Authors: C.J. Johnson
A hollow ache swept through her as she thought of James and Nicole. She missed them so much. Looking back, she couldn't believe she'd done what she did; threatening them and confessing.
But she'd been so filled with anger. Nicole fussed over her constantly. Ringing her every time she left the house and asking where she was, who she was with, what time she'd be back. It was like living back home with her parents'.
There was no release from Nicole's smothering concern, but the worst was the pity. Nicole felt so sorry for her, and every day Cheryl held back the urge to reach out and slap Nicole so she could turn that pity on herself instead of pouring it over Cheryl.
And the nights were worse. She couldn't escape the nightmares. Dave stalked her every night without fail for months after she killed him. A part of Cheryl's mind, the part that was exhausted and enraged, began to wonder if he was a ghost.
She had tried to dismiss the thought, then remembered a film she'd seen that was supposedly based on a true story. A woman was the victim of a vicious sexual assault on a regular basis—from a ghost. If they had that power, then why wouldn't Dave haunt her after what she'd done?
So, Cheryl had started to drink. She had been drunk and angry the night she turned on James and Nicole. She remembered parts of the conversation, and the terrible things she'd said.
My God
, Cheryl thought,
I threatened to kill them.
Tears misted Cheryl's eyes. To this day, no-one had cared for her as James and Nicole had.
I'm alone—again.
Her guilt, or whatever she had been feeling over James and Nicole disappeared, replaced only by sorrow for herself. She stood and tiptoes her way out of the master bedroom and into the bathroom.
After splashing some cold weather on her face, she turned and studied herself in the full-length mirror.
I'm young enough to start again
, she told herself.
A jolt ran through her.
That's what I'll do. I'll move away and start over!
Excited by her plan, Cheryl rushed into the bedroom once again and stepped carefully around the worst of the glass. She pulled open the top drawer of her bedside table and rummaged around inside. She located her passport nestled in between some papers and pulled it out.
I'll go abroad
, she thought.
I'll sell the house and get the £10,000 Harold offered and I'll go to live abroad.
Cheryl smiled. Sun, sea and sand.
I can set up my own nails business, change my name.
She rushed downstairs and into the kitchen, intending to pour herself a glass of wine to celebrate her plans, when she heard her mobile ringing.
Harold? Maybe he was sorry, maybe he wanted to work it out.
Cheryl rushed into the hallway then paused, listening and trying to tag the location of her ringing mobile.
The living room.
She rushed to retrieve it before it could stop ringing. It was in her handbag on the living room floor, exactly where she'd dropped when Harold had walked out.
Cheryl dug the phone out eagerly, then frowned at the screen.
Unknown number.
Sarah again? Or him?
Deciding she could deal with either of them considering the mood she was in, she answered with a harsh "hello."
"I noticed the hubby leaving earlier with a suitcase. Having a little lovers' spat, are we?"
It was him. Cheryl's stomach recoiled when she thought of some of the conversations she'd had with this man. Not to mention the pictures she had sent him.
"Finished your tantrum in the bedroom, have you?" he asked, his tone making Cheryl think of a parent scolding a child. Cheryl said nothing. "I see you're now in the living room. Not thinking of trashing that too, are you?"
Cheryl gasped and looked out of the large bay windows. No-one was pressed up against it, so she walked slowly over, the phone still to her ear and looked out. She saw only houses, trees and cars; and darkness.
"Peek-a-boo, I see you," the man teased. Cheryl grabbed the curtains and tugged them together, shutting herself away from the man's gaze.
"Party pooper," he said as Cheryl backed up and sat down on the sofa. "So, what's up with hubby then? See some pictures of you that he didn't like?"
"It was you," Cheryl muttered, anger replacing her fear. "You followed me around and took the pictures. You showed them to Harold."
"You think so? Maybe you're right. So, you're single and ready to mingle. Fancy a date sometime?"
"What? You're asking me out?"
"I still have those delicious pictures you sent to me. I wouldn't mind seeing it in the flesh, touching it, tasting it."
Though afraid and reeling from the sudden chaos that had gripped her life, the unknown man's words sent a tremor of lust through Cheryl.
"Did you do this to get my husband out of the way, so you could have me?"
The man laughed nastily. "Maybe. What if I told you I'm on your doorstep right now. Would you let me in?"
"This is really strange," Cheryl muttered. "I'm flattered, but, I don't even know who you are."
"But that's the thrill for you, isn't it Cheryl. Knowing that I'm watching you, wanting you. Knowing there is one who adores you, needs to touch you and hold as he makes love to you well into the early hours of the morning."
His words had taken Cheryl's breath away. He was right, it was a thrill.
Forget the thrill,
thought Cheryl.
It's a fucking turn on.
Her body tingled in spite of her fear as visions of this man filled her mind.
He'll be tall, dark and very handsome. And he'll have money. He'll sweep me off my feet and love me for the rest of my life.
"I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Cheryl. I feel like I know you so well."
"Really," Cheryl whispered. "What do you know about me?"
"I know you're beautiful and that you want a man to love you, devote himself to you, and you only. I know that you feel alone, misunderstood and that you crave security." Cheryl nodded, even though he couldn't see her. She was sinking into his voice, soft and sensitive as he described as well as if he'd known her all her life.
"I know that you're feeling adrift right now, like there's no-one that you can trust. I know you're wondering what to do with your life now, where to turn. And I know that you're a murderer."
Cheryl startled and frowned, sure that she hadn't heard that last part right.
"What did you say?"
"I said I know you're feeling adrift right now, like there's no-one—"
"No. After all that."
"Oh, you mean the murderer part. Yes, I know you're a murderer. You killed your first husband, burnt him alive because he was cheating on you. And now, you have a choice."
"I don't understand," Cheryl murmured. She was almost positive at this point that she was having a nightmare. Because, if she wasn't, then this man knew she was a killer. An image of Dave, burnt and grinning as he reached for her filled her mind and she shuddered.
"Let me explain it to you then." The man's voice was no longer sexy, it sounded harsh, cruel and laced with malice. "The choice is Cheryl, who dies? You, or Harold?"
"Leave me alone. I'm calling the police."
"I'm already in your house, Cheryl. The purple throw you have here on the guest bed is a little girly for my taste, but it is lovely and soft to the touch. Hang up and I'll kill you in two seconds flat. I can see the front door from here on the landing, you're in the living room. I could chase you down and hack you to pieces before you even reach the front door. But I won't kill you outright, no, I'll simply disable you, go for one of your legs to bring you down. Then I'll kill you slow, real slow. Get the picture?"
His words tumbled through Cheryl's terrified mind. There
was
a soft-touch purple throw in the spare bedroom, resting on the guest bed, the bed Harold had been sleeping on to avoid being near her.
You
could
see the front door from the top of the landing. He knew she was in the living room. He was standing there, right now, watching for any sign of movement from her, any movement that would indicate an attempted escape.
Cheryl jumped up and slammed the living room door shut, feeling slightly safer with an obstacle between herself and the unknown intruder.
The man laughed loudly and Cheryl cried out, gasping as his voice came through the phone clutched to her ear, and through the door.
He was, without any doubt, inside the house.
"Do you think that will keep me out, Cheryl?"
"What do you want?" Cheryl asked, sobbing and gasping in terror.
"For you to make a choice. You, or Harold."
"I don't understand. Me or Harold..."
"You or Harold...to die. If you choose Harold, he will die any way you choose, get rid of him any way you want. If you sacrifice yourself to save him, I will kill you. And I will pick how you die. You took your first husband's life with fire, I think it's only fair for you to go the same way."
Cheryl sobbed in terror, her chest restricting in fear and she gagged.
"I can't imagine burning alive is very pleasant," the man continued, his voice still coming through the phone and the closed door. "but you were somewhat merciful in that you lit the match and let the fire completely devour him immediately. I will not be so merciful. I will burn you one limb at a time. I will douse the fire, and treat your wound before moving to the next limb. When I've burnt all limbs' I will start over again until there's nothing left except ashes. Then I'll light the fire on your chest, I'll set your hair on fire, I'll shove a flaming rag in your mouth to muffle your screams. You'll beg before death long before I allow death to come for you."
Cheryl gagged and pleaded, terror gripping her completely and squeezing her chest so tightly she worried she would drop dead right there.
"So who will it be, Cheryl?" the man asked smoothly, his tone of voice lilting and sweet, as if he was talking to a small child, not a terrified woman he had just threatened to torture to death. "Will you sacrifice Harold to save yourself, or will you offer yourself in his place."
"Harold," Cheryl gasped, not even needing to thing about it. "Please, leave me alone."
"Say it, Cheryl. I want to hear you say the words."
"Kill Harold," Cheryl whimpered. "Kill him. Leave me alone."
"Here's what we're gonna do. Tomorrow morning, you will withdraw £2000 from your account; your account, Cheryl, not the shared account with Harold. That's if he hasn't frozen you off that one already. You must leave your house at 9am and not return until you have seen Peters."
"Who is Peters—"
"Do not interrupt me again!"
Cheryl gasped at the enraged shout and bit her lip.
"Remember Cheryl, this is your life at stake. If anything goes wrong tomorrow because you didn't listen to your instructions, I will come for you. Understand?"
"Yes," Cheryl replied pitifully.
"Okay. As I was saying: You will leave the house tomorrow at 9am and you will go to the bank immediately and withdraw £2000 from your account. You must not come back to the house before you have met with Peters, and you will meet him at 11.30am outside the derelict building near willow primary school. He will be parked in a red car and wearing a black baseball cap. He's a hitman, Cheryl. The £2000 is a down payment for the murder of your husband. You can discuss how Harold dies with Peters; as I said, that decision is yours. If you do not attend this meeting, I will assume that you have changed your mind and will offer yourself instead of your husband. Then, I will come for you. And don't think you can run, because I'm watching you."
"How do I know that you're not Peters?" Cheryl asked quietly, more afraid that she had ever been in her life.
"You don't. Now, I'll be going. Remember Cheryl, don't even think of trying to run away. And you had better be convincing for Peters tomorrow too. He's a hired killer; if he thinks you're not sure or that you're weak in any way, he won't go through with the deal. And that, Cheryl, would be very bad for you. I'll be watching you. And don't forget to stay away from your house until after you've seen Peters. You may just bump into Harold if he comes by for more of his belongings, he can't suspect anything."
The line disconnected and Cheryl dropped her phone. Crying, she heard footsteps on the landing, then knocking as the man rapped a tune on the banister with what sounded like his knuckles. She held her breath in terror, the absurdity of the situation making her weak at the knee.
The intruder reached the bottom of the stairs and began to whistle as he made his way along the hallway, pausing outside the door that Cheryl was slumped against.
She cried out, pleading when the door handle began to turn, slowly, so very slowly.
Having taken so many shocks in such a short space of time, fear finally gripped her completely.
She passed out.
Chapter Twenty Eight
"Okay,
Ste.
Keep me informed."
Mike hung up and sighed. The search of Alex's flat had uncovered pictures of an unknown female, taken apparently without the woman's knowledge.
An attractive blond, who didn't give the impression of a working girl, was pictured as she left a supermarket, walking along a street, climbing into a red car. The most worrisome for the team had been a picture of a woman leaving a flat, maybe her own.
So, Alex had known where she lived.
The pictures were being sent to an expert who could blow them up and sharpen the focus. Hopefully, they would then find out the address and track down the woman.
The good news in their favour, Ste had said, was that they hadn't found any pictures of the stunning blond dead, as they had with Laura Melling.
A young female officer, new to the force, had taken a bad turn when looking through the photographs that depicted Laura Melling, alive and pleading, and dead.
Mike hoped the blond woman wasn't a victim of Alex, just simply a woman he had stalked but had left physically unharmed.