by D. S. Butler
“Brendan?” She repeated the name thoughtfully and hesitated.
Just when Mackinnon thought he might be getting somewhere, she shook her head firmly. “No, sorry. I don’t know anyone called Brendan.”
Mackinnon hid his disappointment. It was a long shot. They didn’t even know if Brendan was his real name or just a pseudonym he used online.
After he’d asked a few more questions, Daphne offered to show Mackinnon around the house, including the bedroom where they’d found the bedbugs. The walls were bare, having been stripped of wallpaper.
“I couldn’t keep it on there once I knew they’d been living beneath. We left it for a few weeks as the pest control guy suggested. He sprayed both bedrooms upstairs and the hallway, and then came back to spray again two weeks later. As soon as the treatment was over, I stripped everything off and washed everything down.” She scratched her arm and gave Mackinnon a sheepish smile.
“The worst thing is, I’m a bit of a clean freak. I hate mess or dirt. But we weren’t allowed to vacuum or wipe down any surfaces after they’d sprayed. Can you believe it? It already felt like the place was really dirty and then I wasn’t allowed to vacuum.” She shook her head. “Hopefully we’ve seen the last of the horrible things now. I have to say I was really shocked. I thought in this day and age we would have got rid of them.”
“They seem to be making quite a comeback,” Mackinnon said.
Daphne gave a more violent shiver this time. “Well, I just hope they don’t come back here.”
Tom Bradley was running behind again. This job would be the death of him. He broke hard, swung his hire van into a narrow space at the side of the road and yanked on the handbrake. After tugging off his seatbelt, he jumped down from the driver’s seat and left the engine running as he fumbled with his clunky scanning device, trying to open the back doors of the van at the same time.
He swore under his breath when he saw his carefully stacked piles of parcels had fallen over. He’d spent ages getting them sorted in order of delivery address. Now he’d have to search through the whole lot for the parcel for number twenty-one.
He clambered inside the van, tempted to chuck all the parcels onto the side of the road and drive off. He was sick of this job.
He flipped the scanner over only to find the screen was blank. Again. The third time today. It had to be faulty. Either that or it hated him. He shook it violently and the screen flickered into life. Finally.
According to the handheld device, there were two parcels for this address. He found the first one quickly enough, but the second was a tiny square box he eventually found wedged underneath one of the bigger parcels at the back of the van.
If he didn’t make it before the cut-off final delivery time of eight p.m., he’d have to give the company a penalty payment.
He’d had to do that twice in the last month. On days like today, it barely made it worthwhile getting out of bed and going to work in the first place.
What with the cost of the van hire, plus the diesel, he wasn’t exactly raking it in on good days either.
Working as a delivery driver had appealed to him. He liked the idea of being on the road on his own for most of the day. He figured he could listen to podcasts and a couple of his favourite radio shows. But he hadn’t factored in the horrendous London traffic and those stupid penalty payments.
Maybe being a delivery driver outside London would be better. But for now, he was reconsidering his career choice. He grabbed the two parcels, jumped out of the van and jogged across the road to number twenty-one.
He rang the doorbell and clenched his teeth in annoyance as the chimes played a stupid nursery rhyme. Didn’t the owners find that annoying? He did, and he’d only listened to it for five seconds.
He scanned the parcels and saw to his annoyance that they needed a signature. He couldn’t just leave them on the doorstep.
“Come on, come on,” he mumbled under his breath. Why did they always take so long to answer the door when he was in a rush?
Running late again. It was the story of his life.
He muffled a sigh as the homeowner finally opened the door.
“Delivery for you, love,” he said holding the machine for her so she could sign digitally. As soon as she’d scrawled something on the screen, he whipped it away and thrust the parcels at her, turning away before she had a chance to reply.
He jogged back over to the van. He had no time for niceties today. He briefly considered rearranging the parcels in the back again so they were in delivery order, but what was the point if they all toppled over again when he took a corner too fast?
He climbed up into the cab and pulled out into the traffic, causing the driver of the bus he drove in front of to sound their horn.
“They think they own the road. Bloody buses,” Tom grumbled to himself.
He looked at his satnav. His next stop was only a short distance away. He flicked his indicator and then cursed as the traffic lights changed in front of him. He broke hard and heard the parcels shift about in the back. Typical. At least he hadn’t wasted his time trying to put them in order again.
A woman with an annoying nasal voice was talking on the radio. A member of the public had called in to chat about her experiences shopping locally rather than at major supermarkets.
“Who cares?” Tom yelled at the radio as the lights turned green.
He stamped on the accelerator. Why did the producers of radio shows think people wanted to listen to members of the public? If he’d wanted to listen to that sort of rubbish he’d go down to Sainsbury’s and strike up a conversation with some numbskull, or head down to the local pub and ask for someone’s opinion on supermarket dominance.
They were getting paid to put on the shows, but filled it with free content by having people call in and talk about rubbish.
He flicked off the radio with a grunt of annoyance and slid a CD into the slot. Amy Winehouse. One of his favourites.
He sang along, trying to put the ticking clock out of his mind.
Who would have thought being a delivery driver could be so stressful? He’d left his job in local government, thinking he’d have more time at home to spend with his wife and kids. He’d expected the salary cut but hadn’t expected the stress.
He really didn’t get paid enough for this amount of trouble, he thought, as he pulled up outside his next destination. If he didn’t have a better day tomorrow, he’d jack it in. Life was too short.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Tammy took a deep breath and struggled to push herself into a sitting position. Her arms were stinging. She wasn’t sure what those insects had been. Fire ants? Whatever they were, they’d bitten her and left bumps all over her arms.
She scratched the raised lumps. Did those little bugs really carry a parasite? Fear twisted her stomach.
She shook her head, refusing to admit the possibility of a parasite living in her blood. No. She’d been taken in because she was so desperate for someone to help her. His whole theory was nonsense. They were just insect bites. Pure and simple. She’d be absolutely fine when she got out of there and got hold of some antihistamine.
Brendan had put a rag in her mouth and topped it with duct tape over her lips. She slowly peeled back the edges of the tape. Although her hands were bound in front of her, she could still remove the tape now that she was conscious. She felt a surge of anger. Covering her mouth like that after he’d given her so many drugs was stupid and reckless. She could have choked on her own vomit and died.
Not that he’d care. He wasn’t normal. He was a complete and utter maniac.
He actually thought she would go along with his plan, whatever that was. Tammy remembered the look of shock on his face when she’d slammed her elbow against his cheekbone. She’d learnt that move in first defence class before she got too ill to go. Her elbow had connected with a satisfying thud and he’d screamed in pain, then shuffled off, leaving her alone for a while at least.
She’d been aiming
at his nose, so the blow hadn’t been on target, but she’d managed to inflict some damage, and that was the important thing.
Tammy ran a hand over her forearm. She needed to stop scratching the bites, but they were so itchy.
She planned to do more than put her elbow in his face the next time he came back up to the loft. She had to face facts. This wasn’t all some big mistake. He wasn’t suddenly going to feel bad about what he’d done and release her. There were only two likely ways this could end.
He’d kill her, or she’d kill him. Acknowledging the fact made her feel dizzy. She wasn’t stupid. She knew the first outcome was more likely.
Bile rose at the back of Tammy’s throat as she thought what he might do to her.
She linked her fingers and squeezed her palms together. The effects of the drugs were wearing off now. She didn’t feel so out of it, so the next time he came up here… that was her chance. She’d throw everything she had at him.
A little voice at the back of her mind told her to just go along with what he wanted. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t make him angry.
But he wasn’t going to let her go. He was going to kill her.
She’d found the other woman’s clothes up here, hadn’t she? He’d kept another woman up here before Tammy, and who knew if there had been only one other woman? He could have been doing this for years, preying on young women who joined the forum for help. Poor, stupid women like her, who really believed he could help after Western medicine had failed them.
Angrily, Tammy raked her skin with her fingernails.
If she was going to die up here, she was going to do as much damage to him as possible. If she managed to take him by surprise, she might have a chance. All she had to do was momentarily disable him and give herself enough time to access the loft hatch, climb down the ladder, then down the stairs and to the front door.
If the front door was locked, she knew there was a window in the kitchen big enough to crawl through. That was plan B.
All she had to do now was wait.
It was hot in the loft, and the warmth made her drowsy, despite the adrenaline running through her system. Exhaustion made her limbs feel heavy and her eyelids droop.
She wondered how her mum was getting on and her sister. They’d be so worried by now. Then she thought about Instagram. Surely her followers on there would be sending concerned messages. She’d be missed.
Tammy sniffed. She wasn’t going to give up without a fight. By this time tomorrow, she could be safely back in her own bed. She imagined getting back home and giving her mum the biggest hug…
Tammy jerked awake and blinked. How had she fallen asleep sitting up? She was so tempted to lie down and go back to sleep but didn’t want to be groggy and only half awake when he next came up to the loft. She needed to be fully alert.
She smothered a yawn and then froze at the sound of the loft hatch scratching against wood as Brendan pried it open.
This was it.
Tammy lowered her head, so her hair fell forward, blocking her face from his view. She peered through the strands of hair and saw his head and shoulders appear through the hatch. A wave of repulsion rippled through her body, making her shudder.
Her first plan had been to find something heavy to use as a weapon, but she hadn’t found anything suitable. Shame. She could have hit him as soon as he stuck his head through the hole and clobbered him over and over again until he was unconscious.
Tammy was resourceful, though. Her weapon of choice was tucked in close to her feet. She just needed him to come closer to be able to use it.
“Tammy, I hope you’re in a better frame of mind now. If you play up again, I’ll be forced to give you more drugs. I don’t want to do that. I’d prefer it if we could work together as a team.”
Tammy said nothing, but kept her eyes trained on Brendan. He hauled the glass box into the loft, and Tammy’s heart began to race.
Not again.
She couldn’t stand the idea of those insects scurrying across her skin for a second time.
He lifted himself into the loft slowly, keeping his eyes on her warily.
Her skin prickled.
Talk to him. You need to get his trust. Get him to let his guard down.
Words froze in her throat as he carried the glass case closer.
After he set the box on the board beside her, Tammy got a closer look at the bugs. She didn’t know what they were, but they didn’t look like ants. The reddish-brown insects scurried across the glass. Maybe they were some kind of beetle, but they had flat bodies, as though they’d been trodden on.
“Do we have to do this again now?” Tammy asked, her voice trembling. My arms are still incredibly itchy.”
“Sorry about that. It’s a common side effect although some people can get bitten and not react at all, did you know that?”
Tammy shook her head.
“Oh yes, it’s all to do with body chemistry. Take me, for example, I react, but only a little.” He smiled at the bugs. “They’re my little pets. I can feed them, and I barely notice the bites.”
He reached out and grabbed her hand. Tammy tried to yank away, but his fingers tightened around her wrist.
“I thought we were going to try to get along,” he snapped.
It took a lot of willpower for Tammy to relax and let him inspect her arm.
“They do look a bit sore. I’ve got some cream downstairs. But you really have to try not to scratch. You don’t want the bites to get infected.”
“I can’t stop. It’s so itchy.”
“I’ll get you some cream. And I’ve got some gloves you can use, too. That should stop you scratching when you sleep.”
He stood up and turned his back, preparing to go back to the hatch.
This was it. Her chance.
For a moment, the feeling was so overwhelming she did nothing. She’d had a whole plan worked out of how she’d get him to turn around and face the other way. She’d been going to say a bird was trapped in the rafters, but now she didn’t need to.
He’d turned his back on her.
If she didn’t act now, she’d lose her chance. He was walking away, towards the hatch.
Tammy grabbed the handbag beside her and stood up. Her legs shook, but somehow she managed to stay upright. She flung herself at Brendan.
He heard her moving, of course, but his reaction was too slow. He didn’t turn in time.
Tammy looped the strap of the pink handbag over his neck, twisted it and then jumped on his back.
He fell forward heavily against the wooden boards. The breath left his lungs in a hiss as she coiled the strap around both hands and pulled back with all her strength.
It wasn’t easy. Even sitting on his back, her weight wasn’t enough to keep him pinned to the floor. He writhed and bucked, but Tammy just kept pulling the strap.
She couldn’t keep him still. He was so much taller and bigger than her, but all she had to do was keep her grip on the bag and not let go. She pulled tighter and tighter, praying the leather strap didn’t snap under the stress.
He tried to push her off his back, then to punch her, but the angle of his arms, weakened his blows. He couldn’t get enough purchase to knock her off.
Then he put his hands flat on the floor, pushing up, attempting to tip her off his back, but Tammy kicked his arms out from under him until he collapsed back on the floor.
He was weakening. Gasping for breath. His fingers scratched and pulled at the strap constricting his airway.
Tammy leaned back, pulling harder. A scream echoed in her ears, and tears were running down her cheeks, but she kept pulling.
It felt like hours passed. Her arms ached with the effort, but she kept the strap pulled taut until Brendan finally went limp.
Was it a trick? Or was he really unconscious? She didn’t trust him and kept the strap tight around his neck for another thirty seconds.
The screaming was still echoing around the loft and it took a moment for her to realise th
e scream was coming from her. She closed her mouth then everything was silent and still.
She sat there, still on his back, holding the straps, not wanting to let go. Was Brendan acting? Maybe he’d gone limp intending to attack her as soon as she let go of the straps.
But she couldn’t stay there. She willed herself to get moving. She had to get out of there.
Tammy whimpered with fear as she lowered the bag and let the strap loosen.
Brendan didn’t move.
She slowly lifted herself from Brendan’s back and stood up, but didn’t let go of the bag just in case.
But he lay motionless on the wooden floorboards. He looked odd. Pale. Was he unconscious or had she killed him?
She turned slowly, daring to look over her shoulder at the open loft hatch.
So close.
She could do it.
Slowly she lowered the bag to the floor, leaving the strap looped around Brendan’s throat, and then in a mad rush, flung herself at the loft hatch.
Panic and the fact her hands were still tied together, didn’t make her descent easy and she slid down the last three steps of the ladder, landing on her backside.
But she didn’t stop. She was straight back on her feet, lunging towards the stairs, taking them two at a time until she was in the hallway, and there, in front of her was the front door.
She was nearly there. Almost safe. She turned back. Was that a noise? Was he coming after her?
She fumbled with the keys.
Quick, quick.
She managed to turn the key and yanked open the door. Sobs racked her body as she flung herself out into the daylight and ran.
The uneven pavement scratched her bare feet as thoughts flooded her mind. She needed to get to a phone. She needed to call her mum. She needed to talk to the police.
But the overwhelming physical need to flee overrode everything else. She ran, despite the fact her brain was telling her she should stop at a neighbour’s and ask for help, her legs wouldn’t stop moving. She wanted to put as much distance between her and Brendan as possible.
She ran along the residential street in her underwear, scratching her arms. The thought running through her mind on a loop was that she had to get away.