Behind Closed Doors: The gripping debut thriller everyone is raving about (10 page)

‘W
hat do you mean?’ I asked as I sat on the edge of the bed in our hotel room, wondering why, when he had given me the choice of going to the hospital to see Millie or carrying on to Thailand with him, I had believed, despite everything that had happened since our wedding, that he was still a good man.

‘Exactly what I said—there is no housekeeper.’

I sighed, too tired for his rigmaroles. ‘What is it you want to tell me?’

‘A story. A story about a young boy. Would you like to hear it?’

‘If it means that you’ll let me leave, yes, I’d love to hear it.’

‘Good.’ He drew up the one chair in the room and sat down in front of me.

‘There was once a young boy who lived in a country far, far away from here with his mother and father. When he was very young, the boy feared the strong and powerful father, and loved the mother. But when he saw that the mother was weak and useless and unable to protect him from the father, the boy began to despise her, and rejoiced in the look of terror in her eyes as the father dragged her down to the cellar to be locked in with the rats.

‘The knowledge that the father could instil such terror into another human being turned the boy’s fear of him into admiration and he began to emulate him. Soon, the sound of his mother’s screams coming up through the floorboards became music to his ears, and the smell of her fear the richest perfume. Such was the effect it had on him that he began to crave it, so that when the father left him in charge the boy would take the mother down to the cellar, her pleas for mercy as she begged him not to leave her there only serving to excite him. And afterwards, as he drank in the sound of her fear and breathed in the smell of it, he wished he could keep her there for eternity.

‘One night, when the boy was about thirteen years old, the mother managed to escape from the basement while the father was working outside in the allotment. But the boy knew that if she left, he would never hear the sound of her fear again so he hit her, to stop her from leaving. And when she screamed, he hit her again. And again. And the more she screamed, the more he hit
her and he found he couldn’t stop, even when she fell to the ground. And, as he looked down at her smashed and bloodied face, he thought she had never looked more beautiful.

‘The father, brought by the mother’s screams, arrived and pulled the boy off her. But it was too late, because she was already dead. The father was angry and hit the boy and the boy hit him back. When the police came, the boy told them that his father had killed the mother and that he had tried to protect her. So the father went to prison and the boy was glad.

‘As the boy grew older, he began to crave someone of his own, someone in whom he could instil fear whenever he wanted, however he wanted, someone he could keep hidden away, someone nobody would ever miss. He knew it wouldn’t be easy to find such a person, but he was convinced that if he looked hard enough, he eventually would. And, while he looked, he searched for a way to satisfy his cravings. So do you know what he did?’ I shook my head numbly. ‘He became a lawyer, specialising in cases of domestic violence. And then do you know what he did?’ He leant forward and put his mouth close to my ear. ‘He married you, Grace.’

I found I could hardly breathe. All the time he’d been speaking, I hadn’t wanted to believe he was the boy in the story, but, now, a terrible shaking took hold of me. As the room swam before my eyes, he sat back and stretched his legs out in front of him, a satisfied look on his face. ‘Now, tell me, did you enjoy that story?’

‘No,’ I said, my voice trembling. ‘But I listened to it, so can I go now?’ I made to stand up, but he pushed me back down.

‘I’m afraid not.’

Tears of fright spilled from my eyes. ‘You promised.’

‘Did I?’

‘Please. Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone what you just told me, I promise.’

‘Of course you would.’

I shook my head. ‘No, no, I wouldn’t.’

He was silent for a moment, as if he was considering what I’d said. ‘The thing is, Grace, I can’t let you go because I need you.’ Seeing the fear in my eyes, he crouched down next to me and drew air in through his nose. ‘Perfect,’ he breathed.

There was something about the way he said it that terrified me and I shrank away from him.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said, reaching out and stroking my cheek. ‘That isn’t why you’re here. But let’s get back to the story—so, while I was waiting to find someone all of my own, I cloaked myself in respectability. First, I looked for a perfect name and came up with Angel. I actually considered calling myself Gabriel Angel but I thought it might be going a step too far so I had a little think, did a little investigating, discovered that the good men in films are often called Jack and hey presto! Jack Angel was born. Then I found myself the perfect job.’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘The irony of it never ceases to amaze me—Jack Angel,
defender of battered women. But I also needed a perfect life—when a man gets to forty with no sign of a wife in sight people begin to ask questions—so you can imagine how I felt when I saw you and Millie together in the park, my perfect wife and my …’

‘Never!’ I spat. ‘I will never be your perfect wife. If you think I’m going to stay married to you after what you’ve told me, have your children—’

He burst out laughing, cutting me off. ‘Children! Do you know what the hardest thing I’ve ever done is? It wasn’t killing my mother or seeing my father go off to prison—both those things were easy, a pleasure even. No, the hardest thing I’ve ever done is have sex with you. How could you not have guessed, how could you not have seen through my excuses? How could you not have realised when I did finally have sex with you that I found it an effort, disgusting, unnatural? That’s why I disappeared last night. I knew you’d be expecting me to make love to you—after all, it was our wedding night—and the thought of having to go through with it just to keep up appearances was more than I could bear. So you see, I am not expecting you to have my children. When people begin asking, we will tell them that we are experiencing problems, and after that they will ask no more out of politeness. I need you to be my wife, but in name only. You are not my reward, Grace, Millie is.’

I stared at him. ‘Millie?’

‘Yes, Millie. She fits all my requirements perfectly. In another sixteen months, she’ll be mine and I’ll finally be able to have what I’ve had to deny myself for so long. Nobody, only you, will ever miss her. Not that I intend to kill her—I made that mistake once before.’

I leapt to my feet. ‘Do you honestly think I’ll let you harm a hair on Millie’s head?’

‘If I really wanted to, do you honestly think you’d be able to stop me?’ I ran towards the door. ‘It’s locked,’ he said, sounding bored.

‘Help!’ I yelled, hammering on the door with my fist. ‘Help!’

‘Do that one more time and you’ll never see Millie again!’ he barked. ‘Come back and sit down.’

Beside myself with fear, I carried on hammering on the door, screaming for help.

‘I’m warning you, Grace. Remember what I told you about putting Millie in an asylum? Do you know how easily I can arrange it?’ He snapped his fingers together. ‘This fast.’

I spun round to face him. ‘My parents would never let that happen!’

‘Do you really see them rushing over from their cosy lives in New Zealand to rescue her and take her back to live with them? I think not. There is no one, Grace, no one to save Millie, not even you.’

‘I’m her legal guardian!’ I cried.

‘So am I, and I have the paper to prove it.’

‘I would never agree for her to be put away!’

‘But what if you were also proved to be of unsound mind? As your husband, I would then be responsible for both you and Millie and could do as I wished.’ He indicated the door. ‘Be my guest—carry on banging on the door and screaming for help. It lays the foundation for your madness.’

‘You’re the one who’s mad,’ I hissed.

‘Obviously.’ He stood up, walked over to the bedside table, yanked the phone from its socket, took a penknife from his pocket and cut through the cord. ‘I’m going to give you a little time by yourself to mull over what I’ve said and, when I come back, we’ll talk again. Come and sit on the bed.’

‘No.’

‘Don’t be tiresome.’

‘You’re not keeping me locked up in here!’

He walked over to where I was standing. ‘I don’t want to have to hurt you, for the simple reason that I might not be able to stop. But I will if I have to.’ He raised his arms and, thinking he was going to hit me, I flinched. ‘And if you were to die, where would that leave Millie?’

I felt his hands on my shoulders and went rigid with fear, expecting them to move to my neck. Instead, he manoeuvred me roughly to the bed and pushed me onto it. As relief washed over me that he hadn’t strangled me, that I was still alive, the sound of the door opening spurred me from the bed. But, before I could get there, he slipped through it and, as it closed behind him, I beat my fists against it, calling for him to let me out.
Hearing his footsteps disappearing down the corridor, I yelled for help over and over again. But nobody came and, distraught, I sank to the floor and wept.

It took me a while to pull myself together. I got to my feet and went over to the sliding doors that led onto the balcony, but no matter how hard I tugged on them I couldn’t get them to open. Craning my neck, I looked out over the balcony, but all I could see was blue sky and the roofs of some buildings. Our room was on the sixth floor at the end of a long corridor, which meant there was no neighbouring room on one side. Going over to the other wall, I knocked on it hard several times, but, when there was no corresponding knock back, I guessed that most people were out sightseeing, because it was mid-afternoon.

Needing to do something, I turned my attention to our cases on the bed and began to rummage through them, looking for anything that would help me get out of the room. But there was nothing. Both my tweezers and nail scissors had disappeared. I had no idea how Jack had managed to get them out of my wash bag without me seeing but as it had been in the hold, in my case, I could only presume he had removed them before we left England, probably at the hotel while I’d been in the bathroom. Fresh tears sprang to my eyes at the thought that less than twenty-four hours earlier, I’d been looking forward to starting married life with no inkling of the horror ahead.

Fighting down the panic that threatened to overwhelm me, I forced myself to think rationally about what I could do. Until I heard someone coming back to the room next door, there was little point trying to attract their attention by knocking on the wall. I thought about pushing a note under the door and out into the hall in the hope that someone coming back to a room further down the corridor would see it and be curious enough to come and read it. But my pen had gone from my bag, as had my eye pencils and lipsticks. Jack had pre-empted my every move.

I began to search the room frantically, looking for something—anything—that could help. But there was nothing. Defeated, I sat down on the bed. If I hadn’t been able to hear the sounds of doors opening and closing elsewhere in the hotel, I would have thought it deserted, yet comforting though those sounds were, the sense of disorientation I felt was frightening. I found it hard to believe that what was happening to me was real and it crossed my mind that maybe I was caught up in some warped television show where people were put into terrible situations while the world watched to see how they coped.

For some reason, imagining that I was watching myself on screen, and that millions of people were also watching me, allowed me to take a step back and look at my options objectively. I knew that if I thought about the terrible story Jack had told me I wouldn’t be able to hang on to the relative calm I had managed to achieve.
So, instead, I lay down on the bed and channelled my thoughts towards what I would do when Jack came back, what I would say to him, how I would act. I could feel myself falling asleep and, although I tried to fight it, the next time I opened my eyes it was already dark and I realised I had slept for some time. The noise of the busy nightlife from the streets below told me it was the evening and I got up from the bed and went over to the door.

I don’t know why—maybe because I was still drowsy—but I found myself instinctively turning the handle. When I realised that it turned easily, and that the door wasn’t locked, I was so shocked it took me a while to react. As I stood there, trying to work it out, it dawned on me that I hadn’t actually heard him lock the door. I had simply presumed that he had so I hadn’t tried to open it. Nor, I realised, had he said that he was going to lock me in; I had come to that conclusion all on my own. When I remembered how I had panicked, how I had hammered on the door and knocked on the wall, I felt both stupid and ashamed, imagining Jack laughing as he walked away.

Tears of fury pricked my eyelids. Blinking them back angrily, I reminded myself that as he had my passport and purse, I was still, to all intents and purposes, a prisoner. But at least I could get out of the room.

Opening the door quietly, terrified that I might find Jack standing outside waiting to pounce, I forced myself to look out into the corridor. Finding it empty,
I turned back into the room, found my shoes, retrieved my handbag from the floor and left. As I ran towards the lift, the thought that I might find Jack standing there when the lift doors opened made me decide to take the stairs. I ran down them two at a time, hardly able to believe that I had wasted precious hours thinking I was locked in. When I got to the lobby and found it busy with people, the sense of relief was incredible. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I walked quickly over to the reception desk, where Jack and I had checked in only hours before, glad that my nightmare was over.

‘Good evening, can I help you?’ The young girl behind the desk smiled at me.

‘Yes, please, I would like you to telephone the British Embassy,’ I said, forcing myself to speak calmly. ‘I need to get back to England and I’ve lost my passport and money.’