Down to Sleep

by M K Farrar

  Where was the doctor now? Was she still alive? It didn’t say exactly how old she was in the book—at least not to the point she’d read up to—but Natalie guessed from the cover jacket photograph that she’d been in her late twenties to early thirties when the book had been published. That was only twelve years ago, so she’d most likely be in her forties now. Was she still practising? How would Amy Penrose respond if Natalie managed to contact her and told her of her suspicions about Kyle Detcher, and explained that she’d found herself in a situation similar to the same one the doctor had been in back in the eighties?

  Natalie scrubbed her face and body, her mind whirling with fear, anticipation, and possibility.

  What would Kyle do if he found out she knew about who he really was? What would he do if he was faced with Doctor Penrose again?

  Of course, there was a chance she was completely wrong about all of this, and she was jumping to conclusions. She needed to get her hands back on that book and read more. There might be something within its pages that would tell her for certain her suspicions were correct. If she knew for sure, she could start to put a plan together.

  How would he react if he was forced to face the woman who’d put him behind bars for half of his childhood? Would it be enough to get him to leave her alone and move on once more, knowing they could expose him for who he really was?

  Or would it send him off the edge and he’d do his best to hurt, or even kill, them both?

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  She got downstairs to discover he’d bought two fillet steaks and a bottle of red wine, and he was sitting at the dining room table, his fingers tapping against the wood, waiting for her to cook.

  “You took your time,” he scolded.

  She kept her head down. “Sorry.”

  “Get on with it. I’m hungry.”

  She nodded and got started, slicing potatoes and heating up a pan. Everywhere she looked, she saw an opportunity to hurt him, to stab him with the knife, or hit him with the red-hot pan. She’d killed once before, hadn’t she? When she’d needed to protect herself, she’d done what she had to, so why should this be any different?

  But the last time hadn’t been a decision. It was something that had just happened, and it had ruined not only her life, but those she loved the most. Besides, he was bigger and stronger than her. If she tried to hurt him and it went wrong, he would kill her.

  Maybe that would be for the best?

  No, she had to cling to what little hope she had. She’d made progress today by finding the book. She just had to bide her time. There was another way to win this that wouldn’t involve violence, she was sure.

  When the food was ready, she carried two plates over to the table.

  Kyle used a corkscrew to open the bottle of red wine he’d bought. She didn’t doubt that it was a decent wine, but when he poured her a glass and gestured for her to drink, each sip nauseated her. The idea that she could be drinking blood popped into her head, and she couldn’t shift it. She knew she wasn’t thinking straight. Fear and fatigue had muddled her thoughts.

  She ate the meal she’d cooked without tasting a single mouthful, and then, without waiting to be asked, set about cleaning up the dishes, while Kyle sat, watching her.

  When she was done, he got to his feet.

  “Come on, Nat. It’s bedtime.”

  The thought of having to spend another night with him was more than she could take.

  “No, please. Can’t I just sleep in another bedroom? Just this once.”

  “And why would I let you do that?”

  “I’m exhausted. I need to get some rest.”

  His blue eyes glittered with a combination of anger and madness. “Do you think your rest is more important than mine?”

  She backpedalled, fear making her breathing fast and shallow. “No, that wasn’t what I was saying.”

  He took a step closer, squaring his shoulders. “Wasn’t it, Natalie? Because that’s what it sounded like to me.”

  He grabbed her hand and slammed it down on the worktop. Then he picked up the corkscrew he’d used to open the red wine.

  She widened her eyes, panic and terror filling her. “What are you doing?”

  “Hold still, Nat. Moving will only make this worse.”

  But there was no way she could just keep still and let him do whatever he wanted, and she continued to yank away from him, her arm and shoulder straining.

  He drew back his elbow and let it fly. The hard, bony point connected right under her chin. Her head snapped back, pain exploding through her chin, jaw, and neck. It left her dizzy and disorientated, and she slumped in his hold. She needed to fight, but she couldn’t seem to get her body to coordinate with her brain.

  Sudden piercing agony stabbed through her hand, jolting her back to reality. Her legs were like those of a baby deer beneath her, wobbly and uncoordinated, but somehow, they managed to keep her upright. She blinked in the direction of her hand still planted on the worktop, only now the point of the bottle opener was stabbed into the middle nail of her left hand, and Kyle was twisting the top of the opener, screwing the metal point deeper.

  She screamed, no longer caring if the neighbours heard.

  Kyle released her, and she fell to the floor, the corkscrew still sticking out of the top of her nail. The corkscrew was top-heavy, and as she fell, it tilted to one side, piercing sideways into her nail. The pain was excruciating, and she hovered her right hand around the top of the instrument, wanting to yank it out, while terrified of what the result might be. She’d seen the way a cork was pulled out of a bottle. What if the same thing happened to her nail and she ripped the nail and the bedding beneath right out?

  The only way to ensure that didn’t happen was to reverse what Kyle had done and twist the corkscrew back out again.

  Righty-tighty. Lefty-loosey.

  The adage somehow broke through her pain. Did the same thing apply to corkscrews?

  She sobbed silently, tears and snot running down her face and dripping into her lap. She was aware of Kyle standing nearby, watching the aftermath of what he’d done with amusement. He was enjoying every second of this. God, how she hated him.

  Just touching the metal sent fresh pain stabbing through her hand. She groaned, long and low, her entire body hunched against the anguish. To make this stop, she needed to remove the item, and she just had to grit her teeth and get through it. Of course, there was nothing to stop Kyle repeating the process with her other nails—she had nine others—but she just had to get through this one thing and worry about everything else later.

  She couldn’t even look at what she was doing, the sight of the metal point, covered in her blood, emerging from her nail bed. A whimper escaped her throat, and the kitchen blurred in an underwater background through her tears. She clenched her teeth against the pain, pushing herself further. Every instinct was to stop, but she couldn’t. She had to keep going.

  Finally, the corkscrew was free, and she threw it to one side. The kitchen implement clattered against the stone slab flooring.

  Immediately, she regretted doing so. She could have used it as a weapon.

  If you hurt him, he’ll tell everyone what you did.

  She was a prisoner here, and he was her jailer.

  Natalie stayed where she was, her hand bright red with blood. Something hit the floor right in front of her. She lifted her head to see a wet tea towel.

  “Come on,” Kyle said, impatient and clearly bored of his game now. “Clean yourself up, I want to go to bed.”

  She sensed the storm had passed, but it could reappear if she didn’t do as he wanted. She picked up the tea towel and wrapped it around her bad hand. She could have done with some ice for her jaw as well, and her neck was aching with whiplash, but she didn’t dare ask.

  He nudged her with his foot—not quite a kick, but almost. “Get up.”

  With the tea towel wrapped around her hand, she forced herself to her feet. She felt sick to her stomach at having to
go through this again, but she had no choice. Unless she refused and allowed him to destroy her parents’ lives, of course, but then what kind of daughter would that make her?

  The kind who murdered their only son.

  Kyle turned off the lights, and she followed him up the stairs and into the bedroom. She didn’t want to do this again. Self-pity filled her, and she hated herself for it.

  Wait until he’s asleep then go back to the book.

  Yes, she still had a chance. She needed to remember that. There was a reason he’d hidden that book. If he had a weakness, she could use it against him. But first she needed to be sure. If she only had this one hand to play, she couldn’t risk using it too soon and ruining her one opportunity.

  In the bedroom, Kyle climbed into bed. He didn’t bother to remove his jogging bottoms and t-shirt. He patted her side. “It’s time, Natalie.”

  She didn’t bother to undress either. The more clothes she could wear the better. It wasn’t much, but it provided a tiny layer of protection against him. She climbed in, her head on the pillow, and put out her arm, the hand still wrapped up. Blood had seeped through the material, but he didn’t seem to care. He climbed on the bed with her and nuzzled her neck. His knee slung over her leg, his arm around her waist. The weight of his body pinned her down, and she shuddered.

  “Say it,” he demanded, his breath hot. “Do what I want.”

  She blinked back tears. With her uninjured hand, she stroked his hair and opened her mouth to recite the words he wanted to hear.

  “Now I lay me down to sleep,

  I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

  If I should die before I wake

  I pray the Lord my soul to take.

  All the angels watching over me.

  Amen.”

  Her voice was weak and shaky, but she managed it.

  “Again,” he demanded.

  Just as she’d done each night since he’d revealed his terrible threat, she repeated the words over and over, keeping up the monotonous stroking of his hair. She didn’t know how long it took for him to fall asleep, but she knew she stood no chance of getting any winks that night. The pain in her hand was excruciating, and her neck ached so badly, the discomfort had crept up into the back of her skull.

  The book, hidden behind the skirting board in his office, called to her.

  She glanced down at the top of Kyle’s head.

  Could she risk moving? He certainly seemed to be asleep, but whenever she’d thought he was before, he always acted as though he hadn’t been. He was only human, though, and he needed to sleep sometime.

  Taking a risk, she edged her arm out from under his head. The tea towel came unwrapped from her hand, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped now anyway. She winced as she pulled it out, the extra pressure sending sickening waves of pain up her arm, but she managed not to make any sound.

  She froze again, her breath trapped in her lungs, waiting for him to ask what she was doing, but he only muttered and rolled in the opposite direction.

  Natalie allowed herself to breathe. If he woke and asked what she was doing, she’d say she was going to the bathroom, or if she was already downstairs, she’d say she was looking for some painkillers for her hand.

  In the back of her mind, she worried that this was all a trap. Maybe he’d had his suspicions before, when he’d come home, and now he wanted to see where she was going to go.

  She had to take the risk.

  She slipped out of bed, her heart pounding. With every step towards the bedroom door, she was poised for any movement or change in his breathing that would signal him waking, but nothing changed. At the bedroom door, she opened it as quietly as possible, and then crept into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind her. If he needed to open it to come and check on her, hearing the door open might give her those few seconds of warning.

  Moving quickly now, she tiptoed down the stairs, into his office. There wasn’t any time to waste. With only the light from the hallway, she dropped to her knees and tugged off the skirting board. The book was right where she’d left it.

  The light wasn’t enough to read by, so she carried the book over to his desk and turned on the desk light. With a shaking hand, she flipped back to the page she was on, desperate for clues.

  Forcing herself to focus, she started to read. It took another couple of pages before a part made her stop.

  Edward wanted me to sing him a poem his mother had sung to him when he was a child, before she’d grown frightened of him. I couldn’t remember the words, and that was when he showed me his leg. He’d carved the poem into his thigh using a razor blade and he went over them, again and again, opening them up.

  Her heart lurched. It had to be him. The coincidence was too much.

  She remembered their visit to Glastonbury Tor. He’d said something to her then about enjoying poetry, especially biblical poetry. He’d said it calmed him.

  But what if he was a copy-cat. He’d clearly read the book, so wasn’t it possible that he had simply taken the idea from the words of Amy Penrose and was copying them? Maybe he admired the child killer Dr Penrose had treated and wanted to emulate the boy?

  There was one way to know for sure.

  If Kyle Detcher was Edward Swain, wouldn’t he still have the scars from those cuts? She tried to think back to whether she’d seen them. They’d had sex several times, but it had always taken place in the dark and beneath the covers, and she couldn’t remember him ever letting her see him undressed. Was that the reason why? Had he been hiding his scars from her, knowing she would ask questions and maybe do some research of her own if she were to see them? He didn’t want her finding out who he used to be, and there was a reason for that, reasons she could use against him.

  The scars would be faint by now, so many years later, but there was the chance they’d still be there. But if he was scar free, then she’d know she was wrong about her suspicions and she should leave Doctor Penrose out of this. It would have nothing to do with her, even if Kyle had hidden her book for some reason.

  She considered other factors.

  Did the age match up? Kyle had told her he was twenty-eight, but according to this, he’d actually be thirty. That probably didn’t mean anything, though. Kyle had lied about absolutely everything, so what was a small lie about his age in the grand scheme of things? Maybe he’d just thought that she’d be more receptive to a man in his late twenties than early thirties, given that the age gap would be bigger.

  She could barely believe she was contemplating this.

  If this was true, it meant Kyle was a killer for sure. He’d murdered his mother, and he’d attempted to murder his therapist. He’d been a child back then, so of course the same person as a grown man would be capable of killing a young couple like Mina and Sajad.

  She remembered the newspaper clipping of the blond boy who’d looked so much like Anthony that had been slipped under her door. There was no doubt in her mind now that Kyle had been the one to put it there. He’d wanted to unhinge her, to make her uneasy and suspicious. Perhaps, if she’d never received the newspaper article, she wouldn’t have gone and checked on Mina and Sajad either, and so wouldn’t have been the one to find their bodies. Kyle had told her not so long ago that he knew what she would do before she did, and it seemed that was correct. Had it been a coincidence that he’d happened to find a newspaper article at exactly the right time, or was it more likely that he’d found the boy first, and Kyle was the one responsible for the kid going missing?

  How many others had Kyle hurt? This wasn’t only about just her and her family anymore—if it ever had been. Whatever rehabilitation he’d gone through clearly hadn’t worked. If she didn’t stop him, who was to say how many others he’d go on to torture and kill.

  Though she knew she needed to think of others, she still couldn’t help coming back to herself and her family. Would exposing Kyle Detcher for who he really was be enough to stop him going after her family? If he was arrested for the deaths
of Mina and Sajad, and the police were able to connect him to Edward Swain, so they understood exactly what kind of man they were dealing with, would they pay any attention to his accusations of what she’d done at the bridge all those years ago? Or would they just take it as the ramblings of a madman, trying to get his own back on the woman who’d exposed him? But if the police took him seriously, would they also go and speak to her parents?

  It was a risk she might just have to take.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Amy replaced the book, just as she’d found it, and made it back to bed without waking Kyle.

  Somehow, she managed to get a couple of hours sleep and when she woke, it was with a plan forming in her mind. She needed to see if his leg was scarred. If it was, she’d figure out a way of contacting Doctor Amy Penrose, and then at least she’d have someone on her side. She could tell her what was happening with Kyle, without needing to divulge the reason she couldn’t leave. Plenty of women ended up in violent, abusive relationships and were too frightened to just walk out the door. She thought she’d read in a magazine, years ago, before she’d imagined she’d find herself in this position, that for abused women, the hardest thing was trying to leave. People would ask why they didn’t, thinking it was the most obvious thing to do, but they didn’t understand that leaving was the most dangerous thing they could do.

  Natalie hadn’t understood it herself at the time, but she did now. She understood perfectly.

  The clink and crash of Kyle in the kitchen drifted up the stairs. The last thing she wanted was to put herself willingly back in his presence, but if she was going to go through with her plan, she didn’t have any choice. There was the chance he’d leave the house for the day, and while she was happy not to have him around, it would be better if she could put her plan into action before he left. Otherwise, she might find herself with another day passing before she could try again.

  Her chin and jaw ached so badly she was going to struggle to open and close it enough for her to eat, though she was going to have to try, so as not to anger him. Her finger was a mess—the nail completely black, the entire finger swollen. If one of the neighbours decided to call by, she was going to struggle to come up with an excuse to explain away her injuries.