Authors: Max China
"Martin, what do you think you're doing?" It was the voice of the woman from the cage.
He rounded on her. "H-how did you get out?"
"Never mind that, leave her alone. She's no more than a child!" Eilise floated down from her sweet detachment and opened her eyes. The woman had long dark hair it was bedraggled; her face was without make-up. Her eyes were pretty, but vacant looking, lost and haunted. She had a scar on her upper lip that disfigured her and made it hard for her to speak properly. Eilise began to lose consciousness again.
"You child - how old are you?"
Eilise had to think about it; she'd lied about her age so many times . . ."Fifteen."
"I want her out of here, Martin," the woman was angry. "You can't keep her here."
"After what she's done? No way!"
"And what did she do, Martin?"
"She stole from me and she told me she was eighteen as well. She stays as long as I want her to stay!"
He pulled her up without answering the woman, steering her into another room. He breathed menacingly into her ear. "I'm going to get rid of her soon, and when I do . . ." he brushed himself against her. "This room is yours . . . for now," he said, before shutting the door. She heard him lock it behind her. Eilise looked around, unsteady on her legs.
The interior of the room was spacious enough, but gloomy and windowless, a red bulb hung from the ceiling, the light it produced barely sufficient to see an unmade bed along one wall, a sink, a bucket and little else. She flopped down on the bed. Cold and naked, she found a way into its folds. She passed in and out of dreams that she couldn't remember. Occasionally she thought she heard them violently arguing, sounds like someone thrown onto the floor so hard that the whole upstairs shook and finally, the cries of rough passion that kept her awake her hours. Eilise was terrified he'd kill the woman and then come for her.
She stayed in bed until the last residues of the drug had gone. There was no natural light, and he'd taken her watch; she had no way of knowing how long she'd been unconscious. It felt like morning.
Pacing around in the confines of her cell, she wondered how long she'd be able to keep him off her. There was no way she'd spend her life locked up by a pervert. She had to get away.
Suddenly the door unlocked; he flicked the light on and came in carrying a tray with milk, biscuits and a preloaded syringe on one side.
"Supplies," he said.
After that night, he kept her and the other woman apart, locked in two separate rooms. Eilise tried to speak up as close to the dividing wall as she could, trying to get the woman to talk, but she only succeeded in waking him and getting herself locked into the cage downstairs as a punishment.
"I don't want you to talk to her again. Have you got that? She's a lovely one, and you're not going to spoil that. Do you understand what I'm saying? If you do what she does, you won't go far wrong." Then he added as an afterthought, "She can be your mother; she looked like you when she was younger."
He gave her the creeps, the way he always changed his voice to sound like someone different. When he left, he locked Eilise in the cage downstairs. The other woman never answered when Eilise called out to her; she wondered if she couldn't hear her with all the doors closed.
She sometimes caught a little bit of conversation going on between them, sometimes cries of pain and the muffled sounds of sex, at all different times of the day and night. Although it was clearly an abusive relationship, she could tell that the other woman had no desire to get away.
She wondered if he kept her fed with heroin too. It would explain why she was so dependent on him.
Chapter 54
Eilise lost track of time. Martin had gone off somewhere leaving her locked in the cage. She wrapped her hands around the bars and attempted to shake them.
Solid.
The cupboard door opened, and the woman came in carrying a small tray. Eilise watched her as she pushed a drink through the bars. She kept her gaze down.
"So are you married or what?"
She cocked her head to one side, turned to face Eilise, and said nothing. She pushed two slices of toast between the bars of the cage.
"He's not here, right? So why won't you talk to me?"
The older woman stood upright; her clothing resembled that of another era. Her dress was dark, floral patterned, knee length. Eilise doubted it had ever seen an iron. The cardigan she wore was baggy and beige. It was dirty. She brushed a lock of dark hair streaked with grey strands away from her face. They made eye contact for the first time. Eilise smiled shyly.
The deep vertical scar on the woman's top lip allowed only a tiny crinkle to form in the corner of her mouth.
"Are you afraid of him?" Eilise said.
She sighed, her shoulders drooping with the exhaled air as if she'd deflated. "I'm afraid for
you."
With that, she turned from the cage and shut the door behind her as she left.
With the toast was a small plastic measuring cap, filled to the 15ml mark with what smelled like methadone. Eilise swallowed it; licking the inside of the cap until the sweet taste was no longer present. Wiping her nose on her sleeve, she guessed Martin had been gone for two days. When he came home, he'd give her a proper fix. Her back ached, and her skin crawled, the medication would kick in shortly, taking the worst of it away. She made a silent vow.
When I get out of here, I'm going to kick this habit.
Strawberry had told her it was like having a monkey on your back; she didn't know what he meant when he said it back then, but she did now. Picking up a piece of toast, she forced herself to eat.
Late in the afternoon, the woman returned with another shot and more food and drink.
"I forgot to ask your name," Eilise said. "Will you tell me your name?"
"If he knew you'd been talking, and I talked back . . ."
"I won't tell him," Eilise promised.
"He'll ask when he gets back, and if he thinks I'm lying . . . I don't want him to hurt you."
"Then let me go."
"I can't, we're locked in."
"He keeps you prisoner too?"
"My name is Cathy," she raised her jaw defiantly, "and I don't want to go out. I have everything I need here," she clipped each word for emphasis.
Eilise watched her mouth as she spoke. Her scarred top lip formed an inverted 'V', where it met with her lower one, the result of poor stitching she imagined, and guessed she must have had an accident when she was younger, must have fallen. A fall like that would have smashed her teeth in. It was probably why she spoke the way she did.
"When's he coming back, Cath?"
"Could be tonight, could be tomorrow, Eliza." She appeared pleased she'd spoken her name.
"Cath, it's Eilise, not Eliza," the older woman nodded and then left.
Eilise did not take her medicine.
She heard Martin when he came in late that night; he ignored her, going straight upstairs to Cathy. The two of them murmured almost inaudibly for a few minutes. Cathy's voice seemed to be attempting persuasion.
Martin spoke louder than before, "How did you know that?"
Cathy didn't reply.
Martin then raised his voice, demanding an answer.
"How did you know her name was
Eilise?
" There was a dread silence and then an accusation. "You've been talking to her, haven't you!"
Eilise agonised as she heard Cathy's muffled protests and the sounds of a furious struggle, followed by a cry of pain, then deathly quiet.
Eilise listened intently. She couldn't hear a sound.
The door opened, sending in a shaft of light, casting his shadow across the floor.
Martin stood there with blood on his hands and murder in his eyes.
Chapter 55
"I told you not to talk to her. This is your fault!" Martin stomped out and thundered up the stairs. Eilise strained to hear what was happening. He crossed the room above three times in quick succession. Then she heard a sound that made her heart sink. It was the sound of something heavy. A dead weight dragged across the floor.
He'd killed her! Surely, she'd be next.
She looked around her cell, desperately searching for a weapon; there wasn't a single thing that would trouble him if she hit him with it. He was going to kill her, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it. Unless she could convince him, she was worth keeping.
She'd lost all her dignity years before. If she got through this, she might be able to buy herself the chance to escape later.
She stripped naked, sank onto the bed and waited for him.
An hour later, he still had not come for her. She was cold and pulled the covers over her. The stress had given her a dull headache. She wanted some scag; she wanted some sleep, and she wanted her nightmare to end. She prayed. Hovering on the brink of consciousness, about to sleep for the first time in weeks unaided by drugs, she thought she'd heard a woman cry. She sat up, listening. Then she heard Martin's voice talking, low and smooth.
She was alive!
The welcome sound of Cathy's sobbing continued for a full five minutes while he tried to soothe her. Soon all was quiet again.
She lay back down and drew her knees into her chest. She heard the tell tale stair creak. Eilise kept herself covered. Martin opened the door.
"You almost killed her . . . what you did." Words formed in her head, but she dared not speak them.
He pulled the keys from his pocket and unlocked the cage. "I've got business to attend to. I need you to look after Cathy, or she'll die. You owe her."
"What's wrong with her?"
He shrugged. "She took a beating, went too far . . ."
"You should call a doctor . . ."
"She's a tough one; she'll be all right," he said, ignoring her advice. "You can't get out, don't bother trying. Oh, and the place is soundproofed, so don't waste your breath shouting. When I come back, she'd better be alive . . ."
He's mental;
she thought.
He walked out down the corridor. She heard the door slam, the deadbolts turning.
She slipped her T-shirt on and made her way upstairs. The stair creaked. "I'm coming Cath," she said, quietly.
Eilise found her propped in bed; her eyes welled up at the sight of her. Her breathing was shallow; although she was breathing through her mouth, a tiny mucous bubble of blood inflated in her left nostril with every exhalation. She looked in a bad way. How a man could do that to a woman, was beyond her. Eilise decided to let her sleep. She lay on the bed next to her, listening out for her laboured breathing, afraid in case it should stop.
It was almost midnight, when Cathy wet the bed.
Oh, great!
Martin was gone for days; she nursed Cathy back to health as best she could. She was still reluctant to talk about him, and she wouldn't hear a word said against him. He was right about them not getting out. Without tools, there was no way. Eilise wondered what would happen to them if something happened to
him.
Chapter 56
The caller studied his face in the car's rear-view mirror; he had his father's bony eye sockets, hammered out of shape by many fights, a nose broken so many times it resembled a chimney rock formation. The flinty eyes and bullet head came from his father too, but he had his mother's mouth, fleshy mashed up lips and teeth that whilst even and white, grew inwards and backwards, like a shark's. Few people settled their eyes on him for long. He always got a feeling if someone was looking at him, and he'd often swing around and catch them. Most times, once he'd glared at them, they would turn away.
There was something feral and animalistic about him, something familiar too, like a photo fit, where the top doesn't quite match the bottom. Sometimes, when he was in a mirror gazing mood, he wondered if he'd become what he was because of what he looked like.
Without the benefit of a formal education, he more than made up for it with cunning and deviousness, and a sharp intelligence that belied his appearance. Able to imitate voices, he experimented with speaking in different ways; he could sound posh and well educated and as rough and unintelligible as a raging drunk. On top of that, he was also a master of disguise, frequently changing his appearance, especially after significant events in his life. The disguises were something his father had taught him.
Never stay the same…
He used them to cover another genetic trait he shared with his father, for which he hated him.
As Midnight, he would wear glasses, wigs, beards, moustaches, skin tan lotions. The clothes he wore ranged from lumberjack work shirts through to business suits. Every job he carried out, he engineered with scenes of crime in mind; he knew what they'd be looking for. Unless he wanted to plant something, he left no clues. During his years on the road, he learned to read, and it helped him make sense of the paperwork he would find at people's houses. In an attempt to control his urges, he applied disciplines that diverted his interests elsewhere.