by Emmy Ellis
The Lady in the Street - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis & M. A. Comley 2019
Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2018
All Rights Reserved
The Lady in the Street is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
The authors respectfully recognise the use of any and all trademarks.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the authors.
Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the authors’ written permission.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
The Lady in the Street
Emmy Ellis
M. A. Comley
Prologue
In the shadows of my mind, there you are,
Mocking and laughing, rejecting me.
One day I’ll come for you,
And it will set me free.
The mask of a woman covered his face. It itched. Sweat beaded beneath the rubber. It didn’t smell too good and reminded him of Halloween as a kid. Giggling, running through the dark streets, knocking on doors and asking for sweets. Except his mother had never taken him through the streets. He’d had to tag along behind other families, pretending to be one of them.
Those days were gone. Now all he had was the future.
With his hood up and a long blonde wig on, he could pass for a female if no one got too close. An attractive one. Maybe Pamela Anderson in Baywatch. His clothes were androgynous, so when he next took the disguise off, he’d be just a man, walking along, minding his own business. After, he’d turn the hoodie inside out, from black to red. For all he knew, people might be out and about when he was on his way home, despite the late hour. If he got seen, they’d remember the red, not some woman head to toe in black.
The scent of the sea wafted to him on a cold breeze, shifting strands of the wig so they sprawled across his mask. The tail end of a hurricane had been imminent for days, so the local weatherman had said. All they’d had today was a bit of manic rain and some high winds that only rustled the tree branches but didn’t bend the trunks.
He thought about the recent murders that had been on the news just the other day. Three sisters, killed by their foster brother. It had spurred him on to do what he was doing now after so long planning, of gathering the courage. He had people he wanted to kill, and he reckoned it was about time he got on with it. Too many years had passed with him just thinking.
It was the perfect moment to act.
Making Smaltern a place where tourists didn’t want to come would be fun, too. He hated the fucking town and had only stuck around to see justice come to pass.
Most of his future victims would be tucked up in bed by now after a long day at work or propping up the bar of The Villager’s Inn—they had a lock-in tonight. One of the dead sisters had worked there. Emma. He’d shagged her a few weeks back. Happy to spread her legs, that one. He’d been happy for her to do it and all.
He glanced at his watch.
Almost time.
He stared at the bedroom window of person number one. Any second now, they’d turn their lamp off. He’d wait five minutes for them to fall asleep, then he’d go inside.
He was glad he’d thought to do it this way, with the long hair and the mask, relics from his childhood.
To all intents and purposes, he was just the lady in the street.
Chapter One
Felicity longed for sleep. Tonight had been…taxing. Better than calling it a complete fuckup. She’d had a series of dodgy phone calls from the same person, the voice all weird, as though they’d been trying to disguise it. Like she wasn’t used to crank callers. She knew when someone was trying hard not to be recognised. She worked for Talk Today, like the Samaritans, every Monday evening, answering the phone in the little office in town above Chargrill Kebabs. It was her way of giving back to those people who needed someone to listen to them. She’d had no one she could tell about her past while it had been going on, so now it was over, if she could give another human being or two an ear, it might balance things out. You know, have her feeling better about herself.
She’d done a few things she wasn’t proud of. At least Becky was still her friend, despite Felicity’s hideous confession.
Something tapped on the window, and she jumped, stifling a whimper. She’d been on edge the past few days since news of the Walker sisters’ murders had been on the telly. All right, the bloke had been caught, but that didn’t really lower the fear factor. Not for someone who had fears lurking in every dark corner.
Like her.
What if they’d come back for her? What if they’d figured out where she lived?
Straining her ears, she waited for the sound to come again, convincing herself it had been a tree branch scraping across the glass. The weather had been awful today, so it could have been the rain making the racket.
The noise of wind moaning ramped up her unease. It wailed as though a mournful ghost, and she shivered, burying her head under the quilt, her breaths soon warming her up. If she managed to get to sleep this side of midnight, it would be a miracle. She had to be up at eight to get ready in time for her shift to start at Smaltern Amusements.
To calm herself, she thought of the dull day she’d have, listening to the tinkles and tunes blaring out of the various slot machines, and the annoying horn blast if anyone won a teddy from the claw grab. It always managed to have her jumping out of her seat in the coin exchange booth. Bloody thing.
I need to find something else, something with better wages.
Although she didn’t have rent or a mortgage to pay, what with Gran dying recently and leaving her this place, she still had the utilities to fork out for. Electricity didn’t come cheap, did it, and—
“Fuck, what was that?” she whispered.
Gran’s dog, Harlow, yipped from the kitchen. The Yorkshire terrier wouldn’t be any good at helping her if anyone broke into the bungalow, and Felicity would swear someone was trying. There it was again, the rattle of a handle being tested.
It couldn’t just be the wind.
“God…” She sat up, her breaths unsteady, the quilt slithering down to bunch on her lap. Her body seemed to hollow, and she willed herself to be brave and go into the hallway.
If she padded down it, she’d see if anyone was in the front garden through the glass in the front door. Even though it was mottled with a warped pattern, it’d still show a shape. A lamppost stood on the pavement at the end of her path, so the light would give whoever it was away.
Look through the window now then. Why go to the door?
She ignored that voice, grabbed her phone off the nightstand, and made her way from her bedroom. No shape. No ominous stranger trying to get in. She crept into the
living room and peered outside, wishing she’d closed the curtains before she’d gone to bed.
Nothing. Just grass. A hedge.
And a blonde woman with a stark white face staring straight in.
Felicity yelped a bit and stepped to the side, slapping a hand to her chest, her heart ticking too fast and dull, adrenaline flushing her system. She watched from behind the safety of the curtain, but the woman wasn’t there now.
“For fuck’s sake. Get a bloody grip, will you?” Her whisper came out contorted, wretched.
There hadn’t really been a woman. She was seeing things. Imagining people when there weren’t any.
That was what they’d done to her. She’d never be free of them. Their faces visited her dreams at night, their grins leering, gazes devouring her.
She blew out a nerve-steadying breath and went back to bed. Thoroughly unsettled, she tossed and turned, lying on her side, eventually comfortable, facing away from the window that overlooked the front garden. If there really had been someone there for that brief moment, it had only been a woman, probably on her way home, and she might have stopped walking when she’d spotted Felicity gawping, then carried on her way.
Yes, that was it.
She closed her eyes and listened to her breaths, concentrating so they were the only sounds she zeroed in on. She drifted, sleep coming to call. Harlow yapped again, though, breaking the spell, and Felicity’s heartrate skittered.
“This is doing my head in,” she muttered.
“Not half as much as it’s doing mine.”
Oh God. Oh fuck. It was the voice from those weird calls earlier. She gasped and rolled over, then scooted right to the far edge of the bed. She stared across the room. The woman from outside stood by the door with her hands behind her back, and in the darkness, she looked like a slim black bowling pin with a face and hair on top. Her skin was white, so white, just like it had been outside, and her lips were dark.
The woman flicked the light on. Felicity blinked at the harshness and stared at her, heart thumping, her pulse throbbing hard in her neck.
Christ, the woman’s cheeks were rubbery. Was that…was that a mask?
“Get the hell out,” Felicity managed, her chest hurting, sharp pains shooting across it. She reached for her phone, but it was too far away now. The nightstand on the other side of the bed might as well be a mile in the distance for all the good it did her.
“I don’t think so. My name’s Bête Noir, by the way. You can just call me Bête. It means so many things. Bad news, enemy, devil…” Bête moved closer, bringing her hands around the front.
A knife blade glinted in one fist.
Jesus Christ, no…
“What…what do you want?” Felicity asked, eyeing the door and gauging whether she could leg it past her and find help. She couldn’t just stay here and be a willing victim.
I’m not going to make it. She’ll stab me as soon as I get close.
“I want the truth to come out,” Bête said. “For my story to be heard. I tried to speak to you last week, but you weren’t interested.”
Felicity couldn’t for the life of her work out who Bête could be. “Who…who are you?”
Bête gestured to her mask. “Doesn’t this give you a clue?”
What was she on about? Why would a mask mean anything?
Blinking, the cogs turning but nothing coming up to help her, Felicity frowned. “Please, I have money. Take my money. My TV. Anything.”
“I don’t want your fucking money or your bloody TV.”
God, that voice. It was like someone talking while being strangled—raspy, breathy, broken. A shiver tickled up Felicity’s spine, and she fought a shudder. She didn’t want this woman to know she was afraid. Calling on her Talk Today training, Felicity opted for the calm and level-headed approach. It always worked on the callers.
“If you’d like help, I can do that. If you need someone to talk to, I can do that, too,” she said. It had to work. It was all she had to give.
“Talk?” Bête snorted. “Like I just said, I tried, and you weren’t interested. In Vicky’s Café. You were drinking a coffee. Eating a Danish. Reading your Kindle. Remember that day, do you? Is it coming back to you now?”
Felicity couldn’t get a handle on this. Was Bête him? “Why are you…dressed like that?”
“Why not?”
“And talking like that?”
“Why. The. Fuck. Not?” Bête came closer, the knife tip an arm’s length away. Too close. Too scary. “Flat on your back. Now. If you don’t…”
Felicity did as she’d been told. She’d play along. Talk to him. Get him to see sense. She’d been through worse than this and got out alive. “Why are you doing this?”
“Like you don’t know.” Bête slid the knife into a sheath on his belt then pulled some rope from the big pocket on the front of the hoodie.
“No…I have no idea. Come on. There’s no need for that. I don’t even know why you’re doing this, I swear.” Was he part of their gang? Had he approached her in the café because they’d told him to reel her back in? Take her back there?
If her legs would carry her to the door, she’d give them a try, but they’d gone to jelly. Her skin went cold, and sweat coated her, bringing on a chill. Or was that fear? “Look, let’s talk about this. Please?”
She sounded whiny and detested herself for it.
Bête stared down at her, that mask so fucking freaky, his breaths loud behind it. Wheezy. Wind through a gap in the window. “It’s too late.”
“But why?” She hated how it had come out as a wail. A kid trying to get their own way.
Bête climbed on the bed and straddled her, then dropped the rope beside them. Felicity’s fight or flight response kicked in, and she bucked, raising her hands to claw at the mask. Bête growled and grabbed a strand of rope and, despite Felicity’s attempts at fighting him off, her wrist was secured to the bedpost. She parted her lips to scream, but he anticipated her and quickly withdrew a rag from his pocket, stuffing it in her mouth. The material had her gagging. It smelled and tasted of dirty washing. She had to breathe through her nose and couldn’t get enough air in, panic urging her to suck in more oxygen, whispering that she was going to die if she didn’t.
With her other wrist tied up at the opposite corner, he got off her and swept away her legs as she kicked out, easily managing to rope her ankles to the bottom posts as if she wasn’t fighting at all. Her muscles protested at being stretched so much, and her armpits ached from the pressure.
“Now,” Bête said. “I’m going to make you sorry.”
Sorry for what? She tried to say that, but it was a garbled, muffled mess.
“I’ll tell you, shall I?” Bête asked.
Felicity nodded, frantic, ready to do anything he wanted so he’d go away and leave her alone. Because he would. He’d done it before. He’d followed her around, turning up wherever she was. She’d asked him not to after the night club incident, and he’d gone.
For a while.
Until she’d seen him in the café.
Bête walked to the side of the bed and leant over, the nose of the mask almost touching hers. It smelled so horrible.
“I’m going to kill you because you said no,” he whispered.
Then he used the knife to slice open her pyjama top and bent down to sniff her nipples.
Oh God, Oh God, please, not that…
But he didn’t do that.
Instead, he plunged the knife deep and said, “One…”
* * * *
Felicity weaved around on the dance floor, her mind fuddled with alcohol, her tongue furry from it. Becky had gone off somewhere with a bloke, probably for a good old snog in the corner. She’d better be back soon, otherwise Felicity would be going home without her. Staying here in this state wasn’t a good move. She’d drunk far too much, and her body and mind didn’t seem like it belonged to her anymore.
She bumped into a woman gyrating in the extreme and rebounded of
f her, backing into another person. Spinning round, she gazed at him. He was the same height as her, but stockier, and that must be why she hadn’t knocked him flying. She reckoned he weighed about sixteen stone. His muscles had muscles.
“Sorry,” she said, the word slurred, elongated, and showing her up for the drunkard she was. “I just…” She hiccupped. “I’ve had one too many.”
“I can see that,” he said, frowning. “Let me take you home.”
She waved off that suggestion. Gone were the days she accepted a man going back to her place. There was no way she’d do that now, and she didn’t go out enough to meet many people, preferring not to engage in conversation much anymore, except with Becky. Since she’d been nabbed off the street and driven to a house where men had pawed her, expected things of her she’d hadn’t thought she’d have to give, she’d vowed never to trust a bloke again unless he could prove he was one hundred percent genuine. Especially not a stranger, although this man seemed familiar. She couldn’t for the life of her place where she’d seen him before, though.
Is he one of them?
In case he wasn’t, she decided to play nice. “No. Thanks anyway, but I’m here with my friend.” She glanced about, aware of him studying her, staring so hard it seemed to burn her skin. But that was only her cheeks flushing—not from embarrassment but from being damn uncomfortable. And a speck of fear, she’d acknowledge that. He was a tad creepy, standing stock still like that, arms down by his sides, fists clenched as if he was ready to punch her lights out.
“I’ll sort you a taxi then,” he said, pushing the issue. He was obviously the sort who didn’t like being told no. “And I’ll wait outside with you until it arrives.” An order, not a suggestion.
“No,” she snapped, a bit too harshly, but God, why couldn’t he just take no for an answer? “It’s fine. I’m going to…”
She didn’t finish, just staggered off, pushing through the throng of manic dancers, Eminem giving it his all, rapping his heart out, God bless the dishy bastard. She sought Becky out. Thank Christ, there she was, standing by the bar, chortling at something or other a blond man said. Felicity wished she could get on with men so easily, but the past had ruined that.