The man moved. A touch.
He was dead?
A female ‘grunt’.
The man moved some more.
And then it became clear.
Holly Mickelson was pulling the man from her, dragging him by an arm. It took her two more attempts. And then Sam was free.
Holding her shoulder and breathing far more rapidly than was good for her, Sam swung her legs round, off the bed and onto the floor. She stood. Holly was next to her. Her eyes glazed, her lips slightly apart – rasping coming from her mouth. She was in shock.
Sam looked at the bed. There was blood everywhere. Not all of it was from the wound she had created between the over-sized man’s legs. In the middle of his back was the fat end of a shard of mirror. Blood bubbled from the wound. Blood that was being soaked up by a hand towel.
Holly Mickelson had followed Sam’s lead. She had made a knife. And she had killed the man who had raped her.
Sam nodded. Her breathing returning to normal; her shoulder no longer the only thing that was controlling her life.
‘Holly. I’m Sam. We need to get out of here. Can you swim?’
She nodded quickly. No words.
‘In the bathroom is a pair of coveralls. Put them on now.’ Quick, clear instructions. Holly disappeared. Sam jogged over to the pile of men’s clothes. She picked out a shirt and put it on. She struggled with the buttons, but Holly was with her a few seconds later. She helped her finish them off.
They now had to get out of the room.
We can’t lift the man. Can we? No.
Plan B.
‘Holly, I want you look away.’
Holly was in automaton mode. She did as she was instructed.
Sam went across the over-sized man. The right side of his face was pointing to the ceiling.
I hope this works.
With her left hand, Sam formed her index finger and thumb into a claw. She placed them around the edge of the man’s eye socket and, with her teeth and stomach muscles clenched (she really didn’t want to throw up), she forced them around the eye.
Gross.
The first time she tried, she couldn’t get leverage – her thumb slipping out of the socket.
The second time she had it. She tugged.
The eye popped out like pickled egg from a tight jar, and then fell from her hands as the optic nerve and associated muscles refused to let go of its owner.
‘Here.’
It was Holly. She wasn’t looking away. She was handing Sam a slither of mirror from the bathroom floor.
‘Thanks.’
Sam cut and cut. More blood.
Then the eye was free.
Now we need to get off this boat.
As Holly chased after the woman who had come to rescue her (in the heat of the moment, she had forgotten her rescuer’s name), she couldn’t begin to rationalise what was going on. She had just murdered the oaf who had systematically raped her evening after evening for, how long was it, a week? Was it more? Rape and murder. Two despicable things that should make her want to curl up in a ball and hope they went away.
And yet…?
…They were rushing down a corridor. They turned a corner and were met by a set of metal stairs, rising upward to a hole, and into the night.
‘Stay here. I’ll be back.’ The curly haired woman, wearing nothing more than the oaf’s shirt, spoke quietly. And authoritatively.
…And yet, her overriding emotion was one of elation. Success. Victory! She was high. As a kite. Soaring on the wind.
Copying the woman, by making a knife from a piece of mirror and creating a handle out of a towel, was genius. Stabbing the oaf with it was such a release. All those evenings being subjected to the abuse had filled a deep well of anger to overflowing. When the opportunity presented itself, she couldn’t control herself. It was spontaneous. She smiled as she thought about it. She had no regrets; felt nothing for the oaf. At least now he couldn’t do the same thing to some other poor girl.
‘Holly!’ A whispering shout from up the stairs.
She stuck her head forward so that she could connect with the woman – who was beckoning her upward.
Holly climbed up, and out into the night. As soon as she emerged onto the deck, the woman pushed her down, so that they were both crouching. There was a wind and, with the reflecting moonlight, she picked out white horses on the tops of the waves. Land was about half a mile away. No distance for her. She saw what looked like a small fishing village and a harbour; the end of the breakwater signalled by an illuminated statue of, almost certainly, the Virgin Mary.
Off to their right was the stern of the boat. It was a hive of activity, which made her crouch lower. A couple of men were standing by the rear rails, shouting to a further two men who were on a much smaller craft. She couldn’t make out any of them. But the language sounded Russian. One of them on their boat released a couple of ropes and threw them across to the smaller one. Its engines throttled up, the bow turned and it headed off toward the village.
Throughout this, her rescuer was knelt beside her, looking on with great intensity. As soon as the smaller boat started to move, she took hold of Holly’s hand, and, still crouching, she pulled her off to the left. After about ten paces they were out of sight of the stern of the boat. The woman turned to her, their faces no more than a few inches apart.
‘See the harbour?’ She was pointing vaguely landward. ‘Left of the statue? It looks like the beach there is sheltered and in shadow.’
Holly nodded.
‘We’ll swim to there. Stay together. Just in case. OK?’
Holly hadn’t stopped nodding.
‘Let’s go.’
The next thing she knew, she was in the water. Their entry splashes were lost in the noise of the choppy sea.
It was cold. Cold enough to take her breath away. She didn’t know what to expect, having never swam in the Mediterranean before, but she didn’t expect this. She was used to the water off the coast in Florida. In comparison to what she was currently experiencing, that was like getting into a bath.
She took in some water – the cold penetrating her broken tooth. Ouch!
But as the coldness washed over her it heightened her sense of achievement. She was alive – and free!
She swam. Expertly; even though her other injury, the bent finger, hurt like hell. She was a high school 800-metre freestyle champion. It may have been a few years ago now, but as her coach used to say, ‘swimming is 50% strength and 50% technique’. She’d not forgotten the latter.
Holly covered the distance effortlessly. She kept an eye on her rescuer, who looked to be an adequate swimmer, but was obviously hampered by her bandaged shoulder; she was patiently using just her good arm. Even so, they covered over half the distance in around 15 minutes. As the harbour wall got closer and the beach beyond it came into focus, Holly couldn’t stop herself. It was like being back in the pool. All that mattered was hitting the end wall first. She took off.
Stroke – stroke – stroke – breath right, stroke – stroke – stroke – breath left. Legs kicking with a freedom that felt so good, even though they were slowed by the weight of her clothes. Pain was burning in her muscles, lactic acid flooding them. As the waves lifted and fell, she took in water (her tooth shouted at her), but she spat it out on the next breath.
God, this feels good!
Her knee hit a rock. She stopped swimming, looked up and saw that she was nearly at the beach.
She stood, slipping on a seaweed covered rock; she put a hand down to find her balance. Then she stood tall. Upright.
Freedom!
She turned, looking for her rescuer. In the distance she saw the lights of the yacht. It looked majestic and becalmed. But, she guessed, all hell would break out when they found the dead oaf. Would they come ashore looking for them? She would.
They needed to get a move on.
Where was the woman?
She looked. A minute passed; it may have been longer.
Holly was worried now. She scurried to her left and clambered up a couple of rocks which helped make up the harbour wall. She looked again.
Shit!
There she was, maybe 100 metres out. But she wasn’t swimming. She was floundering. Her head was bobbing about, and her arm was up in the air. Holly lost her in a wave, and there she was again, no further forward.
And then she went under.
Holly didn’t think. Everything she did from that point was completely instinctive.
She whipped off her coveralls, pushed off from the side of the harbour wall and swam the race of her life. She lifted her head after about 50 metres on the crest of a wave, caught a glimpse of a hand in the air, adjusted her route and ploughed powerfully toward the arm.
When she thought she was at the right spot, she stopped, treading water. She looked. Nothing. She turned herself in the water. Still nothing.
‘Hey!’ she shouted.
Nothing.
And then a hand broke the surface off to her right, about ten metres away, and then it was gone.
Holly had to dive under the water to find the woman. It was dark, but the water was clear. The woman was floating about a metre below the surface, her eyes wide open and her cheeks pushed out. Her last gasp of air. Holly grabbed her under her arms and pulled her upward until their heads were free of the water. It was not without effort.
Having attended life-saving sessions in the pool, she knew that at this point the woman would either take a huge gulp of air and recover, or she was already drowning and nothing would happen. If it was the latter, Holly would have to attempt mouth-to-mouth. Here – in the choppy sea. She’d practiced that once; in the calm of the pool. It was impossible.
Holly treaded water with all the strength she could find, keeping the woman’s shoulders high. Her head flopped back, which wasn’t a great sign, and Holly started to rehearse what she needed to do next.
But it wasn’t necessary. Thank God.
The woman coughed and spluttered, and took in huge gulps of air. Her arms and shoulder rising and falling with the effort she needed to find her breath.
Holly knew that it wasn’t over yet. Now she’d be faced with one of two scenarios. Either the woman would panic, hold onto her for dear life, and, if Holly couldn’t get her to calm down, they would both drown. Or, the woman would accept her rescue, lie back and allow herself to be slowly towed into shore – backwards; Holly’s body under hers, her hand on the woman’s neck and a kick stroke to propel them.
‘Lie still! Lie still!’ Holly shouted.
The woman immediately did as she was told. She was the perfect rescuee.
Too perfect?
As they approached the shore the village provided some ambient light. Holly’s chin was resting on the woman’s right shoulder, her legs screw kicking. She’d tried talking to her as they’d come in; to reassure her. But had got nothing back. The woman’s body was limp; flaccid.
She looked back toward the yacht. Two things disturbed her. First, there was another small boat heading inshore from the yacht. It looked like a rib. On its bow was a light. It was swinging left and right.
Searching.
For them.
And second, she remembered that her rescuer had a dressing on her right shoulder. That was definitely gone. Holly lifted her head further to the vertical, and looked at the woman’s chest. She wore a cream and light blue, thick-striped shirt. It’s what the oaf wore every time he had ‘visited’; Holly hated the sight of it. Worryingly, where the woman had been wearing a dressing, the shirt had a stain that was darker than the surrounding material.
Blood?
She had to get her to shore. And then to a hospital.
Without the boat with the light spotting them.
Holly kicked the last couple of strokes, found her feet, and then, with strength she didn’t know she had, pulled the woman quickly onto the beach. She looked for some shade from the ambient light of the village, and saw some a few metres away beside a large rock. She dragged the woman to the shadow and lay her down.
She checked for a pulse. And for breathing. The woman had both, but the pulse was very light.
What now?
Recovery position. Then find help.
Holly put the woman on her side with her bottom leg straight and her top leg bent to stop her from tipping onto her front. She checked her airway and, although not part of her life-saving training, she looked inside the woman’s shirt at her wound.
What she saw looked like someone had ripped a small hole in her shoulder. It had been stitched, but in one corner the stitches were hanging loose. Blood oozed slowly from the wound.
To add to her worries, the woman had started shivering uncontrollably.
I have to get help.
But first, I must get dressed.
Holly threw on her coveralls, raced up the beach and found a path. Within a minute she was in among the dark alleys of a beautiful seaside fishing village.
What am I looking for?
She didn’t know, but a light drew her to the end of a narrow street – in the direction of the harbour. As she got closer, she slowed. And then stopped. The harbour was right in front of her. It was small, maybe 50 metres across; on the far side were more fisherman-type cottages. The harbour was full of all manner of boats. Some looked like small fishing craft, and others were sailing yachts. Looking left, she picked out the two boats that had come from their yacht. One, the craft they had seen tied at the stern, was dockside. It had one man on it, and two more on the shore. One of the men was operating a small tractor-type vehicle fitted with a crane. He was in the process of lifting a big metal box from the boat.
The rib with the light was in the harbour. A man on its front was shouting at the men on the shore. He definitely sounded Russian.
Once the exchange finished, the rib turned, revved its engines and drove slowly out to sea, its light flicking left and right.
Holly was just about to go back down the alley and maybe, Knock on any old door and ask for help? when she recognised one of the men on the shore. He was one of the thugs who had abducted her from Istanbul. He was talking to a new, fourth man, who she didn’t recognise. He looked different to the others. Even in this light, she could see that he was darker skinned. He was also very tall and slim. North African?
Both men walked a few yards to their right, to a van which she hadn’t noticed before; it had its sliding door open. Under the light-orange street lights, it appeared cream coloured. The van was different from a standard goods van. It had a window in its side door, and what looked like an awning running along the top of its roof. A vehicle you might own if you were a market trader?
Were they running drugs?
Holly had seen enough. She had to get help for her rescuer.
She was about to turn, when something touched her shoulder. She immediately flinched; somehow, suppressing a scream.
She couldn’t run forward into the light of the harbour area. And she really didn’t want to turn and face, what she thought would inevitability be: chloroform followed by abduction.
But nothing horrible happened.
Still cowering, she slowly turned round.
Relief flooded her senses.
She was met by the sight of a short, elderly woman with a walking stick. The woman had a wrinkled face, a kind smile and very few teeth.
‘Posso aiutarla a tutti?’
Chapter 20
Scauri, Italy
Sam had a recurring dream that she had to get somewhere very quickly, but, no matter how hard she tried, her limbs wouldn’t propel her forward as fast as she needed to go. Thus, she was going to be late. And she hated being late. In some dreams she’d be inappropriately dressed, or not wearing anything at all; she would scour her dream world, but would be unable to find the correct clothes. Or, sometimes, any clothes. Neither dreamscapes, nor sometimes both concurrently, made for a restful night’s sleep.
Worst of all for Sam, was one of those sleep
s where she’d try to wake, but couldn’t. Or she thought she had, but hadn’t. And then she’d get fretful – and try harder. But, no matter how hard she pushed the boundary between asleep and awake, it wouldn’t budge. Or it did, but only to accommodate and fool her. She’d eventually think that she was awake – but she wasn’t. She hated those.
At the moment, Sam was sleeping through all those scenarios – combined. It was a nightmare; both as a noun, and as an adjective. Except it was worse. She also was carrying an old war wound that hurt like hell.
It was the mother of all nightmares. She was going to be late for something important, she’d likely turn up naked, she was in pain, and whilst she knew she was dreaming, she couldn’t shake herself from the dream – no matter how hard she tried.
Aagghh!
She was being shaken.
Leave me alone! I need to get out of here!
Shaken some more.
Her dream was disturbed – she woke. But was she awake? She wasn’t sure. Not yet.
She kept her eyes shut. She had to cough. She did. The pain in her right shoulder burnt like a hot poker.
Fuck!
She instinctively opened her eyes. She was in a small, dark room, lying on a bed. Come on, eyes – adjust! Sitting next to her was an elderly man. He had a stethoscope around his neck and was gently rocking her, by the hip. It was he who was waking her. Who was he?
There was a window opposite. The curtains were closed, but through the small gaps she couldn’t any see light. Night-time. Come on, think…
‘Signorina, signorina.’ It was a melodic, soothing call from the old man.
What?
What is happening? Who is this man? Where was she?
She tried to sit up, but the pain was debilitating. She closed her eyes, a tear formed, squeezing out from the corner of her left eye and dripping down onto the sheet. She opened her eyes again. The man must have been in his 80s. He had a warm, tanned face with more wrinkles than a shar-pei. And he wore a tender, old gentleman’s smile.
The Innocence of Trust Page 37