by C. L. Taylor
With my basket half full I hurry to the tills. It’s a small shop and there’s only one cashier working so I’m forced to queue. There are two older women in front of me, dressed in near identical puffy anoraks, and they’re deep in conversation.
‘Do you go there, do you, Mavis?’ says the taller of the two.
‘I used to, but they put their prices up so I go to Crossman’s now.’
‘Do you? I like the staff in Greensleeves, they know their stuff.’
My ears prick up at the mention of the garden centre. That’s where Chloe and Mike work.
‘Did he work there then, did he?’
‘I think so.’ Mavis, the shorter woman, starts unloading her basket onto the conveyor belt. ‘Delivery driver apparently.’
‘How long’s he been missing?’
‘Since Monday night. He was supposed to check his van back in at work but he didn’t show and he didn’t answer his phone. Sandra was telling me all about it yesterday. Her neighbour’s niece works there. Apparently he rang his receptionist to say that he had one last delivery to do, then he disappeared off the face of the planet. He didn’t turn up to do any of his Tuesday deliveries. Sandra said they’re really worried about him. He had some heart problems last year and they’re worried he might have had an attack and ended up in a ditch.’
‘Oh gosh. Poor man. I do hope they’ve gone to the police.’
‘Oh yes. They reported him missing yesterday.’
I keep my gaze fixed to the conveyor belt as a pint of milk, tin of baked beans and a packet of bacon travel towards the cashier but my heart feels like it’s about to beat out of my chest. Mike can’t have told his receptionist where he was going or my door would have been the first one the police knocked on. But it’s only a matter of time until they do. And Mike’s van is parked up in my yard.
‘Sorry,’ I drop my basket full of food into the metal holder beneath the conveyor belt and shoot an apologetic look at the cashier. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ one of the chatty women comments as I head for the door.
There’s no way I can hide Mike’s van in the garage, not with a wheel-less car and all the junk filling it. That gives me two options – drive it as far away as I can and dump it or hide it in plain sight. Dumping it’s too much of a risk. Too close to the farm and it’ll look dodgy, particularly as the last call Mike took on his phone was in my barn. Too far away and someone might spot me hitchhiking back. I’ll have to hide it, and there’s only one place where I can do that.
Compared to my Mini, driving Mike’s van is like manoeuvring a tank. I can’t see anything in the rear-view mirror and the wing mirrors make everything behind the van seem miles away. Still, there’s not much I can reverse into out here, other than a few fences.
Mike starts shouting as I start the engine. ‘Lou! Lou, what are you doing? That sounds like my van. Lou! Lou!’
I touch my foot to the accelerator and drive towards the rear field. The van easily fits through the open gate and rolls and bumps down the steep incline. The field, like all the others surrounding the house, is unkempt and unloved with grass that’s at least waist height. It’s raining heavily but I don’t bother turning on the windscreen wipers. I’m not going to be in here for long.
I stop the van halfway down the field, pull on the handbrake, pull up my hood and get out. It should look miserable, the murky lake at the edge of the field, reflecting the black sky but there is something almost beautiful about the way the rain lands on the water, painting concentric circles that appear and then vanish in less than a heartbeat. It’s deep. Mum was terrified I’d drown in it as a kid and insisted Dad put a fence around it. He did a half-hearted job and it’s all but rotted to nothing now.
I half expect a helicopter to drop down through the clouds but there isn’t so much as a bird in the sky. For now. I reach into the van, release the handbrake and jump back out, scared I’ll be swept down the field with it. But the van doesn’t speed anywhere. It lurches forward and then stops. I’m going to have to give it some help.
‘Please,’ I raise my eyes heavenward. My hood has slipped down, my hair is plastered to my head and my waterproof is clinging to every part of my body. ‘Please work.’
I trudge back up the hill, turn, and ready myself.
‘One … two … three … go!’ I run towards the van, hands outstretched and launch myself at the closed back door.
The wheels groan against the wet grass and, for one terrible moment, I think the van isn’t going to move, but it lurches forward. I ready myself to give it another shove but it gathers pace and suddenly it’s off, hurtling down the field towards the lake. Please, I pray, please don’t stall partway into the water. I won’t be able to get it out again.
My prayer is answered. The white van speeds towards the lake and then SPLASH, the front end goes in and a huge brown wave of water leaps into the air. The van travels halfway across the lake and then slowly begins to sink. The lake ripples as it swallows it whole then it’s still again. Still, apart from the gentle dimpling of the rain.
I don’t know whether to punch the air or sink to my knees. The whole thing was so surreal I can’t believe it just happened. How can I have gone from living in a nice flat in London, dating a decent guy and doing a good job to locking a man in a cage and sinking his van? It’s like one of those dreams where you kill someone and wake up desperately hoping it didn’t happen.
But Chloe is real. What Mike did to me was real. And there’s no waking up from that.
Chapter 20
Lou
‘Did you enjoy it?’ Mike asked this morning as I opened my eyes to find him staring at me from the other pillow. ‘What we tried yesterday?’
I forced a smile.
He stroked my hair away from my cheeks. ‘The look on your face as you passed out was mesmerising. You looked almost … blissful. Do you want to do it again?’
I kept the smile fixed to my face. ‘Maybe later.’
That thing he did, squeezing my throat while we had sex, was the most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to me. First I felt light-headed and dizzy then, as he increased the pressure, it was as though a grey veil was separating us. As it got darker I pulled at his fingers. I was dying. He was strangling me to death. And then I woke up, still lying on my back on the bed with my skirt up round my waist. Mike was lying on his side, staring at me with this weird fascinated look on his face. I tried to twist away, so I wouldn’t have to look at him but he said, ‘No,’ and reached for my hand. ‘I want to fall asleep looking at you. Don’t ever turn your back on me, Lou. It’s not fair.’
I closed my eyes and kept them tightly shut until Mike started to snore softly. When we checked in on Saturday, the woman at reception told us in French that the night porter would be there overnight if we needed anything. I had to find him. There was no way Mike was ever going to let me go home and the porter was the only person who could help me.
Mike stirred in his sleep as I inched away from him towards the edge of the bed. I froze and waited for his breathing to slow again, then I gently tried to slip my fingers from his but his knuckles were large and vice-like, and I had to yank my hand free.
‘Where are you going?’ He caught me by the wrist and opened his eyes.
‘Toilet.’
‘Be quick. You woke me up.’
I shuffled across the bedroom, my heart pounding in my chest. The door to the bathroom was right next to the door to the hallway. I could run for it. I could scream that I’d been abducted and hope someone came out of one of the other rooms. Or Mike could spring out of bed and bundle me back into the room before the scream had even left my mouth.
‘Good girl,’ he said as I came out of the bathroom. He tapped the empty space I’d left in the bed. ‘Now let’s go back to sleep.’
‘Would you like anything else, love?’ the waitress asks as she puts a cup of coffee on the table in front of me.
I shake my head. ‘I’m fi
ne thank you.’
I’m in a small café in the Shambles, Worcester. Fifteen minutes ago I walked out of a grotty-looking electrical and mobile phone shop with Mike’s unlocked phone in my hand. The shop owner didn’t give me a second look when I told him that it belonged to my mother and she’d forgotten her security code. Instead he told me it would cost twenty quid, then he disappeared into the back of the shop. Five minutes later he returned and slid the phone across the counter towards me.
I practically ran into the nearest café and pressed the home button continually as I placed my coffee order, terrified the phone would lock again before I could check the messages. I’ve seen them all now. There were the six I caught glimpses of on the screen and one that must have arrived just before Chloe rang Mike. It’s the most interesting.
I no I shdnt use this number but its an emergency and ur not replyin to ur other phone. I need to talk to you. ASAP.
I went through all Mike’s contacts, his photos, downloads and emails. There wasn’t a single piece of incriminating evidence anywhere. No photos of Chloe, no emails and no text messages other than the flurry she sent on Monday. All of the texts were either work related – what time would he be arriving, how much for a delivery, change of address etc – or they were from friends asking if he fancied a pint or a night at the races. I considered whether George, Bill and Nick could be more pseudonyms for Chloe but those messages were written in a completely different style, using full English and some of the messages stretched back years.
After I’d been through the phone, I rang ‘Jim’, the number that definitely belonged to Chloe. It went straight to voicemail. I tried again. Voicemail again. Damn it. She was probably at school with the phone in her locker.
But what if she wasn’t? What if she was in danger when she asked Mike to call her ASAP? I stopped Mike going to her aid.
I re-read her first message.
I no I shdnt use this number but its an emergency and ur not replyin to ur other phone. I need to talk to you. ASAP.
How long was there between that message and her phone call? Sixteen minutes according to the phone. What could have happened that was so urgent?
Mike’s got another phone. One he uses for personal calls. She obviously rang it first, but I didn’t hear another phone ring when Mike was getting out of the van and he can’t have it on him or he would have rung for help by now. It wasn’t in his van or his stuff so it has to be hidden somewhere. And hidden well, or the police would have found it when they questioned him about Chloe a few days ago. It could be anywhere.
I push my chair away from the table and stand up. What do I do? Go back home or check Chloe’s okay?
Alan!
A name flashes up in my mind.
Alan is Chloe’s dad’s name. His wife shouted it when I went to their house. If he and Mike are friends his landline number might be in the phone.
And there it is. Alan Meadows. A mobile number and a landline. That has to be him. I tap on the latter and hold the phone to my ear. It rings several times and then, ‘Yes,’ says a tired-sounding female voice.
I lower my voice. ‘Is Chloe there please?’
‘She’s at school.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘Can I ask who’s calling please?’
I end the call before she can ask me again, then I turn the phone over and take out the battery and SIM again. If the police do track Mike’s calls they’ll think he’s been in Worcester.
The stench of shit hits me the second I open the barn door. Mike is sitting in one corner of his cell with the blanket pressed over his nose. In the opposite corner of the cell he’s piled bricks around and over the bucket.
I can feel him following me with his eyes as I cross the barn and scoop up a big armful of hay.
‘Here.’ I drop it next to the cage. He only needs to reach out an arm to grab it. ‘Use it to smother the smell.’
He shakes his head. He looks dead behind his eyes, like all the fight’s gone out of him.
‘You can lie on it too.’ I pick up a handful and shove it through the bars. ‘It’ll make it more comfortable for—’
Mike is lightning fast. One moment he’s curled up in a blanket in the corner of the cell. The next he’s on his feet with his fingers wrapped around my wrist. He yanks on my arm, slamming me up against the bars of the cage.
‘Open the cage!’
I struggle to twist free but he’s holding me too tightly. ‘I can’t.’
‘Open the cage or I’ll break your wrist.’ He pushes my hand back against my arm, making me cry out in pain.
‘I can’t!’ I scream. ‘I haven’t got the key.’
‘Liar!’ He pushes harder on my hand. The pain is unbearable. The muscles in my elbow and shoulder feel as though they’re being ripped from my joints.
‘There’s no key. I swear! Not here anyway. It might be in Dad’s garage but it’s full of stuff. I’d need to—’
Mike’s other hand grips my throat. As he squeezes, I pull at his fingers with my free hand.
‘Stay still!’ he shouts, yanking on my trapped hand, making me yelp in pain.
Somewhere at the back of my brain I know he can’t kill me. If he does he’ll never get out. But I’m in too much pain to think clearly. I don’t know how either of us are going to get out of this situation. I just want it to stop.
‘Stop fighting or I’ll snap your fucking neck!’ Mike shouts.
I don’t know if it’s fear, the tone of his voice or the pressure of his fingers on my windpipe but I stop squirming and twisting and my hand drops away from my throat. As I go limp, the angry buzzing in my mind quiets and then stops.
‘Where’s the fucking key?’ Mike screams in my ear. There’s desperation in his voice now. Fear too. He knows as well as I do that he’s either going to have to let me go or kill me. Either way he stays in the cage.
After what feels like forever he lets go of my throat but he keeps hold of my hand. He reaches through the bars and plucks at the pocket of my hoody. I plunge my hand in first. My thumb pricks against the sharp edge of a metal keyring. It’s an owl in flight, a present from Alice when I left London. The tips of its wings are as barbed as a knife edge. I gather it into my fist, then twist sharply and plunge it into Mike’s cheek.
He roars in pain and shoves me away from him, sending me sprawling to the ground. I lie still, panting and sweating, my whole right side throbbing, then I scrabble to my feet.
‘Tell me where the other phone is!’ I scream. ‘Tell me where it is! Tell me!’
Mike grips the bars of the cage, one hand pressed to the side of the face, blood trickling through his fingers. His lips curl into a smile.
His laughter follows me out of the barn and into the garden.
Mike’s eyes flick from my face to the coil of green garden hose in my hands. There’s dried blood on the side of his face but the keyring didn’t cause more than a scratch.
‘Lou,’ he retreats to the back of the cage, ‘don’t do this.’
‘I won’t, if you tell me where the other phone is.’
He holds his hands out, palms up. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’
There’s that laugh again.
I uncurl the hose and squeeze the trigger.
Mike strips off his wet sweatshirt and throws it to the floor. ‘You’ve lost the plot. You know that don’t you?’
He didn’t say a word as I soaked him. He turned his back and took it, gallons and gallons of freezing cold water. He undoes his trousers and slips them off too. His legs are hairy and the skin is mottled. His quads used to be so strong they looked carved into his skin but he’s lost all his muscle tone.
‘When the police find me,’ he says, ‘which they will, they’ll do you for torture as well as kidnapping.’
‘Not if you’re convicted of paedophilia. I’ll probably get a medal.’
There’s a hollow ring to my words. I’m no closer to finding the second phone than I was this morning a
nd if the police turn up before I find evidence that he’s been abusing Chloe, then he’s right – I will be the one that ends up in jail, not him.
I throw a towel at the cage – there’s no way I’m getting within grabbing distance again – then sit with my back against the barn wall. There’s something I need to ask him, something that’s been bothering me for a while. ‘How did you get your probation officer to agree to let you work at the garden centre? I thought sex offenders weren’t allowed to work anywhere near children.’
‘I haven’t got a probation officer and I’m not a sex offender.’ Mike crouches to grab the towel.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
He stands up. ‘I’m not. I got out of prison in 1994. The register wasn’t set up until 1997.’
He’s not on the sex offenders list.
That can’t be right.
Or is it? I was fourteen in 1989 when Mike was sent to prison. Even serving the full five-year sentence he would have got out before 1997. Which means … he’s right. He’s slipped through the paedophile net.
He meets my gaze. ‘I served my time, Lou. Most people have let me move on with my life.’
‘I’m not most people.’
I hurl some of Dad’s clothes – items I can’t remember him ever wearing – at the cage. Much as I’d love Mike to suffer, I need to keep him alive. He runs a hand through his wet hair, then crouches down and drags them through the bars. As he pulls them towards him I notice the ugly scar on his right thigh, thick and ribbed, like a pirate’s scar, and at least three inches long.