The Tower: A Dark Romance

by Lucy Wild

  Table of Contents

  ONE - JOHN

  TWO - REBECCA

  THREE - JOHN

  FOUR - JOHN

  FIVE - REBECCA

  SIX - JOHN

  SEVEN - REBECCA

  EIGHT - JOHN

  NINE - JOHN

  TEN - JOHN

  ELEVEN - REBECCA

  TWELVE - JOHN

  THIRTEEN - JOHN

  FOURTEEN - REBECCA

  FIFTEEN - JOHN

  SIXTEEN - JOHN

  SEVENTEEN - JOHN

  EIGHTEEN - REBECCA

  THE TOWER

  LUCY WILD

  © 2017 Lucy Wild

  All characters in this book exist only in the imagination of the author and bear no relation to anyone with the same name or names. They are not inspired by any individual and all incidents are pure invention.

  All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part. Excepting in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or distributed without the express permission of the author.

  This book is intended for mature audiences and may contain explicit language and scenes.

  Contents

  ONE - JOHN

  TWO - REBECCA

  THREE - JOHN

  FOUR - JOHN

  FIVE - REBECCA

  SIX - JOHN

  SEVEN - REBECCA

  EIGHT - JOHN

  NINE - JOHN

  TEN - JOHN

  ELEVEN - REBECCA

  TWELVE - JOHN

  THIRTEEN - JOHN

  FOURTEEN - REBECCA

  FIFTEEN - JOHN

  SIXTEEN - JOHN

  SEVENTEEN - JOHN

  EIGHTEEN - REBECCA

  ONE - JOHN

  I was sinking slowly. I saw no point fighting it. I'd failed. The river could swallow me up. I would hit the bottom soon and lay there and that would be the end of my short, miserable life. She was gone. There was no point trying to keep going.

  I closed my eyes, waiting for the end.

  It didn't come.

  Instead, a hand reached down, grabbing my shoulder, hauling me upwards. I fought it. I didn't want to be rescued. I didn't want to be saved. It was too late, I deserved this.

  I tried to unpeel the fingers holding me tight but my broken arm stopped my hand from working properly. All I did was flail wildly, trying to kick downwards, doing my best to squirm away from them.

  Then my head was above the surface. My body rebelled against my wish for this to be over, gasping and taking in a deep breath of air, air that I didn't want in my lungs. I wanted death, I sought it out, I needed it like I'd needed her. She was gone.

  The hand was pulling me over the side of a boat, a searchlight trained on me, burning my eyes. I fought one last time to get away, shaking loose enough for the grip on me to slacken. They wouldn't let go. The hand caught hold of me again and it was then joined by another. This time, when I squirmed, my head slammed into the painted wood on the side of the boat. Before I lost consciousness, I noticed the wood was green, like her eyes.

  When I came to I was laid flat in the bottom of the boat, shivering uncontrollably. A blanket was over my face. Did they think I was dead? I took a deep breath and then spat out water. It hit the blanket and dripped back into my mouth. I tried to turn over, wanting to find the water again, wanting the embrace of its icy hands to draw me downwards. There was no point to staying in this world, not now I'd failed her.

  Hands on me again. "Quiet," a gruff voice said. "Don't try to move."

  The blanket slid down and I could see a figure leaning down over me, their face barely visible in the darkness. I faded out of consciousness again.

  Voices. Voices talking.

  "It looks like a bullet wound."

  "Keep pressure on it. We're nearly there."

  "What the hell happened to him?"

  "I thought he was dead."

  "What's that in his hand?"

  The voices faded in and out like a radio station that needed better tuning. I heard a siren far away and then nothing.

  In the darkness, I relived it all, her hand outstretched towards mine, those eyes sparkling in the light of the penthouse, pleading with me to save her. The movements were slowed down, torturous, agony to relive, like a broken record they went around my head over and over. Then darkness once more. I was glad of it. A break from the guilt of my failure.

  More voices.

  "Skin burned."

  "No fingerprints."

  "No I.D."

  "He's coming around."

  "Another five."

  "Someone page Dr Sanchez."

  "Can you hear me?"

  Darkness again. Then I woke up, my eyelids slowly parting to let in the half darkness of a hospital at night. I blinked, looking up at the ceiling. I tried to move my head but there was an immense pain in my shoulder. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out, my throat was too dry. Beeping sounds around me, the noises of quiet talking not too far away. Then nothing.

  I woke up again. It was daylight. I turned my head and this time was able to will my neck to move. There was a nurse to one side of the bed, writing something on a chart. "My God," she muttered before shouting, "Dr Porter, get in here." Back to me. "Don't try and speak. Just take it easy."

  My vision blurred, I blinked and focus returned. Another woman standing next to her. "Hi, can you hear me?"

  I nodded, opening my mouth to try and reply.

  "You're in St Jude's Hospital. My name is Dr Porter. Can you remember what happened to you?"

  I shook my head slowly, the bones in my shoulder grating together, making me wince with the excruciating pain.

  I tuned in and out as she talked at length. "You've been out for three weeks. I'm not going to lie, we didn't think you were coming back. You lost a lot of blood. Just rest for now and then we'll talk a little more." She turned to the nurse, lowering her voice. I heard her say morphine and the nurse agreeing but then I sank back into nothing until I saw her face, her hand outstretched towards me as I fell from the window.

  "Rebecca!"

  I screamed her name, jolting awake. She was there beside me, her hand reaching. Then as my eyes opened, she faded away to nothing. I was alone.

  "Ssh," a voice said. Another nurse by my side. This one was smiling gently. "You were having a nightmare."

  A cool cloth on my forehead, easing my pounding headache just a little.

  "Can you remember what happened to you?"

  "Hey." Another voice. "How did you get in here?"

  The nurse was gone, bolting away out of the door.

  "Security!"

  Then someone else next to the bed. An older man, neat white beard, tired eyes. "Journalists," he said by way of explanation. "Dressing up as a nurse is a new one on me."

  The man sat next to the bed, leaning towards me. "Anything for a story and you're an intriguing one and no mistake. Hi there. My name's Dr Milton. Can you speak?"

  I tried. The sound was weak, like me. "Yes."

  "Good, that's really good. What's your name? Can you remember?"

  I shook my head.

  "Never mind. It'll come in time. Now let me explain a few things, see if it jogs that brainbox of yours. You were found in the Thames a little after midnight two days ago. You were wearing a grey pair of jogging trousers and a white tee-shirt. Ring any bells?"

  "No." The voice coming out of my mouth was grating. It didn't sound like mine.

  "You've suffered a number of injuries. I'll keep it simple for you. You'd been shot in the shoulder. Another bullet grazed your cheek. You had a broken arm, two broken ribs and a fractured ankle. You've several vertabrae out of
place. What parts of you weren't bruised or sliced open were burned but worst are your hands. It looks like they were in a flame for some time. Did you jump in the water to put the fire out? Is that what happened? Do you know who shot you?"

  "Don't remember."

  "What's the tower?"

  "Why?"

  "Because you've been saying it in your sleep. That and Rebecca. Do you know a Rebecca?"

  "No," I lied. I closed my eyes, letting him think I'd drifted off again. I couldn't tell him the truth.

  I hadn't forgotten anything. It was the cruellest trick my brain ever played on me. It put holes through my memory but held onto her and what had happened. I knew everything that had taken place, all the way up to me plummeting into the Thames. I would never tell anyone though. I would get my own revenge when I was well enough. If I was alive it was for a reason and that reason had to be to avenge her death.

  I maintained my silence throughout his questions. Even when the police turned up to talk to me about the bullet wounds, I said nothing more than I already had. I couldn't remember. They told me they'd been unable to work out who I was. Could I help them? No, I couldn't.

  I was in that bed for a long time. Weeks. Maybe months. Each day blurred into the next. Sometimes, someone would open a window further down the corridor. When it was really quiet, if the wind was blowing the right way, I could hear the river. It's call was mocking. It had taken me and spat me back out into the world I wanted nothing to do with.

  I had a visitor. I recognised his face but didn't know why.

  "You probably don't remember me," he said when he sat down by the side of the bed.

  I turned to look at him. It was the first time I'd been able to turn my head without pain since I arrived here. He was a man in his fifties, woollen jumper, thinning hair, grey straggly beard, Roman nose, dark skin. "I'm guessing not a doctor."

  "Fisherman," he replied. "Hooked you out of the river."

  He held something out towards me. "You had this in your hand when I pulled you in. I thought it had fallen off the boat but I was cleaning it this morning and found it under the nets. Thought you might want it back."

  My anger vanished and I had to swallow a sob. It was her necklace. I held out my bandage covered palm and he laid it gently down. "I'm glad you made it," he said, getting to his feet again. "I'll visit again, if you like?"

  I didn't respond. I was staring at the necklace. Silver, cheap, the only thing they'd let her keep from before she was taken.

  I wrapped my fingers around the necklace, ignoring the pain. I thought about her, about that night when it all went wrong.

  Bumping into her father was fate. I'd thought it would bring me good luck. Him so desperate for a fix that he gave up his one worthwhile secret. Who he'd sold her to. An address. At last, I had the address I'd been waiting for. I knew where she was. I knew who had bought her.

  Then my mind jolted forwards. The sound of the shot as I was falling into the river, looking back up at the window I'd been thrown from. The flare of light in the room far above, seeing it just before I hit the icy deep. He shot her. She was dead. All that was left of her was in my hand.

  I heard the river that night after he visited. It was no longer calling to me. The siren song of the waves had no impact. I didn't want to die anymore. I wanted to live. I wanted to get well. I wanted to go back and finish what I started. I might not have been able to save her but I would avenge her. As God was my witness, those who had hurt her would pay the most terrible price imaginable.

  TWO - REBECCA

  That was the closest I came to being saved from my own personal hell. My hand reaching towards him, the first spark of hope in years as I wondered if maybe this nightmare was over. Then it was snatched away from me. I was left alone with a devil again.

  The things they did to him. I begged them to do it to me instead. He didn't deserve that. He had only tried to save me.

  They made me watch.

  They had let him up to the penthouse. I should have known from the way Sharp smiled when the door opened. I should have shouted out a warning, told him to run. But I didn't know until it was too late.

  I was in the corner of the suite, the chain around my ankle digging into my flesh. I was about to be sold once again. That was why I was there. My new owner was negotiating terms. I was nothing but property to be haggled over.

  I was fifteen years old. For the last five years I'd been in the hands of the man with the drink in front of him. He was sitting at the table overlooking the Thames. The lights of London lit up behind him but he was in darkness, a darkness only I could see. It was complete and total. No light would ever shine upon a soul so wicked. I thought there could be no crueller man in the entire world. Then I met my new owner.

  The smell in the air, other than their drink, was the cream Louis had put on my ankle. The damage to my skin hadn't bothered him for a long time. I should have known something was going on when he suddenly started tending to my wounds. He stopped hitting me too. The bruises finally began to fade. "Need to make sure you look your best," he said obliquely, finding new ways to hurt me, ways that didn't leave a mark.

  That was three weeks ago. The skin on my ankle was still healing, though the scars would be with me forever. From the sound of the conversation taking place across the room, I was a feature of the penthouse, being sold with the apartment, part of the furniture.

  "Comes with it's own slave," Louis was saying. "What more could any man want?"

  The other man, the one who hadn't even looked at me yet, was laughing heartily. "Will she be missed?"

  Louis shook his head. "Mr Sharp, she's been in my hands since she was ten. Sold by her parents who were glad to be rid of her."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  "No, she will not be missed."

  "Care to tell me why you're not taking her with you when you leave?"

  "Between you and me, I have tastes that she can no longer fulfil. She's a little too old for me."

  I grimaced inside. I didn't want to listen anymore. I tried to block it out, take myself inside to my mental hiding place. Their voices kept trying to intrude.

  "Records?"

  "None. She was born at home. Kept her off the radar. As far as the world is concerned, she is a ghost. She doesn't exist."

  "You are sure?"

  "Do you think I would have kept her this long otherwise?"

  "Then we have a deal."

  A hand was held out. They shook. The new man, the one he had called Mr Sharp, stood and looked at me. At once, I turned my face down to the floor. I knew from bitter experience that to make eye contact was to risk immediate pain.

  A phone rang. Louis picked it up. "I see. No, send him up. This could be fun." He hung up and looked at me. "Apparently an old friend of yours is here."

  He switched on the TV screen in the corner of the room. I glanced up to see a black and white shot of the lobby. Someone was crossing it towards the lifts.

  "Who is that?" Mr Sharp asked.

  "Someone interested in interrupting our sale."

  "This is not an auction, Louis. I came here to make a straight purchase at a straight price."

  "He has not come to buy her. Apparently, he has come to save her."

  "Has he indeed?"

  "Told reception to warn us he was coming for her."

  "I'm terrified. He looks like a child."

  "Who is he?" Louis asked me.

  I shook my head. "I don't know."

  "Well, you won't mind when we deal with him then, will you?"

  The sound of guns being readied reached my ears. I looked around the room at the guards getting ready. Then I looked at the screen again. Had I heard that right? Who was it on the screen? The camera was in the lift with him, pointing down at the top of a head. I could not see his face. Who was it? It couldn't be John, could it?

  The lift opened. Another camera watched him walking away, his form shrinking along the corridor. Then a single knock. Louis nodded
to the man by the door. He pulled it open.

  I let out a gasp. I couldn't help it. I recognised that face. It had been five years since I saw him last and he was no longer a ten year old boy. But then, I was no longer ten either. I had aged far more than the years that had gone by. I would have known that face anywhere. It was my only friend in the world. How had he found me? What was he going to do?

  I shifted in place as Louis crossed to the sofa and sank onto it, nodding his head. "John Ward," he said. "Reception tell me you are here for her."

  John took a step forwards, his eyes narrowing. "Give her to me."

  Louis didn't stop smiling. "Drink?"

  "Give her to me now."

  "So bold, so brave." The door closed behind John. "So stupid."

  "Just let her go."

  "I'm afraid it's not my place to make such a decision. She belongs to Mr Sharp now. What say you Mr Sharp? Want to hand your new acquisition to this bold little boy?"

  Mr Sharp shook his head. "I think I prefer to keep her for myself. You can have this though. Think of it as a souvenir."

  He walked over to me and yanked the necklace from me. My one possession, the one thing I owned, the necklace I had held onto for five years, snatched from me in an instant.

  "Take it," Mr Sharp said, holding it out towards John. "Go on. Take it."

  John folded his fist around the necklace. At the same time, his lips thinned and he roared, swinging for Mr Sharp who ducked neatly backwards out of harm's way.

  Two of the guards went for John a second later. He was quick, ducking forwards and running towards me. He got his hand out and I reached for him, our fingers brushing together before he was yanked backwards. I could still feel his touch on my hand as they grabbed him, the first warmth I had known since I was sold.

  He managed to break free from their grip, squirming out of his jacket and again trying to reach me. He hadn't seen the chain, didn't know it was futile. They got hold of him before he made it two steps.

  He fought again to free himself but they were far stronger than him. "Hold him," Louis said.

  "In front of her," Mr Sharp said. "I want her to watch this." He crossed the floor and lifted my face to his, squeezing my cheeks painfully. "This is what happens when you lie to me," he said, venom dripping from his words. "You will do well to remember this. How do you know him? Don't want to answer?" He turned to one of the guards. "Do not let her look away."