Authors: Max China
And then Eilise described what had happened to her.
"You should get the police, Mum," Tina said.
"The police would have got the other two girls out of there," Jackie said. "If I call them now—"
"If you do that I'm going right now."
Jackie could see she meant it. "Don't worry, Eilise, we'll work something out in the morning, I promise."
Later, while Eilise changed for bed, Tina asked, "What will happen to her, Mum?"
"For now, she'll stay with us. In the morning - well, we'll just have to see." Jackie cocked her head at her younger daughter, suddenly thoughtful. "Tina, you don't mind if Eilise shares your room? It's just I wouldn't want her sneaking off in the night … she's a runaway you see and—"
"That's okay, Mum; I'll keep an eye on her."
Jackie couldn't quite believe how well it had gone. The pills she'd popped an hour ago were dragging her into sleep. She pressed the fob to set the alarm. The activation light flashed. She cleaned her teeth, listening over the sound of the electric toothbrush for the beep to confirm the alarm had set.
Now what's wrong with this?
The power in the toothbrush ran out. She padded heavy-eyed, to the spare room to place it on charge.
In her room at last, she turned out the light and closed her eyes.
They've seen you; they know who you are.
The game had turned against him, yet he was unafraid. Strange, but this new turn of events excited him in a way he'd not experienced in years.
Whether Eliza had come here or not, he decided he was going to have her mother. He calculated his chances; after what happened earlier, no one would expect him to turn up here and with Kennedy in hiding, not answering his phone, it was the perfect opportunity to fit him up one more time before exposing him.
There was no time to plan fully; his observations covered only a matter of hours. He noted the alarm was an old type, easily nobbled by a burglar of his ability and there was no sign of man or dog. He'd seen the mother when the young girl pulled up in a taxi. With all the curtains drawn, he couldn't see anything going on inside. Snippets of muffled conversation found their way into his ears, but he couldn't make out the words. Then he heard the singing. Rich and soulful, it had to be the mother.
Sing for me baby.
He'd overcome them all, one by one with the gas. They wouldn't know a thing until later, and by then he'd be long gone. He'd make up his mind about taking the girl back to another safe house later.
Shouldn't have ignored me, Kennedy.
He went to fetch his equipment.
In the back garden, he finished his final cigarette and changed into his suit. Moving quickly with barely a sound, he masked up and struck a small windowpane with his elbow. The way he was hyped-up, he felt he would hear a pin drop, or feel the air pressure change if a door opened.
He felt supreme, superhuman.
Jackie often awoke with a start, sitting upright, not quite sure where she was. Despite the passing of time, the dreams still occurred with unpredictable frequency. Anything could spark them off. Sometimes, she knew it was because she'd seen a news report or a headline, or watched a film, but whatever it was, it was always the same. She'd wake up choking and gasping for air after he'd throttled her in yet another nightmare.
Tonight was different. Something woke her before she'd reached the end. The last vestiges of a sound replayed in her consciousness.
What was that? It sounded as if someone had popped a paper bag.
The noise came from downstairs.
She reassured herself. The house alarm would have sounded.
It's nothing. Silent trepidation stretched on like the space between lightning and thunder - waiting for the rumble that confirmed it was far away.
Once inside, the intruder eased his way up the stairs; a tread groaned as he put weight onto it. He froze and listened for any sign that the movement had been detected above him. Easing his foot from the step, he continued his ascent.
Jackie lifted her head she thought she'd heard the stair tread complain. It was the step. She knew it. Knew
exactly
which one it was. The girls were in bed, so how?
When the toothbrush had run out of charge, and I'd…
A feeling of dread came over her.
The alarm! I never heard it beep when I set it.
"Oh
no . . ."
she whispered, on the edge of panic. "There's someone down there!"
Frantically, she started fumbling to open the bottom drawer, searching inside for her panic alarm, and the knife she kept in there. She knocked the table lamp over and caught it, but not before the base rocked loudly against the tabletop.
The intruder, almost at the top, hesitated.
Someone's moving around!
Accelerating up the remaining stairs two at a time, he turned as he reached the landing; with eyes acclimatised to the darkness, he spotted a door handle turning. He moved up right outside and pressed himself flat against the wall.
Jackie opened the bedroom door.
He swung into view, startling her.
The Gasman!
She fell backwards over her own feet in her haste to get away, stunned by how quickly he'd got to her room. She struggled up into a sitting position, trying to catch her breath. She gasped in terror when she saw him in the light of her bedroom.
Then he was on her.
"Oh, n--mmph!" A huge hand clamped over her mouth.
"Is she here?" The voice was low, distorted by the mask. Her situation and the menace he managed to inject into just three words left her wide-eyed with fear. She shook her head at the question, desperate to protect Tina . . . and Eilise.
He pushed himself closer. The cold perspex touched her face. "I'll kill you if you're lying!"
She could smell his smoker's breath, even through the mask. A wave of revulsion washed over her, quickly overtaken by terror. She was about to be raped and murdered. The ordeal she'd endured years ago came back in an instant, crippling her limbs; she couldn't move. Jackie - the girl who vowed never to be a victim again, the girl who'd decked a soldier once – had gone to pieces, her muscles turned to jelly.
Her vulnerability excited him; he was too far gone to turn back now. He forgot about gassing her, there was only one thing on his mind.
His breathing ragged and amplified by the mask, he squatted next to her and parting her knees easily, ran a latex gloved hand up the inside of her thigh, hooking a finger into the crotch of her panties; she gagged dryly - a double retch.
Of all his victims, only one other had reacted that way. His mind accelerated back in time. He pushed her hair back with his free hand, scrutinising her closely.
It was her! Older, plumper, but her
. . .
The one that got away. The Cornwall Girl!
His penis stiffened as blood surged into it, throbbing in anticipation.
Jackie caught a movement in the corner of her eye.
Was it one of the girls?
She fixed her stare on the masked face holding his attention. He stared back with an all-consuming intensity and ripped off her knickers.
"Do-not-touch-me!" she shouted, no longer worried about waking the girls, the words empowered her limbs; she struggled wildly as his weight pressed down on her.
He ignored her efforts to fight back, overpowering her with ease. Only one thing was on his mind, as a cat fixed on its prey; nothing could distract him.
The Gasman pinned her to the floor. He wrestled himself into a position where he could easily control her with an arm barred across her neck. Her flailing hands didn't bother him. He didn't even care about the noise now. His free hand unbuckled his belt and started down his fly.
Jackie's eyes bulged as she strained against choking; her voice sounded strangulated, but the words were clear. "For God's sake get it over with!"
Behind the mask, the man sneered.
An explosion went off inside his head.
"Leave – my – mum – alone!"
The girl's voice… What the…! She'd hit him with something.
Instinct kicked in; he rolled over and caught himself on one knee, not quite going down. A ten count started in his head.
Ten-nine . . . Got to get up!
He closed his eyes. An unbearable brightness scorched them and intensified in the same way a light bulb flares before it dies.
S-she's b-broken your head!
A stuttering voice told him. In no position to defend himself, he had to get out.
Eilise brought the rounder's bat down hard again, catching him on the shoulder as he stumbled to his feet. Through a bloody mist, he saw Eilise with a younger girl behind her. Jackie was on her feet screaming, "Get out. GET OUT!" Her tiny fists bunched; her face contorted with anger; she activated the screamer.
For a few seconds, he stared balefully, gathering his senses. Eilise raised the bat above her head to warn him off. He faltered as he turned unsteadily, loping off. Eilise followed a few feet behind, to make sure he really did leave the house.
Chapter 148
S-she's b-broken your head!
His father's voice ridiculed him from where he hid in the dark recesses of his mind.
Won't be long now, son, and you'll be stood before your maker. Remember who that was? Yeah, that's right, me. And I'll judge you. I ain't forgotten what you did to me…
Boyle lurched the last few yards to where he'd left the car. He had trouble unlocking it. Once inside, he settled into the back of his seat.
You're concussed, don't go to sleep.
She's stoved your head in.
His fingertips gently traced the source of the pain; an area of his skull felt dished.
Maybe it was always like that.
He couldn't be sure. The sticky dampness of his fingers confirmed what he'd already guessed; he was bleeding.
Got to get out, got to keep moving…
Starting the engine, he drove carefully to his lock-up situated in a quiet and respectable part of town.
The drive took a matter of minutes. He clambered from the car and opened the garage door. Once inside he stripped his outer garments leaving him wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He threw the gasmask and the suit into a corner and then wheeled his motorbike out. Somewhat revived by the crisp night air, he scanned the windows of nearby houses, absently wondering if the pounding in his head could take the pummeling of a lengthy motorcycle ride.
Just got to do it
. He put the car away, shut the doors and donned his crash helmet, flinching as the inner lining scraped over his wound. He turned the key and pressed the starter button. The engine purred into life and then he roared out into the night.
The motorcycle's steady drone did nothing to ease the throbbing pain in his skull. He summoned thoughts to take his mind off it. Amidst the myriad of memories to choose from, one kept returning. He couldn't shake it out. After his mother's funeral, he'd left home, but returned a few days after to see his father…
I was thinking about the other day—
Why do you always speak wit' anyone else's voice but your own? Fucks me off something chronic the way you do that . . . You ashamed of your voice, sonny, is that what it is?
I'm g-going f-fish-fishing. D-down C-Cornwall f-for a f-few days. C-Camping out. I-I t-thought y-you m-might l-like to c-come—
What, wit' you? I don't think so!
On the long drive down, his father didn't stop babbling on at him. A couple of times he pulled over to check the boot . . . make sure he hadn't come back like Lazarus.
He humped him all the way down the hill from the barn at the top, down to the pond. In the early morning mist, visibility was down to twenty yards. The dew clung to his clothes and sparkled like diamonds. He wrapped him up and weighed him down. Smoked a last cigarette in his company and then heaved him into the black water. The font of all his dark obsessions gone, he wondered if he'd ever be free . . .
A couple of hours later, in the countryside not far from where he was born, he followed a footpath for a short distance, until he came to a fence with a stile. Crossing over the top, he veered immediately to his right, into a row of bushes at the top of a deep ditch, exactly five paces from the style. Lighting a smoke, he inhaled deeply, and then used the lighter to locate the protruding head of a tent guy pin pushed deep into the ground. He withdrew it and with it dug out a buried biscuit tin. The metal had started rusting, but the plastic sandwich box within was intact. The waterproof container held the only tickets he needed to start a new life, a new passport and driving licence, a razor for shaving his head and a blonde moustache. Peeling the lid off, the orange glow of his cigarette tip revealed other contents. His fingers found five slim bundles of fifty-pound notes and lingered over a well-wrapped gramme of heroin. He thought about his head and grinned as far as his lips would allow. Another drag revealed something else in there, too.
Forty cigarettes, he'd thought of everything.