by Emmy Ellis
Helena had let go of her hand and pushed Emilija’s cup of tea towards her.
Emilija had ignored it. “I walked out into a hallway, and the front door was right there. It was not locked either, and that was stupid of them to do that. I slipped into the front garden, and the light hurt my eyes. The sun was shining. I guessed it was morning. I made out some trees opposite. I ran there and kept running, through the woods to the other side, and then someone called out. I was afraid it was them, the men, but it was a lady, and she had a dog. She called the police.” Emilija had shivered. “As you know, I had no clothes on. It was not even embarrassing. I had been seen and touched by so many that… It did not matter anymore.” She’d picked up her tea and swallowed some.
From there it had been a case of Helena collecting Emilija, ensuring she was seen by a doctor, that she was examined using a rape kit, and that she’d had a shower and a clean change of clothes.
And then the interview had come.
Helena blinked away the memory and concentrated on the Lime Street house. The window beside the front door had been whited out with some kind of substance applied in circular swirls, the sort used when people were decorating and didn’t want anyone nosing in. Emilija had said sheets of wood had been secured over the glass inside, creating a strange darkness, everyone held there transformed to nothing but deep shadow-shapes.
“Where did they take you when you had to leave the room?” Helena had asked.
“Upstairs. They ‘tested’ us to see if we could be sold.”
“Tested?” Helena had had an idea of what she’d meant but had to be sure.
“Raped.”
Helena had it in mind to watch for a short while now, then call in surveillance. Once everyone was in place, they’d gain entry, and the rest would be history. She wondered why she’d opted to watch alone first. Why hadn’t she followed protocol?
Because she’d followed her instincts, her base need to rescue the people inside that room herself. And that was just stupid. One person couldn’t do that. She needed her team, the other officers.
She was yanked from behind, a hand clamping over her mouth, and dragged backwards. With no time to cry out, she fought to break free, glancing over her shoulder to see who had grabbed her. A big man, someone too big to shake off, and the realisation that she’d fucked up big-time slammed into her.
Andy’s repeated warning floated into her mind: You can’t be a lone vigilante; it doesn’t work like that.
No, it didn’t, and there she was, being hauled through the trees then thrown into the back of a white van—the van that had undoubtedly been used to ferry the abducted men and women to a place where unimaginable things happened.
Helena shot up in the bath, her heart hammering, her vodka glass floating in the water down by her feet. She’d bloody well fallen asleep, and her mind had taken her back in time, tormenting her with everything she’d done wrong, when all she’d wanted was to do everything right.
She shoved the hideous memories away—she couldn’t keep dwelling on how she’d fucked up. Instead, while she washed her hair, she reminded herself of what had transpired after she’d been taken. She’d later been told Andy had stepped up and actioned the arrests at Lime Street, but with Emilija breaking out, the men had left the house to look for her, one of them finding Helena instead.
How dumb had she been to think she could deal with it all by herself?
Arrogant, more like.
She finished her bath and got out, wandering into her bedroom to dry off then sling some clothes on—skinny jeans, a fluffy pink jumper—and dried her hair in seconds, which reminded her of how long it used to be, how she’d had it chopped off as soon as she could after she’d jumped off that cliff into the sea and found help.
Funny how a woman exercising her dog had helped Helena, the same as what had happened with Emilija. The similarity, the poignancy of it hadn’t registered then, when Helena had walked out of the sea onto the shingle, waving the lady down.
She shivered and remembered Uthway curling her hair around his fist while he—
No.
She stared at herself in the mirror and willed a smile onto her face. It was over, all of it, and although guilt remained about her actions, how if Andy hadn’t thought on his feet and had given the word to go to Lime Street and rescue those poor people, they could have been moved on, sold, and living lives with strangers who took whatever they wanted, when they wanted.
No men had been apprehended, only the captives had been found.
So had Felicity escaped at the same time as Emilija?
She sighed at it all.
Don’t beat yourself up about it.
She tried. Every day she tried not to do that, but at some point in every twenty-four hours, that guilt prickled, usually in her sleep. Maybe it always would.
“Make it better by never doing anything like that again,” she said to the reflection of a woman who no longer looked like her.
That’s because she isn’t me. The woman I know died in that storage container.
She brought herself fully into the present and made an effort with mascara and even created a style to her hair instead of just leaving the short strands to rest flat. It was time to start living in the now, not in the past.
And with that thought in mind, she left the house and walked to The Blue Pigeon.
Chapter Ten
Den woke to the sound of tapping downstairs. He got up as quickly as he could, his back giving him gyp, nerves biting at the base of his spine. Shuffling over to the window that faced the street, he found it was deserted, as it would be at this time, the wind gusting up the road, howling away and tossing a ball of paper around. He opened the window and peered down. No one stood at the door, and anyway, he’d shut up early, so when the blinds were drawn, that was tough tits. All the locals knew that.
He closed the window and ambled into the kitchen. His nap had been longer than he’d wanted, and a few of the chips were burnt on the edges, verging on black at the tips. The fish was all right, though, nice and crispy, so he took it out of the oven and dished it all up, sprinkling salt and vinegar.
Back in his chair, a tray on his lap, he tucked in, dipping a chip into the splodge of Daddies brown sauce he’d squirted on the side of his plate.
Halfway through his meal, he paused. What the bloody hell was that noise? He waited for it to come again and, yep, there it was, maybe the rattling of a door handle. It could be the wind doing it, but it was more likely to be children playing silly buggers.
“Bleeding kids,” he muttered, dumping the tray on the coffee table then pushing to his feet. His knees cracked, and he winced.
I bet they’re fucking about in the yard.
Downstairs, he walked to the back of the storage room. The rear door stood ajar, moving back and forth in quick, wide arcs, and he frowned, trying to think whether he’d locked it or not. Sure he had, he shrugged and moved to close it. The wind shoved it as far open as it would go, the handle smacking into a tower of boxes containing jars of old-fashioned sweets and leaving a dent. Annoyed in case one of the jars had cracked, Den stepped to the threshold and peered outside, his hair lifting at the front from a stout whoosh of breeze. The shh of a cardboard carton sliding had him turning to catch it before it fell, but instead of being met with that, a blonde woman stood there, all in black, glaring at him.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Den asked, outraged at the intrusion, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
The wind gave an ominous howl.
“You said no,” she said in the same voice as that lad who had always given him the creeps.
Den blinked. “What?” The memory of the time the lad had asked for a stick of rock thundered through his mind. He shivered. Was that what this was all about? And if it was the same kid, why did he look like a woman now?
“You heard me,” she said. “I doubt you’re fucking deaf yet, old man.”
She thumped Den in the stomach. H
e doubled over, letting out an oof, clutching his midriff, eyes watering from the pain, and he scrunched them shut, telling himself to stand upright, to run, but he didn’t manage it. The slam of the door snapping against the frame had him wondering if it was the woman leaving or the wind tugging at it. Then the noise of the key scraping in the lock told him the truth.
Just about to lift his head, Den said, “What do you want?” If it was money, she was shit out of luck. He didn’t make much out of season, and the safe only had the day’s takings in it and the float, which was about sixty quid.
“Bad things happen when you say no,” the woman said behind him.
It’s not a woman, it’s the lad.
Confusion crept into Den’s mind, obliterating every coherent thought, and a buzzing set up in his ears from fear, a million bees. Something smacked him on the back of the head—Christ Almighty, that hurt—and he went down on his knees, the hard floor unforgiving on his old-as-dirt bones. He stopped himself from crying out, not wanting the woman-lad to know he’d hurt him, his pride still intact despite the circumstances. Pain lanced into his thighs, streaking up to flood into his hips, settling there as spearing jolts. His dentures came loose, and he clamped them together to stop them from shooting out.
“I’m Bête Noir, and you will understand what that stands for soon.”
Bête Noir? What the hell is that?
“You’re about to learn a thing or two,” the woman-lad said and gripped the back of Den’s jumper.
She pulled it so hard the neckline dug into his throat. He couldn’t breathe.
Hauled to his feet, Den opened his eyes and blinked, a blinding headache blooming at the back of his skull, pulsing and jabbing pinprick sensations on his scalp. The neckline loosened, and he sucked in a huge breath, his lungs thanking him for it.
What was he going to learn? And what did it mean: bad things happen? What, was Den going to get beaten up now, all over a stick of ruddy rock? All because he’d said no to the lad having one? Hadn’t he given him enough over the years? Food from his table, fizzy drinks from the shop fridge?
He opened his mouth to ask those questions, but the woman-lad shunted him forward, kneeing him in the arse, out of the room and up the stairs, Den tripping every few steps, his slippers gaining no purchase on the worn carpet. His chest hurt with a tightness he’d experienced before, when he’d had a mild heart attack after his wife had died, the shock of her death too much for him to handle.
What was going to happen to him now? Would he have a bigger attack and die?
And… Oh God. What about Mark? He was due round later for his weekly visit. Eight o’clock he always turned up, and never a moment sooner or later. What if Den snuffed it and Mark found him?
“My son…” he managed as he was dumped in his chair, which reared back on its hind legs from the force. It plopped down again, and Den was almost launched out of it.
“What about the prick?”
Den stared up at a kid he’d always known would turn into a wrong sort, except that female face was disconcerting, throwing Den off. He’d told Mark to keep away from him once they’d left school. He had no joy in being right, in predicting the future for this kid, now a man in what Den finally gathered was a mask and a wig, looming over him with an extra-long knife in a steady, black-gloved hand.
Christ…
“He’ll be here soon,” Den said, wishing his voice hadn’t wobbled. Would the idea of Mark arriving put a stop to this? Scare him off?
“Best I work a bit quicker then, eh?”
It was so strange for a male voice to come through the slit between the female lips. He had no time to ponder on that anymore.
The blade seared a wicked, agonising path through Den’s gut.
“One,” Bête Noir said.
* * * *
He stared at Den, who appeared shocked to see a knife handle sticking out of his belly. The old man’s face turned white, and his eyes watered. His fingers fluttered on the armrests, as though he wasn’t sure what to do with them—use them to take the knife out or leave them where they were, as ineffectual as butterfly’s wings.
Decisions, decisions.
The stupid bastard’s birds were coming home to roost, weren’t they, squawking and flapping, ready to peck him with their vicious beaks.
Face sweating from the mask, he wanted to wipe the dampness away but didn’t dare waste precious minutes. He reckoned that line about Mark coming by was a desperate attempt to stop him from doing what he wanted. Well, Den had found out it hadn’t worked, but it was best to get a move on, just in case.
He punched Den in the stomach a few times, either side of the knife handle, just so the git knew what it felt like to always have a tummy that hurt from anxiety. Living a life with it constantly there since Eddie had moved in had been one of the worst aspects of his days, even more than doing the little jobs, more than Mum being a vibrant star in his life once upon a time then dissolving into a black hole when Eddie had got his feet firmly under the table.
Anger surged, and he socked Den in the face, knocking him out. Den’s head drooped to the side, one cheek squished against his shoulder, mouth sagging. Blood trickled out of his nose, from his split lip, as well as from the knife wound. The old man was getting what he deserved, getting what Eddie had meted out a few years ago, except Eddie hadn’t used the knife properly, the dumb fuck.
He’d side-stepped, anticipating the stab, then decked Eddie and warned him that if he ever tried to touch him again, he’d kill him.
Eddie had tried a couple of months later, of course he had.
And I kept my promise.
Eddie’s bones were probably still at the bottom of the sea, his flesh gnawed away by greedy fish.
Snapping out of the memories, he walked into the kitchen and pulled out the clothes airer from beside the fridge. He’d seen Mrs Simons putting it away once. He took it into the living room, placing it to one side of the chair, then went into the yard to cut off some of the large roll of plastic sheeting. Upstairs, he draped some of it over the airer, creating a shield. With Felicity, he’d had more time and foresight, and he’d taped the sheeting up on the ceiling and the wall so the blood hadn’t gone all over the place, but if Mark really was due, there were scant minutes in which to finish the job, so he couldn’t risk attaching it to the ceiling here. He’d take it with him to burn in his back garden afterwards, like he’d done before.
Next, he dragged over a couple of dining chairs and positioned them on the other side of Den, their backs to his chair arm. He covered them in sheeting, memories sifting in from when he’d used it while killing Eddie in the garage. That instance he’d protected the walls and the floor with it, but that was a luxury he couldn’t afford now. These shields would have to do, would serve the purpose of letting the police know it was the same killer. With minimal blood surrounding the chair, just like Felicity’s bed, they’d know.
He wanted recognition for all the years he’d suffered. He needed to be important. To have people acknowledge that a bad upbringing resulted in this…this carnage.
Knife handle gripped in his fist, he pulled the blade out of Den. Blood gushed, and he stared at the river of it spreading, tainting the old duffer’s cream shirt, its journey moving south to soak his light-brown trousers. Fascinated, he gazed at Den’s face, at his eyes opening, his mouth gaping to allow a long, drawn-out wail to pass between his lips.
Noisy bastard.
Then he stabbed, twenty-two times, making the total twenty-three.
Twenty-three. One for every year he’d suffered having Eddie in his life.
* * * *
Mark had left earlier than usual so he could get home to watch a programme that started at nine. He walked round to the shop’s back yard, taking his keys out of his pocket. He tried inserting one into the lock, but it wouldn’t go all the way in. Tutting, he peered into the hole. A key was already in there from the other side. Dad had obviously forgotten to take it out. He pulled his mobi
le from his pocket and dialled Dad’s number, but there was no answer, only the trill of the rings sounding in his ear and also feebly from a distance, inside the building. Dad had probably fallen asleep in his chair, the daft sod.
With no key for the front of the shop—and it would have the chain and bolts across on the inside anyway—he looked around the yard for something to poke the key through with. A slim stick rested on the path beside a roll of plastic sheeting and a backpack. Had Dad forgotten those, too? And what the buggering hell would he need the plastic for?
Mark grabbed the stick and jabbed it into the lock. It took a minute or two, but the jangle of the key dropping on the floor inside proved it had been worth the effort.
He entered the storage room, stooping to pick up the key, then locked the door. In the hallway, he paused. Movement above creaked, as though someone prowled the flat, and he called out, “Dad? It’s only me.”
Footsteps. Hurried. Faster than Dad’s. Scuttling.
Mark frowned. Was someone else up there? Maybe one of his bridge mates had popped round for a bevvy. Mark made his way to the foot of the stairs, and someone stood at the top, obscured by bundles of scrunched-up, red-smeared plastic. Paint? Was Dad finally tarting the flat up? It was about time. The shoes were visible, modern black trainers, not something Dad would wear, and the bottoms of the legs sported black jeans.
“All right, mate?” Mark asked, going upwards. “If you don’t mind me asking, who are you?”
Whoever it was didn’t reply, and as Mark reached the ninth step, he was shoved, the plastic crinkling against his belly. A split second was all it took to glance down at his white T-shirt stained with faint red smudges, then he was falling backwards, arms windmilling, his feet leaving the solidity of the steps. He crashed down, each riser smacking into his back—that’d leave a few bruises—and he landed on the floor below, stunned. He gazed up, staggered by the fact they’d bloody pushed him. The person, still hidden behind the plastic, descended, and Mark struggled to get up, disorientated, his whole body aching from his tumble.