Authors: Elizabeth Corley
The police from down south had found his retreat! What should he do? Choices cascaded through his mind; lie low and let the man go, but there were signs of his lunch on the table. He could run, but his motorbike was parked at the back of the house and that idiot was going to stumble on it at any moment. There was still too much in the house and traces that would need to be destroyed if he were to retain his anonymity. If he couldn’t run or hide, he had to eliminate the threat.
The fact that the man was here alone was confusing. He could either be part of an advance search or acting on his own initiative, following up a stray lead. There was no option but to find out. When the policeman moved around the house and out of sight Smith slithered half way down the hill then stood up and crept the final distance. He reached the shade of the eaves in less than half a minute and paused to control his breathing. He could hear footsteps on the shingle path, then the sound of rattling at the locked back door. The policeman was moving casually, not on alert as his shadow detached itself from that of the house and started to turn the corner.
Smith was on him fast, knocking him to the ground with a quick double punch to the jaw and gut. While the man was still struggling to get up Smith grabbed his right arm and twisted it up high behind him until he heard the shoulder creak in protest. He pressed the open knife under the man’s jaw with his left hand, close enough to prick the skin.
‘Who are you?’
‘Knots,’ the man said and swallowed hard so that his Adam’s apple was scratched by the blade.
‘Police?’
The man nodded. Beads of sweat were trickling down the copper’s face onto his hand.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes.’ As if realising his error the man added quickly, ‘but there’ll be others along any moment.’
Smith thought he was lying.
‘Who knows that you’re here?’
‘They all do. They’re expecting me to call in and report.’
The man stank of fear as sweat soaked his body.
‘Really.’ This bumbler of a policeman was thinking quicker now. He’d realised his peril and was improvising rapidly. Smith didn’t believe him but he couldn’t be absolutely sure.
‘I think we’ll wait for them, shall we,’ he said pleasantly, and held the man tighter, causing him to moan with pain from his arm.
Minutes passed. The stench from the man was gross. He could feel sweat soaking his own clothing, making him unclean. He stared at the acne along the man’s hairline and dandruff on his collar. Disgusting.
‘I don’t think they’re coming, do you Knots?’ He kept his tone light, playful, and in truth this was a game. He was starting to have fun. ‘How much longer shall we give them?’
Knot’s eyes were huge, the whites completely surrounded his pupils as he stared desperately for help.
‘Five minutes should be enough. Then I think we shall have to give up on them.’
Knots looked at the watch on his wrist. As the seconds ticked away Smith chatted to him in a conversational tone.
‘In the movies of course, this is the point when the hero comes to the rescue with mere seconds to spare. Do you think that’s what’s going to happen, Mr Knots?’
Knotty sobbed.
‘Now, now, don’t despair. You have, let me see, lift your watch, thank you. Yes, over two minutes left. But in case they don’t arrive, you might just want to pray. Best to be sure, don’t you think?’ He could feel the man start to tremble and he smiled.
‘One minute left. Shall we count down? Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, go on, you do it.’ There was the stink of urine and Smith snorted in disgust. ‘Dear dear, come on, you’re the good guy. You should either defeat me or die bravely whilst trying.’
His laugh was interrupted abruptly. The man reached back with his free hand and tried to grab Smith by the elbow. The blade shot upwards, slicing Knot’s cheek open as he swung away. His right arm was held tight but he ignored the pain and threw his whole body weight forward, trying to break Smith’s grip. He managed to fall to his knees in a crawl, his right arm bent behind him like a broken wing, with Smith hanging on to it in an unshakeable grip. Blood coated Knotty’s jacket but he ignored it and picked up a handful of gravel from the path. He threw it wildly at his assailant but most of it missed. With a cry of rage Smith leapt on his back forcing him onto his chest. No matter how much Knots bucked in an attempt to shake him off Smith clung on tight.
Knotty crawled towards the backdoor steps where he might find shelter but Smith moved with him. In desperation the policeman lurched backwards and rolled on top, finally breaking Smith’s hold. They lay spread-eagled together, arms and legs outflung. Knotty started to rise but Smith was faster. He pulled him back down in a chest-crushing embrace, pinning both his arms to his side.
Terror forced a surge of power into Knotty’s limbs. He burst out of Smith’s bear hug and rolled away, stumbling across the rough grass towards his car. Smith roared like an animal and ran after him. Halfway there, a rugby tackle brought Knotty down to the ground with a thud that drove the air from his body.
Smith lifted the man’s head by his hair and pulled it back to expose the neck. He sliced once, a neat 180° arc that severed carotid and jugular. There was a strange gargling sound and he realised that he had cut the windpipe as well. His sharpened little knife was more practical than he had realised! He sat still, enjoying the shudders between his legs. When they stopped he stood up and took a deep breath.
‘What a fucking mess,’ he said to himself. There was blood everywhere and a dead body to dispose of. He checked his watch, twelve o’clock. He was behind schedule but he couldn’t leave this lot out in the open, no matter how secluded the cottage.
The dead man was heavy but he managed to drag him onto a tarpaulin that he normally used to cover his bike. He added rocks and secured the wrapping with agricultural twine then paused to consider what to do next.
His shirt and trousers were soaked. He went inside and washed and changed quickly, drank a beer because all that work had made him thirsty, and made his decision.
The body would go in the lake along with his other secrets. No one ever looked there, at least they hadn’t in the last ten years, so he couldn’t see why they should start now. Then he would use the man’s car and drive into Telford. With luck, he’d be at her house before two, almost on schedule. His only uncertainty was whether the police, other than the bungling idiot at his feet, knew of this address. He kicked the bundle hard.
‘Did you tell them, or was it your little secret? Nobody’s that stupid but perhaps you,’ he kicked again, ‘were dumb enough to play a hunch.’
He emptied the dregs of his beer over the wrapped body.
‘I think you
were
that stupid. Not like your boss, he’d never have done something so brainless.’
To be on the safe side he took the parcel of cake and the packages he had prepared earlier and put them in the panniers of his bike. Then he wheeled it up the hill, well into the wood, and covered it with bracken and fallen branches. On the way back to the house he scuffed grit and grass to cover his tracks. He put on gloves and loaded the body into the car. If the police found the house, he had all he needed hidden away; if they didn’t he could come back and scrub the place out.
The drive to the lake was uneventful. He passed a family picnicking, who were too absorbed in an argument to notice him, and drove to an isolated spot where the shore shelved deeply to the water. There were windsurfers far away on the horizon but no one closer. With a final look around he reversed the car back as far as caution would allow and dragged the body out into the shallows.
He had forgotten to bring waders so he was soaked to his waist before he let the package go. Bubbles escaped from the wrapping as the body submerged. He watched to make sure it didn’t surface then went back to the car and drove away. The family was still there as he passed. They did not look up.
The radio in the car squawked and crackled, distracting him. He had forgotten that this was a police vehicle and decided to turn into the first car park he came across. Driving the car had become increasingly difficult anyway. Adrenaline had carried him through the disposal of the body and the first miles into Telford but he was starting to shake. It always happened. He was fine on the bike where he wasn’t enclosed. In a car it was different. He daren’t buckle the seatbelt so he wore it loosely over one shoulder, but even so shutting the door brought with it the claustrophobia of a tomb.
Cars were unsafe places. People died in cars, trapped in burning pools of petrol, crushed beneath articulated lorries, drowned in dirty water. He was sweating as he locked the door and resumed the last part of his journey on foot. The steady pounding of his footsteps, the feel of his muscles bunching and relaxing, gradually calmed him. After a hundred counted paces he paused to gain his bearings. Road layouts changed all the time but he thought he recognised a junction ahead. He took off his gloves, conspicuous anyway on a muggy day and unfolded his map from its waterproof container.
Although he was sure that he was being ignored by the passing traffic, he felt conspicuous on the highway and decided to cut across country. In driving part way he had made good time so he could afford to walk the rest.
A quarter of a mile further on there was a turning onto a bridleway that quickly became a footpath. It passed through allotments then a nursery denuded of bedding plants, before returning to countryside. He walked on through small stands of trees, pausing at stiles he remembered from childhood.
A cough from behind him made him start. An elderly couple was walking their dog and he was blocking their way. How long had he been standing there, lost in the past? He patted their dog and smiled at them, his eyes crinkling in a friendly way that made them smile back. It was fun doing that, tricking smiles out of people. If they only knew what he had done, and what he was capable of doing to them right now, they would probably die of twin heart attacks before he could reach them. The thought made him chuckle and they looked back. The old man touched his cap and walked on. He let them shuffle out of sight then followed along the path.
They kept to the footpath ahead of him, forcing him to a slower pace. From time to time he would pause and consult his map. With his hat, rucksack and mud splattered boots he looked a typical rambler. At last they turned aside and he was able to move on. Memories of juvenile explorations, watching, prying, eventually touching, came back to him and his stride grew into the lope he could keep up all day. He felt supremely confident on foot, able to outpace and outdistance most ordinary men. And he knew his way around. Even the air smelled familiar: soil, faint traces of exhaust and a whiff from the municipal tip when the wind changed direction. He was almost there. Telford appeared grey on the horizon. Since he had left the area to work in Birmingham, the town had grown outwards in irregular loops. It would take him less time to reach his destination than he had thought.
‘Diamond?’
Her mother’s voice held the mix of concern and frustration that she’d become accustomed to since her ‘accident’, as her parents had decided to call it. Ginny bit down hard and rolled over in bed.
‘Diamond?’
She was tapping on the door now. Ginny burrowed deeper and ignored her. The hinge creaked open, a sound as old as she was that had once been associated with comfort and cuddles, but since she’d started to count her age with two digits, had signified intrusion and unwelcome interference.
She sensed her mother stiffen at the sight of her room. Clothes everywhere, curtains drawn against the day, old toys thrown around the floor during her last tantrum. There was a pause. She imagined her mother trying to master her irritation and smiled grimly. Good.
‘Oh sweetheart, another bad one?’ The concern in her mother’s voice brought tears to her eyes. She felt about five.
A creak, the floorboard at the end of the bed, and then another and her mother’s weight bowed down the side of the mattress as she sat. A hand found the top of her head and stroked it. Ginny felt the next tears of the day roll down her right cheek and into the pillow.
‘Would you like something to eat, lovely? It’s nearly half past two.’
Ginny shook her head. She hadn’t had any supper and her stomach ached with hunger but the thought of food nauseated her. She hated her body with its curves and bulges that had drawn that man to her. As every day passed and they faded away she became flatter, more like a boy. One day, when she was too ugly for anyone to notice, she hoped to feel safe again.
‘How about some coffee then? I promise not to make it too milky and I won’t add any sugar.’
Her mother knew how she felt without her having told her. It was one of the reasons Ginny could still bear her presence. With everybody else she found it almost impossible to be in the same room, let alone talk. Even her father, whom she knew loved her so much he would do anything for her, even he made her shudder. He was a man – she couldn’t bear to be near men, with their animal smell and thick hands. Her poor dad. She sobbed and her mother lifted her up from the bed into her arms.
‘There, there, little one. It’s all right. Ssh, everything’s going to be OK, give it time.’
‘I can’t bear it, Mum. I just can’t bear it.’ Ginny choked back her words. She hadn’t meant to speak but with her mother there so close it was impossible to stay silent. ‘I dream of him every night. He’s coming to get me, I know he is. I can feel him out there thinking about me.’
It was the same every day. If anything her conviction had grown since the attack. She knew that he wanted her still.
‘I spoke to your dad about this last night, Ginny, and he called the police. They say that he won’t come back but they’re keeping a car outside and increasing the patrols anyway. On Saturday we’re going to go away, just the three of us. Auntie May will look after the others. By the time we come back they are bound to have caught him.’
Ginny shook her head.
‘He’s smart, Mum, really smart. Cleverer than the police. I’m not the first one, you know!’ Her voice was growing shrill, rising on a tide of hysteria.
‘That’s enough, Virginia. Calm down. Come on, I’ll run you a nice bath – you can have some of my Chanel No. 5 bubbles if you like and afterwards I’ll dry your hair.’
Ginny sniffed her sheets. They were stale, like her skin. She hadn’t showered since hospital and she stank, even to her own nose, yet her mum was hugging her as close as if she smelt of roses. Ginny took a deep breath. Mum was right. She should get up and wash this sweat of fear away. Perhaps then she would start to feel more human.
As her mum ran the bath, Ginny found a fresh white T-shirt and khaki jeans. When she pulled back the curtains and saw the drizzle, she added a thin jumper to the pile and walked to the bathroom. It was steamy and warm inside. The smell of her favourite perfume tugged a half smile from her. On the vanity unit her mum had left talc and body lotion in the same fragrance, hoarded since last Christmas and used only on special occasions. Ginny felt tears coming again and blinked them away.
She threw her grubby nightshirt into the laundry bin and stepped into the bath, lowering herself carefully so that the thick layer of foam stayed below the dressing on her shoulder. The deeper bites stung but even so the water was wonderful on her skin, silky and comforting. She sank lower, until the bandage touched the bubbles.
For a long time she just lay there as the water and oils worked their way into her skin, opening and cleansing her pores. As the water started to cool, she scrubbed around her injuries until her skin was pink. Then she washed her hair with great difficulty, shampooing twice and using a conditioner that she actually left on for the full ten minutes.
Feeling shiny and new she stepped out of the bath and watched the scummy water drain away leaving a grubby grey coating on the enamel that made her ashamed. With a start of surprise Ginny realised that she felt better than she had done for days. Her cold had gone and the trace of her last nightmare had left her. Her mother, ever the mind-reader, tapped on the door. Ginny wrapped a towel round herself quickly and opened it.
‘Here’s another coffee. Hungry yet?’
Ginny realised that she was, for the first time in days. She nodded.
‘You know what I
really
fancy?’
Her mother smiled, ‘No, what?’
‘Scrambled eggs on toast and bacon.’
Mum’s face fell. ‘I can do the toast part but your dad ate me out of eggs and bacon last night.’
‘Never mind.’ But Ginny did mind, she felt cheated.
‘Don’t look like that, love. Tell you what, I’ll pop down to the corner shop whilst you get dressed.’
Ginny felt a spurt of fear. That meant she would be alone in the house. She told herself not to be so stupid. Her mother would be gone only a matter of minutes.
‘If you don’t mind?’
‘It’s no trouble. I’ll be back before you know it, then I’ll dry your hair and make us both a late lunch.’
Ginny heard her mother pick up her keys and handbag and close the front door firmly. It was only a small house and she had absorbed the sounds of it from the time she was in her cradle. She unwound the towel and started to rub in the body lotion sparingly, mindful that it was her mother’s favourite.
A loud click made her jump. She listened in absolute silence, frozen with the tube of lotion still in her left hand. The house was quiet, the only sounds the hum from the fridge and the ticking of the immersion heater on the landing. Perhaps it had been that that had startled her, except that it sounded different, exactly like the back door closing.
She let out her breath slowly and put down the lotion, all thoughts of indulgence gone. She became acutely aware of her own nakedness. Her underwear was still in the airing cupboard and she wasn’t about to go out there and find it but she pulled on her jeans anyway, ears straining to catch the slightest noise. All was still. She zipped them up, hardly making a sound. Her T-shirt was next. She pulled it over her head quickly, hating to have her ears covered, even for a second, then held her breath and listened. Nothing.
Her mum had pulled the bathroom door to without actually closing it. Ginny crept forward and put her fingers on the handle. She pulled it open another inch and peered out. As she did so there was a creak from the bottom stair, absolutely unmistakable. Someone was there! Her mouth went dry. Without taking her eyes from the top of the stairs in front of her, she found the bolt on the door and closed her fingers around it, ready to ram it home as soon as she slammed the door shut. Whoever was on the staircase had paused too, they must have done, otherwise she would have seen their head by now as it rounded the turn of the stair. Seconds passed, feeling like minutes.
Suddenly, horribly, he was there, hurtling up the last three steps towards her, a knife in his hand. She screamed and slammed the door shut, yanking the cord from her father’s dressing gown out of the way reflexively as it almost caught in the gap. He slammed his weight into the wood as the bolt went home, yanking the handle in a vain attempt to force it open. He was shouting at her, vile obscene words that filled her mind and made her panic.
Ginny screamed again. How long would the bolt hold? It was a tiny aluminium thing held onto the panel of the door by only two screws. Over the years the missing ones had never been replaced as it had been there for privacy, not security. Until now.
He was ramming the door hard, throwing his weight against it, again and again. The door groaned under the strain and Ginny screamed louder. She looked around, crazy with fear. The window above the sink only opened six inches at the top. She pulled the net curtain to one side and searched for something with which to break the glass. A marbled duck full of pot-pourri stood on the window ledge. Ginny grabbed it and threw it with all her force against the window as the door behind her creaked ominously.
The glass shattered, spraying shards across the small room. She trod on one of them in her bare feet but felt no pain. Grabbing the bath towel she swept the fragments from around the window ledge then wrapped it tightly around her fist to punch out the broken pieces that still held to the frame. Crying now, the sobs flowing into a constant whimper, she climbed up onto the sink, leaving a trail of bright red blood against the white enamel and screamed for help to the street below. It was deserted. The comforting patrol car that had been sitting outside all day was gone and the pavements were empty. There was a loud snapping from the door behind her and the bolt flew off.
He reached her just as she had one leg over the windowsill.
‘Help me! Help me, please!’ she cried to the empty air. His hand closed around her ankle and she kicked back viciously, fighting for her life.
‘No!’ Ginny clung on to the window frame, ignoring the edges of glass that cut into her bare palms.
A delivery van turned the corner of the road as she clung on. She willed it to stop, ignoring the burning pain that had started in her back and along her thighs. He was hitting her now, harder and harder.
‘Help me! Mummy, help me!’
The van drove past and she lost her grip, her bloody fingers slipping over the smooth ceramic surface. She fell back into the room below. There was blood everywhere. It must be hers. They hadn’t been punches. He’d stabbed her in the back. Terror gripped her and she started to fight, kicking at him as hard as she could, despite the growing weakness in her legs.
She felt light-headed. Her screams seemed to be coming from a long way away. He was above her now, trying to undo her jeans. She wriggled but his weight pinned her down. He was
not
going to have her. If she was going to die, and with an eerie clarity she realised that she was, she would not be violated again by this animal.
Hatred gave her strength and brought clarity to her thinking. Shards of glass from the broken window lay on the floor. She found one and gripped it tight. Her arm felt incredibly heavy as she aimed a slicing cut at his exposed neck as he looked down to guide his fingers inside her jeans.
It was a weak blow but it ripped open a long flap of skin along his cheek. He yelled and swore at her. One hand went to his face and she watched as he stared in horror at the sight of his own blood. She slashed again, a laugh of triumph bubbling up from her mouth, sending him mad.
She felt his hands close around her throat as she stabbed at him with the last of her strength. The makeshift dagger sliced into his exposed neck then her arm fell. The last thing she heard before the dark beating of wings inside her head drowned out all other sounds was his long, anguished cry, and she smiled.