by J B Holman
He turned off the water and hauled her sopping, cold, dripping, subdued body out of the bath, dragged her on her heels through the elegant, single woman’s flat and dropped her on the wooden floor in the hall. String from his bag tied her wrists to the radiator pipe. She was cold; too cold to panic, too cold to scream, too cold to fight, but he wanted to be sure.
‘Just one sound. Just one and . . .’ He didn’t need to finish the sentence. She nodded. ‘I can gag you if you want. Have you ever been gagged?’ She nodded. ‘Gags hurt. You can’t swallow, they make your face ache. Make a sound and I will gag you.’
He left her in shock and began getting the lay of the land, room by room. He picked up her iPad and laptop before disappearing into the bedroom. She wriggled. She struggled, but that just made her wrists hurt. She was cold, so cold. Her spasms of shivering became uncontrollable. She could scarcely breathe, but she didn’t scream. She had no idea what was happening, but she knew one thing: Edward was in control.
She heard the barely audible sound of the radio, playing in her neighbour’s flat.
The Prime Minister will speak tomorrow at . . .
The Housing Benefits Bill has come under heated debate . . .
In the Brighton double murder case, the third victim is out of surgery, but is still reported to be in a critical condition in Intensive Care. The perpetrator is thought to be a local transvestite. The police have just announced that they are looking for a man in a green ruffled dress, wearing a blonde wig. The police are asking anyone who knows of his whereabouts to come forward, but warn that this man is highly dangerous and should not be approached.
The weather will be bright and sunny . . .
It went in one ear and out of the other. Her only aim was to avoid being a victim on tomorrow’s news.
She lay, tiny on the floor, as shock turned to anger. Violation, invasion, injustice, the need to kill him to make it fair; her mind filled with thoughts that wouldn’t help her. The minutes became longer, the cold unbearable, the air-conditioning vent above cut through her like an Arctic storm. She would fight him. She struggled to get free. The futility and the tightly bound string both hurt. She fought harder, pulled harder. It just hurt more. She stopped tugging. She stopped fighting. She cried.
An hour passed, maybe more. Calm returned. I’m not dead. She was determined to stay that way. I am frightened. She knew that was unhelpful, so told herself it would be OK. He’s not a burglar. She reframed the situation, as her counsellor had taught her. He’s a man. He’s come into my life, he will hurt me, take what he wants and leave. I know what that feels like and I can handle it. I won’t fight him, I’ll play him. He can take my things, he can defile my body, but he cannot take ‘me’. She would keep her own self safe. She would be kind, compliant . . . and then kill him. But for now, she would obey. Julie knew what to do. Julie was back in control.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. She increased the volume. ‘I’m sorry.’ He came out of the bedroom.
‘Cold enough?’ he asked. No reply. ‘If you’d taken your clothes off when I asked, you would be warmer now. Lesson 1: do as I say, without question, always. I live here now. With you. Get used to it.’ He cut the string with his knife. ‘Stand up.’
He discarded the knife and stood six feet away looking at her standing, sodden, sad, still dripping, still shivering, slumped in her clothes, wet, weak, still frumpy, but now fragile. He spoke quietly, ‘Come here.’
She moved a step forwards.
‘Closer.’ There was no knife, no fists, just his eyes and his voice. She moved another step closer.
‘Undress,’ he commanded in a whisper.
She looked into his eyes. There was power. She knew she had to comply. She wanted to comply. She was cold. He was strong.
His eyes were blue, deep blue. They were calm. They gave her no choice. She would strip for those eyes and to keep her own self safe.
She unbuttoned her top, slipped it off and let it fall to the wooden floor. She was wearing a camisole underneath. He wanted more. She unbuttoned her trousers and lowered the zip slowly, not seductively but reluctantly; he indicated to continue. She lowered her trousers and added them to the soggy pile.
She looked at him as if to say, ‘Enough?’ It wasn’t. A single finger indicated it was time to take off the camisole. Its clammy wetness stuck to her body. She wriggled out of it to reveal a thin flimsy cotton bra. She dropped the camisole and faced him. That commanding finger told her to turn around.
She stood with her back to him. He looked. She was slim, very slim from the waist up. She was size eight at the most, maybe a six above the hips, but an Italianate ten below. Her underwear was not expecting visitors today, that was for sure. Her waist was so slim he could almost wrap his hands around it, but her bum was more fulsome than petite. Her knickers were all covering and her bra was just a pair of loose cotton pockets with little to cover.
‘Turn,’ he commanded quietly. She turned back. She looked him in the eye and slowly, of her own volition, knelt in front of him, then bowed her head. She was playing him. He left her there, walked away to return moments later with a towel in his hand. She was still kneeling. I can do this, she repeated to herself. I can do this, can’t I?
‘Stand up.’ She obeyed. She knew she had to strip. She stood in front of him. He looked; trim tummy, strong thighs, small breasts; very small breasts. The bra was a child’s and even so was unfilled. It was a region of some personal sensitivity. She looked at him and proceeded. She chose knickers rather than bra and put her thumbs under the elastic of the waistband, ready for the reluctant reveal. But before she could pull them down, he passed her the towel and guided her into the bedroom. Of course, the bedroom, she thought to herself. She was even almost ready for the inevitable.
‘Dry yourself and take your underwear off.’ She managed this with her back to him to reveal nothing of her modesty. ‘Put on dry underwear.’ That, she had not expected. She tied the towel around her waist, and with her back to him, put on a bra, a more structured, more ornate bra; then she fished around for a suitable pair of knickers, which she put on. ‘Give me the towel and brush your hair.’ She stood, in matching underwear, bent over and brushed the shower out of her shoulder-length hair. She turned her back to him.
Interesting, he thought. Out of a full knicker-drawer, she chose a pair with a triangular see-through panel at the front that only covered a diagonal half of her buttocks at the back.
‘Lie on the bed,’ he commanded gently.
‘Which way up do you want me?’ There was a long pause.
‘Lie on your back.’ She complied. There were cable ties already attached to the metal frame at the bottom of her bed. He put another round her leg and pulled it tight. It bit into her.
‘Ow!’ she complained. He did the same for the other leg and produced two more cable ties for her wrists. ‘They hurt,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you use handcuffs?’
‘I don’t have any.’
‘I do. Top drawer; next to Big Boy Blue and the Pink Tickler.’
He slid open the drawer and there indeed was a set of handcuffs exactly where she said. He tested them to ensure that they locked properly. The key lay next to them. He handcuffed her to the ornate but feminine metalwork of the bedhead, then lay a blanket across her, left the room and returned a moment later with a cup of coffee.
‘I told you we would have coffee together. Drink this.’ His voice was without humour and without warmth.
‘What, with handcuffs on?’
He released the handcuffs and sat with her as she drank. No words were spoken, but somehow the mood had silently changed - not a lot but perceptibly. The threat level had reduced.
After a long silence, she took the last sip of her hot coffee and started to feel warmer under the thick blanket.
‘So,’ she said slowly, ‘you don’t like raping cold girls.’
‘The temperature is immaterial,’ he replied. He took her empty coffee cup and placed it carefully on the bedside ta
ble. He gently rubbed her forehead where the door had bruised it using the soft tip of his fingers, then followed through with a caress that swept softly across the side of her head and tenderly down the back of her soft, showered hair.
He gently bunched her hair together, pony-tail fashion, and held it firmly, but not aggressively. He pulled it down, tilting her face upwards. Their eyes met. It was the first time he’d looked at her face. She was not as plain as she portrayed herself. Her eyes were glistening bright aquamarine, her nose was cute, rounded and small and her complexion was porcelain. She had a triangular mark on her lower cheek and a scarred crease on the right-hand side of her lower lip, the result of a long-gone trauma, but her lips had a distinct appeal. He looked into her eyes and saw an inner resilience, a potential stubbornness but a submissiveness, a compliance, a desire for adherence to the rules.
She looked into his murky impenetrable eyes. He was handsome, almost pretty . . . and fit. There was something happening in his head, but she didn’t know what it was. This was home invasion and he was clearly a rapist, but he didn’t seem like one. She was angry that he had hoodwinked her; he was a conner for sure. She wanted to feel outraged, to feel hatred; but in a way she felt it wasn’t real, it wasn’t a real threat. Maybe she was just too scared. Maybe a rapist in her mind, was out of control; this man was very much in control. She admired control, usually; but assured herself she would learn to hate this man.
He looked at this frightened submissive woman, this woman who obeyed him when he said not to scream, who chose to kneel at his feet, who said she had been gagged before, chose alluring underwear, owned handcuffs, and had bought a bed with an iron frame perfect for bondage. But according to her Facebook, her last boyfriend had been two years before, his picture was still on the mantelpiece. Her look was quiet and self-effacing, her embarrassment came easy, whether in a supermarket queue or when hiding her breast size. Her frame was small; she was five foot three, if that. He wished he’d met her under different circumstances. He would have liked that. They held each other’s gaze for a full ten seconds.
He spoke and the moment passed. It was almost a whisper, but it was enough. The threat returned.
‘I need your help, your full and complete assistance. All I want is . . . everything.’ She swallowed at the thought. ‘We can do this nicely, with kindness and we’ll both get through it. Or you can fight me, in which case, it will be rough on you. I will be rough on you. I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to maim you and I don’t want to kill you, but if you force my hand, I will destroy you and everything you care about. I need to stay here for a while, with you. It’s complicated.’
‘Will you beat me?’
‘Will I beat you at what?’
‘No, will you beat me, if I’m a naughty girl?’
‘This is not a sex game. This is real. Get it into your head. This is real.’
‘I know. That’s what makes it so intense.’
A look of resigned exasperation flowed across his face.
‘Hands,’ he commanded. She duly offered them up to the handcuffs. He might be a rapist and a pervert, but she could play him at his own game. He wouldn’t really kill her.
‘More coffee?’ he asked. He was too kind to be a killer.
‘Yes, please. There’s cake in the tin if you want it . . . seeing as you live here,’ she said with the faintest trace of sarcasm.
He entered the kitchen and flicked on the old transistor radio that stood on the window sill by the kettle. He opened the kitchen window, just a crack. It was an old Secret Service habit, in case he needed to leave rapidly. He grabbed some mugs and set them down on the work surface.
Noise from the kitchen was the signal. She slipped her hands out of her own well-known handcuffs, leant forward and tugged at the cable ties. There was no way they would break. Maybe the knife was in his bag, which was now on the floor by the door. She carefully but painfully manoeuvred her legs and slid the cable ties down the leg of the bed until she was lying face-down on the floor, ankles bound tightly to the bed, hands free to grab at the bag. It was out of reach. She stretched. She tugged. The bag fell on its side. A green ruffled dress and a blonde wig fell out.
She gasped. Brighton! He was a killer. He was the Brighton Killer. He would kill her.
Oh my god! He had told her his name, she had seen his face.
She was as good as dead.
She needed that knife.
She pulled the bag closer and shook it. A sheaf of typed paper held together by a single treasury tag slipped out dishevelled. Then slowly, as if in slow motion, a pistol slid across the paper. Her eyes lit up. She grabbed it. He was a dead man.
But she still needed that knife. She pulled the sheaf of papers out of the way, but a word caught her eye. She tried to ignore it, the knife was more important, but she had to look. Holy Moses!
Her brain made sense of what her eyes could not believe. She flicked pages. She flicked back. She had to be sure. It had maps, charts, instructions, angles of trajectory, wind compensation. It was a report; a fanatically accurate report on what had happened two days previously in London.
‘Oh Christ!’ she said almost silently. It was not a report. It was a plan, a minutely detailed plan of the Prime Minister’s assassination. It was exact. Everything. How he had used social media to build crowds at the front of the building; where the PM would emerge at the back; and where foul-intentioned Mr Fox had to be to get the best shot. There was a diagram: a big X marked the spot, right over the heart of the Prime Minster - in fact two, it was to be a ‘double tap’, two bullets, just to make sure. The Firing-spot where the gun was placed was marked with an F. All the Optics were described in detail: the focus, distance, wind factors; there were four columns of interdependent ‘Optic factors’.
He was for real, a real hit man. A killer hired to shoot the Prime Minister.
But he had failed, he had killed the wrong man. Despite all his planning, he had missed and hit an innocent bystander. And now he was on the run, here, taking refuge in her flat. She flicked to the next page. It was headed SECOND SHOT and dated to show when it would happen. It involved poison. The THIRD SHOT was dated for later the same week, and involved shooting or breaking the neck.
She flicked. There were ten or more precise instructions on how to kill the leader of the United Kingdom: dates, places, methods. He was not on the run, he was biding his time. He had not finished yet. He was going to see the job through . . . and he wanted her help.
No, never. That’s never going to happen.
She jumped. He was standing in the door. He had left the kitchen unheard and was watching her. She pointed the gun straight at him.
‘You killed those men in Brighton.’ She shook the blonde wig at him. ‘And I’ve seen your plans. You’re the failed assassin.’ She was feeling braver now.
‘So it would appear,’ he said, with cool and unperturbed indifference, despite the fact that a gun was pointing at his head and he was seconds from death. He took a step forwards.
‘Stop! Take one more step and I will shoot.’ He knelt slowly and, despite her caution not to, slipped his fingertips into the side pocket of the holdall and gracefully pulled out a box.
‘Bullets,’ he said. ‘You need them to make your threat credible.’
‘Give me those bullets or I will shoot you.’
‘You haven’t thought this through, have you?’
His face said he had won. Her face said she knew it. It was over. He spoke softly. ‘Give me the gun.’ She handed it to him. He took it. He clicked open the cartridge and looked.
‘Sorry, my mistake. It was loaded.’
‘You’re one mega mind-fuck,’ she said with genuine venom.
‘Thank you. Now get back on the bed. It’s time to hurt you.’ Fear returned.
She tried, but it was not possible from her face-down, ankle-bound position. He watched her struggle. She scrambled, turned and contorted but she could not obey his command, she could not get b
ack up on the bed. She got as far as sitting on the floor at the end of the bed, knees up, feet flat on the floor. The ankle ties had got twisted and were digging in. The pain was evident. Progress had halted.
‘I should leave you there,’ he said, crouching by the side of the bed, knife being put to positive use. He slit the first cable tie and looked down on her. She was so small and almost sobbing; he was so large, towering over her, even in his half-crouched position. He was in control, she was nothing more than his lapdog.
He slit the second cable tie and as he did, she sprang at him like a stretched bungee straight into his chest. He fell backwards, saving himself only by standing unsteadily more upright. She surged on like a high-speed rugby scrum, forcing him back, over-balancing him, adding momentum to his loss of control. The knife fell from his hand as she slammed him unbalanced and unready against the window. It wasn’t fastened. The pane flew open, his body flew out. His head, his shoulders, his back, teetered thirty feet above the ground, toppling backwards. His legs kicked as she kept on pushing.
Gravity was on her side. But luck was on his.
He grabbed the window frame with his hands, drew up his knees and kicked blindly into the room. It caught her ribs, she fell backwards. He pulled himself up, she grabbed the knife, he leapt from the window sill. She thrust and missed. He grabbed her hand and twisted; the knife fell. She was in trouble.
He raised his fist, looked at her face and brought his knuckles down hard. She screamed as she hit the floor. She lay there for a second or two, waiting for the knife or a kicking, or to be dragged by her hair before having her face reshaped by the persistent pummelling of a ferocious, heartless fist.
She lay there. Her cheek stung, but there was no blood. She stayed on the floor and relived her last standing moments. The hard clenched fist that rained down on her had opened just before it made contact. It was not a punch, it was a slap; a girlie slap, not even a very hard girlie slap; it stung but it did no damage. She had fallen through the shock of expectation, not through the force of the blow. Now she was confused.