by Mark Ayre
Panic grew. Trapped, Trey began to hyperventilate. It had only been seconds; Trey was sure he was seconds from suffocation. Still, his arms flailed but now Vicious, far stronger than he, held the duvet. No amount of flailing would save him.
With ease, Vicious could have murdered Trey there, on the bedroom floor.
He had other ideas.
After a minute of panic and suffocation, flailing and air deprivation, Trey tumbled to the carpet as the duvet was yanked clear.
Sucking oxygen as though in a race to get it into his lungs, Trey allowed in the mad idea that someone had caught Vicious in the murderous act and disabled him.
Before he looked, from his position on the bedroom floor, on all fours, he knew he would see Vicious above, rather than a saviour.
Trey didn’t know if his imagination or a mad plastic surgeon had altered Vicious’ appearance. In his full, smiling mouth sat impossibly large, razor-sharp shark’s teeth. One bite could tear off Trey’s head. Which explained why Vicious had eschewed suffocation.
In silence, Vicious struck again, grabbing Trey by the throat and dragging the frightened young man to his feet. Without giving his prey a chance to dress, Vicious pulled Trey from the room.
Often, butlers, cleaners and security guards roamed the corridors at night, either working or enjoying leisure time they could so rarely find during the day.
Whether by design or coincidence, on this night, they saw no one.
Outside the door where Liz had earlier handed Harvey a lifeline, Trey a death sentence, Vicious stopped, slamming Trey against the wall.
A man of few words, outside his master’s room, Vicious found his voice.
“For your father, I’ve killed hundreds. Men, women, kids. I’m not bothered. Do as the boss says and that’s it.”
One hand on Trey’s throat, pinning him to the wall, Vicious grabbed the handle of Harvey’s door with the other.
“All sorts of people your dad’s got to kill. The ones he respects, or likes, he always asks to speak with first. Always.”
From the door handle, Vicious’ hand fell.
Smiling that shark smile, he said, “You mean nothing to him.”
Thick hand on Trey’s throat, Vicious dragged them from Harvey’s door, around the corner, away.
There is a reason Cluedo’s makers did not set it in a one-bedroom apartment.
In a mansion the size of Harvey’s, there are hundreds of places to kill a man; a thousand ways to do it; murder weapons without number.
On the premises, for example, there was a swimming pool, four offices, a library, three kitchens, thirty bedrooms and toilets without number.
One kitchen served Olivia’s wing of the mansion. Because of it, and numerous other amenities, she never had to see her husband, even when he was mobile.
Another kitchen was used day to day to prepare food for the staff, Harvey, Trey.
It was into the third kitchen Vicious dragged Trey.
A commercial outfit used to prepare feasts for the function room on the other side of its silver double doors. Harvey rarely needed it. To man it, extra staff were required.
It was empty when Vicious dragged Trey in, throwing him to the pristine tiles.
If there were countless murder weapons in the mansion, at least a quarter were here.
On one of many hobs, a silver pot, two-foot-high with a diameter half that length, seemed to ripple with whatever boiled within. Besides that, a block of eight knives ranging in sizes from toothpick to samurai sword.
Before this metal counter on the far wall, Vicious tossed Trey, whose head clanged off the side, bestowing upon him severe pain and the ability to speak.
“My father didn’t want you to torture me.”
“No,” confessed Vicious. “He gave no instructions beyond the basic. As I said, you mean nothing to him.”
Trey tried to rise. Vicious kicked him to the ground. A witch above her cauldron, he stared into the boiling pot.
“The choice was mine,” he said. “Pain I enjoy.”
Emboldened by the hopelessness of his situation Trey said, “Then tip it on yourself.”
Smiling, Vicious swept down and grabbed Trey, held him aloft, and plunged him back to the floor.
This process, he repeated thrice. By the end, Trey was dizzy, hurting, bleeding. Even if he’d wanted to move, he would have been unable. That was the point.
On either side of the pot was a handle. Vicious grabbed these and steadied himself. Empty, two workers were required to shift the pot. At least half full of what Trey assumed was boiling water, it would have taken ten of the kitchen staff.
Or one Vicious.
Back straight, knees bent. Vicious’ poise was perfect. When the water cascaded like a waterfall, Trey would scream. Full with agony, the cry would ring throughout the mansion. Everyone would hear.
No one would come.
Alone in her wing of the house, Olivia would wake. Upon hearing the screams, she would roll over, pull the duvet tighter, and close her eyes.
If she believed someone was murdering a stranger, sleep would claim her instantly. If she knew her son was the victim, slumber might allude her several minutes.
In either case, she wouldn’t consider moving.
Trey had forgotten someone.
As Vicious began to strain, his face twisting with the effort of lifting the pot, the kitchen door opened. Someone stepped in.
“Need a hand?”
Recovering police officer and active alcoholic, Liz Norton had arrived.
Twenty-Six
Kayla crossed the threshold into the living room and immediately wished she hadn’t.
Having had no time to prepare a speech, Will scrambled for words and at first only mumbled.
“Gina wasn’t cheating,” he said at last. “Something’s wrong with her. She came to kill Paul and managed to stab him. You have to help before he bleeds out.”
Kayla’s eyes went to Paul, but at first, she didn’t move. Xyla had quietened, and mother pulled daughter closer to her chest in a subconscious move of protection. From Paul, she looked to Will. Her eyes fell to the handcuffs.
“She locked me up,” he said, but could tell she was struggling to believe. Because he alone was conscious, instinct claimed he had to be guilty.
“You don’t have to unlock me if you’re worried,” he said, “but please help Paul. He’ll die if you don’t.”
From the floor, voice weakened by blood loss, Paul said, “Quicker would be better.”
With a yelp of shock, Kayla’s eyes flashed to Paul. Xyla remained quiet. Watching. Paul tried to lift his head, but the effort was too much. He collapsed into the carpet. His breathing was ragged. By the minute, it grew shallower, harsher.
Kayla went for her phone.
“No,” said Will and Paul at once.
“Ambulance,” she said.
“Have to leave,” whispered Paul.
“Someone has corrupted my wife,” said Will. “Her boss is coming to finish the job she started, to kill Paul. I need you to get a tea towel from the kitchen and put pressure on the wound. Then go upstairs and get the key for the handcuffs. If you don’t feel comfortable freeing me, fine. You can leave the key in reach then get Paul into your car. Someone must drive him to the hospital. If you want to do it without me, okay.”
Still, Kayla hung in indecision, now looking to Gina. How she could ignore Paul’s harsh, dying breaths, Will didn’t know.
After thirty seconds, Paul said, “Don’t worry about… hospital. Just stand… watching. I’ll die. It’s… cool.”
As Paul spoke, he raised a red hand, keen enough to show his frustration, he had stopped holding the wound.
At sight, Kyla squeaked in fear and rushed across the living room, into the kitchen, clutching her baby tight to her chest and keeping as far from the littered wounded as she could manage. Will hated that he’d had to bring her over, but there were no alternatives. She was their only hope.
Seconds aft
er disappearing, Kyla returned with a tea towel. So she didn’t have to put down Xyla, she knelt on the floor and lay out the towel, folding it with one hand while clutching her baby with the other. Grabbing the resulting parcel, she shuffled forward. Will watched as Paul moved his hand, exposing a bloody stomach. From the rapid paling of Kayla’s skin, Will knew when she’d found the wound. A second later, she pressed the folded tea towel. One at a time, she picked up Paul’s hands as though they were sandbags, placed them on the tea towel.
Putting pressure on the resulting pile, she said, “hold.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Rising she looked first to Will, then out the window, perhaps thinking of the mentioned oncoming threat. As it stood, she seemed unconvinced.
“I know this is weird,” Will said. “You don’t have to let me go, but please can you get the handcuff key? Don’t leave me here.”
As Kayla again prevaricated, Paul scoffed. “He’s… truth. Gina stabbed… me. She’s bitch… Sorry, Will.”
“Not the time,” said Will.
“Upstairs…” Paul continued. “first door… top drawer… left of bed… only key… let him go… be quick.”
Though she had claimed to dislike Paul, Kayla seemed willing to take his word over Will’s, perhaps because Paul, as a dying man, was less likely to lie.
Seconds after Paul finished speaking; Kayla disappeared again. In under a minute, she was back. In the doorway, she hesitated, a tiny key between forefinger and thumb. Realising she was going to give him the key no matter what, Will guessed her latest bout of indecision revolved around how and when she wanted Will free.
Falling on the side of trust, she crouched before him. Xyla, only a few inches from Will, reached out with a tiny, chubby hand, trying to touch his face. Kayla didn’t jerk her baby away, focused on grabbing the cuff and inserting the key. As Kayla unlocked him, Will smiled and waved at the baby.
As soon as he was loose, he rushed to Paul.
“Come on. We’re getting you out of here.”
With one hand holding the tea towel, Paul released the other to allow Will to loop it around his shoulders. They stood. Holding Paul’s arm over his shoulder with one hand, he placed his other over Paul’s on the tea towel.
Still, the blood came. By the second, Paul’s step grew less steady. He didn’t have long.
“What about…” Paul started. Unable to finish the sentence, he nodded to Gina.
The last thing Will wanted was to leave her. He shook his head.
“Forget her. We need to take care of you.”
Without prompting, when Paul and Will reached her, Kayla took Paul’s remaining hand from his wound and looped it over her shoulder on the other side to Will. With one hand, she pressed Will’s over the tea towel, with the other, she held Xyla. With what little strength Peul had, he clung to them both.
Awkward, like an injured crab, they turned side on and made their way out the door, into fresh air. It felt like a hundred years since Will had entered Paul’s house.
Nodding across the road, he said, “That’s my car. We’ll get you in the back and go. Kayla, you don’t need to come.”
Kayla said nothing. Linked together, they stepped into the road.
As one they heard the engine and turned towards the darkened road, lit only by streetlamps.
For a few seconds, it was unclear if the car was coming closer or moving further away. Then beams swept into the street, pointing at the threesome like a targeting beam.
They had no way of knowing if the car’s occupants were friend, foe or stranger. Taking no chances, Will tried to speed up, dragging Paul with him.
“Not far now.”
They’d cut the distance between the curb and the car in half when the car stopped, two houses from Paul’s, on the side of the road from which they had recently alighted. Both front doors opened.
The driver side opened slightly earlier, and it was the driver who exited first, stepping into a streetlamp’s glow.
This time, it was Paul who squeaked.
“Heidi,” he moaned.
“Go,” shouted Will. They made it three more steps before the passenger moved from the car and into the light.
Will stopped. Not expecting it, Kayla almost tripped, Paul slipped.
“Dad.”
First, there was only joy that his daughter was there. It took a few seconds to realise with whom she had arrived. The monster who had changed his wife.
Edie did not seem to be a prisoner.
If his daughter sliced her finger, would could they learn from her blood?
Rage overcame Will. Without realising what he was doing, he pulled from Paul and paid no attention as the dying man, too heavy for Kayla, too weak to stand, collapsed.
All else forgotten, Will abandoned the man he had been trying to save and raced towards the woman called Heidi.
For changing his wife, for taking his daughter, he was going to kill her.
Twenty-Seven
These days, the sight of people at night made Mercury nervous.
Three shapes, pressed together as though glued, shuffling across the road, made her nervous enough to pull up the car two houses early. Leaving her keys in the ignition, she opened her door and stepped out.
In the centre of the trio, a bleeding, dying man, saw her, said something. A single word. Mercury had a sneaking suspicion about what that word might be.
The woman to the bleeding man’s right was carrying a baby, making the trio a secret foursome.
A second behind Mercury, Edie exited the car. Her face lit, and she called, “Dad.” Relief fired through Mercury. They weren’t too late.
At Edie’s call, the face on the left of the bleeder broke into delight, lifting Mercury’s heart.
Then Mercury remembered the dying man had spoken. At the same time, so did his carrier. Rather than at Edie, the father looked at Mercury. Rather than delight, his expression became coated in fury. Like a paper boat too close to the incoming tide, his happiness was washed away.
Mercury twisted to speak to Edie.
Edie’s father was running. Powered by rage, he shot across the tarmac. Bemused, Mercury said, “What did you say your dad’s name was?”
“Will.”
Mercury turned to the onrusher. “Will, can we—”
Like a rhino, bent and running, Will hit Mercury head and shoulder first.
With a scream, he spun and collapsed to the ground. Clutching his neck, he twisted and stood.
Mercury, who had barely felt the impact, outstretched her hands. Sensing this might be a Heidi based misunderstanding, she tried to decide how to explain.
Will swung for her. His blow was wild; she easily dodged.
“My wife,” he screamed. “You’ve turned her into a monster. You made her blood burn.”
Once more, his fist came. Her palm blocked the move. He might have hit a brick wall. Screaming, he fell away, collapsing again to the concrete. At the far end of the street, a car appeared.
“William,” Mercury said. “You need to stop.”
“My wife.” He came again. “Now, my daughter.”
Hands out, he rushed. Effortlessly, she parted the arms, grabbed his shirt and lifted him skyward.
Flailing like a toddler, Will started yelling. Several feet back, the baby began to cry.
“Edie,” said Mercury. “Tell your father to listen.”
“Dad, stop,” Edie shouted. “Mercury saved my life.”
“Who’s Mercury?”
Still holding him, she said, “That’s me. Can I put you down?”
He flailed a little longer, then nodded. Though Mercury sensed he would have said this no matter his intentions, she released. Anyway, her arms were beginning to ache.
Breathing hard, he said, “You’re Heidi.”
“I knew that would be the misunderstanding,” said Mercury. “It isn’t true. Heidi’s a monster. I’m not. Because I knew Heidi was going to go after your daughter, I went to your hou
se, and I saved her. Please, if I were Heidi, Edie wouldn’t be with me, unharmed, would she?”
No hesitation, he said, “Yes.”
Before Mercury could comment, Edie spoke.
“Dad, where’s mum?”
As though he had forgotten his daughter was there, he stared at her, stunned, then pulled the teenager into a hug. Unlike many girls her age, Edie didn’t push away Will. The circumstances called for extraordinary measures on the physical affection front.
“Honey, honey, are you okay? Did she do anything to you? Are you…” he stopped, not quite knowing what to say. “Talk to me. No, don’t. Oh, I don’t know. What happened to your head?”
Will’s fingers went to his daughter’s forehead, above the left eyebrow. During their escape, Edie had grazed it. A droplet of blood formed at the wound. Mercury hadn’t noticed.
As Will licked his finger to clean the blood, Mercury remembered what he’d said about his wife. Realised what he must have seen.
“You know your daughter is still your daughter,” she said to Will. “That blood isn’t acid.”
Will spun from Edie. Distant eyes looked through Mercury, into his past. She knew what he would be seeing. Mercury wanted to say something reassuring about his wife but didn’t want to mention her condition in front of Edie. The girl was young. Delicate words would be needed.
Mercury said, “I know you’re afraid, but your daughter’s fine. I guess the bleeding guy knows Heidi and fingered me as her, and there’s a good reason for that. I promise you, though, I’m not her. I’m Mercury.”
Will looked to Edie, who nodded.
“She saved my life, dad.”
On the cusp of acceptance, Will opened his mouth to speak and was cut off by someone calling his name.
Cold dread filled Mercury as they turned. The car that had approached up the street had stopped in the centre of the road. From three doors had appeared three men.
Imran was with the woman and her baby. Leon had crouched beside the dying man. A little ahead of these two, Yassin had called to Will.
“Yassin?” said Will. “What happened? Why is my daughter here, not with you?”