mouth had a metallic taste, but he still managed to twist it into a grin.
‘What are you talking about?’ Craig was close enough now for Ian to make out something different in those eyes: a flash of doubt maybe?
‘She’s had enough. She’s been building up to it for a long time. I came here today because it was my last chance before they take you away. You’re right. I am a sad, pathetic old man. But you will be too by the time you come out of prison!’ He managed a chuckle.
‘Prison? What are you talking about — prison?’
Ian’s head still lolled a little. He managed to lean back and get some stability from the wall behind. ‘She’s been keeping a diary. My Gracie. She’s written down everything you’ve ever done to her, every finger you laid on her. And if that isn’t enough, she has pictures too! You didn’t know that, did you? She’s got pictures of every cut, every bruise, every little blemish you ever inflicted on my daughter. They’ll be enough to send you down, Craig, I’m right about that, aren’t I? She’s been hiding a diary and a camera right under your nose this whole time, you stupid fuck! Your best bet is to go straight from here to hand yourself in. The police will be looking for you by now, Craig.’
Craig stepped back. His face was red with exertion but it looked to have changed shade. When he leaned back in to speak he spat a little globule of white phlegm.
HE WILL KILL YOU an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist Page 15
