by G H Mockford
He stabbed the knife into the doorframe. Georgia flinched. His shadowy eyes returned her stare as he picked up the dead man’s feet and dragged him out of the room, leaving a red smear across the hungry floorboards.
‘What am I to do with you?’ he said from around the corner.
Georgia didn’t reply. She stared at the knife he’d left there. It was as though he was inviting her. Daring her to take it. All was lost. She should take her destiny in her hands. She should go down fighting as she’d promised herself.
She might not be able to get out the door, but she could reach the weapon. If she killed him, she would still be trapped but she would be safe and the police would have to arrive to check on their missing colleague.
As Georgia uncurled one leg and put it on the floor, he stepped back round the corner. He pulled the knife free and flicked it at her. Georgia shrunk back. Flecks of blood splattered on her face. They felt like they were burning into her skin even though the body heat would have long since gone in the cold atmosphere.
A strangled cry escaped Georgia’s lips as his gloved hand clamped around her throat. Her eyes fixed on the blade as he pointed it up and rotated it in his hand. As soon as he moved closer to her, Georgia closed her eyes. The pain she expected didn’t come. Then she felt something press against her breast.
He was wiping the knife on her. First one side, then the other. The pressure around her throat lessened and then disappeared altogether.
‘You’ve caused me a real problem, you know,’ he said.
Georgia opened her eyes. He wasn’t there. He was back in the hallway. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Georgia managed to say.
‘That’s three policemen I’ve killed now. They’ll be really pissed off.’
‘They know I’m here,’ Georgia called into the hallway. He didn’t sound that angry. Perhaps he would give in and let her go if he knew it was useless.
‘Ah…’ came his voice. He stepped into view twirling the dead police officer’s baton in his fingers.
‘You didn’t think of that, did you?’
He stared at her and disappeared out the room. ‘Then we’ll have to evacuate. Or I could kill you too.’ He reappeared and Georgia could have sworn he was smiling behind the mask.
Georgia shrunk back as he came into the room, each of his steps confident and secure. Whoever he was, he was a predator and a practiced one. Georgia flinched, but he stepped past her. A shiver ran up her spine. He’d seen the wall bracket.
Gathering all her strength of character, she looked over the back of the chair and said, ‘So, what are you going to do now?’ To her surprise, he simply turned and left the room. ‘What? Are you just going to leave me here? Are you going to run away like the fucking pussy you are?’
No answer came. Then through the fireplace, Georgia heard clattering from Felicity’s room. He returned with the doctor’s bag, placed it on the floor, and knelt beside it. Once again, Georgia could tell he was filling a syringe.
Georgia’s roar of fury filled the empty room as she leapt out of the chair and charged at him. He was an easy target, crouched as he was. They both tumbled to the floor. The bag slid across the smooth wooden boards.
Pain ripped through her body as the chain suddenly pulled tight and separated the pair of them again. Georgia crashed to the floor, her legs spilling out the door, getting a tantalizing taste of freedom. Her head hit the dead man’s hand. For a moment, she thought his fingers reacted. Was he not dead after all? Was the knife wound not fatal? ‘Help me! Get up!’ Georgia yelled at the police officer.
Then he was upon her. Making the most of the distraction, he straddled her and slapped her across the face with a powerful swing with the back of his left hand. Georgia’s head rolled and her teeth rattled as her face came into contact with the floor.
Dazed, Georgia shook her head and looked up just as his right hand swung down. A sharp sting was followed by a dull pressing, then he clambered off her and threw the syringe to one side.
Georgia gave into the darkness that came.
Fifty-Seven
Stephen knocked on the door and waited. Finding Annalise had proved to be a dead end and there was only one place to get more information from.
‘Come in,’ his mother said. ‘Bring your bike in. It won’t last five minutes if you leave it out there.’ Once she’d moved back towards the tiny kitchen, Stephen brought it in and closed the door. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes please,’ Stephen said, following his mum.
‘Don’t just stand there. Have a seat.’
Stephen pulled out a chair from under the table and sat. ‘I’ve seen Dad.’
His mother stopped what she was doing and looked at him. ‘It’s okay, Stephen. He is your father,’ she smiled, but Stephen thought it looked pained.
The kettle boiled, the steam adding to the condensation already collected on the window. The house felt cold today.
‘Did you know he’s got a daughter?’ Stephen asked quietly, almost as if he wished she wouldn’t hear him ask.
‘Yes,’ she said as she poured the water into the cups. ‘I’ve always known. Here, I’ll have the chipped one.’
When she joined him at the table, Stephen said, ‘When you say always…’
‘Always,’ she nodded.
‘So…’
‘So why did I keep living with him? I love him. Loved him,’ she corrected herself, though Stephen suspected the first statement was truer. ‘She got struck off, or whatever they call it in her profession, and he promised it would never happen again. It did of course. A woman can tell these things, or rather, men are useless at lying.’ She gave another forced smile.
‘Struck off?’
‘She was the child psychologist attached to Felicity. That’s how they met. How we all met.’
‘I don’t think I did.’
‘No. We always had those kinds of meetings away from home, or when you were away.’ Silence fell for a while, and then she said, ‘Stephen, do you mind if we talk about something else?’
‘Sorry. Of course.’
Awkwardness engulfed the room.
‘What is it?’ his mother asked. She placed her hand on his and once again he was struck by how old it looked.
‘She’s gone missing too.’
‘Fraser’s daughter? That’s terrible.’
‘‘That’s terrible’? Is that all you have to say?’
‘What else is there to say, Stephen?’
‘Well…’ Stephen began, but then realized he didn’t have a response. ‘I did wonder for a while if Dad might be responsible.’
His mother shook her head. ‘No. No way. Touching other women – yes. But children – no.’
Stephen nodded and decided not to pursue it. ‘I’m trying to find her, but I’m at a dead end and I thought knowing more about Felicity might help. Maybe there’s a connection. There has to be, don’t you think?’ His mother didn’t react. ‘They both disappeared just after their sixteenth birthdays. They both left letters. Do you still have Felicity’s?’
‘No,’ Mum said. ‘The police took it as evidence. Besides, I had no wish to keep it. Stephen, I think it’s just a coincidence. If you ran away, you’d leave a note. Besides, I’m sure Fraser and Donna won’t have told Georgia anything about it. They won’t want to spoil their perfect little family.’
‘The letter,’ Stephen said. ‘What did it say?’
‘Why are you dragging all this up? I thought you said you’d decided to let it all go.’
Stephen reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. It felt awkward – cold, despite its warm, comforting intention. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I really am. It could be a coincidence as you say, but I don’t think so. If I can find one of them, I might find both, and you’re my only source of information.’
His mother nodded. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Tell me about Felicity.’
‘You know all you need to know.’
‘I didn’t know she had a psycho
logist,’ Stephen pointed out.
‘They both did.’
‘Both?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Felicity had a brother.’
Fifty-Eight
‘A brother?’ Stephen said, hardly believing his ears. How did he not know this?
‘Yes. A twin to be exact. There are eleven thousand foster children in this country. Sadly, one-third of siblings are split up. In that regard, they were nothing special.’
‘A third? I didn’t realize it was that high.’
Mrs Bridges nodded. ‘Often there’s no choice.’
‘But this time, there was a reason?’ Stephen prompted, reading between the lines. He had to make this as easy for his mother as he could.
‘Yes.’ She stopped again. ‘Do we have to talk about this?’
Stephen stared at the table for a moment. He hated himself, he really did. He could see he was tearing his mother’s heart in two – again – but he had no choice. ‘No one else will tell me.’
‘Her past isn’t pleasant, Stephen.’
‘They rarely are,’ he said, remembering some of the stories the other children had told him.
‘Your father and I tried to keep you away from this side of things.’
‘I know, but you could hold the key to finding her, perhaps finding them both.’
Mrs Bridges silently nodded and then rose from her seat. ‘Let’s at least go and sit somewhere more comfortable.’ She sounded weary. Again Stephen felt a part of him telling him to drop it, but he couldn’t help but fight the feeling that his mother knew something, even if she didn’t know it. This revelation about a brother was a good start.
Stephen followed his mother down the hall and into the front room. The TV was on. ‘I have it on for the company,’ she explained before turning it off and taking a seat on the sofa. Stephen sat on the chair opposite her.
The room felt empty. The house in Wollaton was full, almost to the point of cluttered, with knick-knacks and porcelain figurines. Stephen glanced at the collection she’d retained inside a small cabinet. Aside from that, there was the TV and a battered coffee table. Stephen thought he could see a patch of damp in the corner of the ceiling.
‘Felicity came to live with us in, what, November. You were...’
‘Fifteen,’ Stephen added helpfully. ‘I remember she kept herself to herself at first. She cried a lot.’
‘Yes, she did. When she arrived, she just wouldn’t stop. That’s where Donna came in.’
Stephen nodded and listened to the subtle change in the tone of his mother’s voice when she mentioned the other woman’s name. ‘To help with the crying?’
‘Partly. Felicity was finding it hard to adjust to normal life.’
‘Normal?’
Mrs Bridges ran her hand through her thinning grey hair. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’
Stephen nodded and started to get up to sit next to his mother, but she waved him back down.
‘She was seven. I don’t know the whole story.’ She paused. ‘What I know is enough.’
‘Mum, forget it,’ Stephen said. He couldn’t look at her pained face anymore. ‘I’ll ask D–’
‘He doesn’t know. Social Services kept it a secret from him.’
‘Perhaps Donna told him.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. Her eye flickered at the mention of the name. ‘I’ve started now. The images are already in my mind.’ She paused again. ‘Felicity was seven. She’d spent much of that time being abused. By her parents. By other people. By her brother. Exposed to porn from a young age, and filmed herself…’
Now Stephen did get up, his mother rose too and sobbed into his chest. ‘Don’t say anymore,’ he said.
‘They were kept chained up. When they were found – the police think one of the paedophiles who found their situation too much, even for his twisted tastes, reported it – the brother, Felix, was practically feral. The father was picked up at work. Their mother, who was at home with them, was dead. She’d hanged herself. The police found her when they arrived. Felix was quite proud of the fact he’d ‘helped’ her.’
‘Hang on, if Felicity and Felix were locked up, how did he…’
‘He somehow managed to get the key to their locks. By all accounts, he was a bright lad.’
‘And that’s why they had to split them? Because he killed his mother?’ Stephen said, trying to relieve his mother from some of the burden.
‘We were given her straight away, but despite all the help they were given, and what he’d been made to do to her, she couldn’t bear to be apart from him. It was like he had some power over her.’
Stephen started to sit on the sofa and his mother had no choice but to follow him down. He put his arm around her, but she pulled away.
‘They have nice names,’ Stephen said, trying to lighten the moment briefly.
‘No, Stephen. Sick. They both mean ‘happiness’. There was nothing happy about their short, little lives.’
Stephen ignored his mother’s use of the past tense. ‘Do you think Felicity ran away to find Felix?’
She shook her head. ‘Impossible. Felix died.’
That explained the use of the past tense, for Felix anyway. ‘Did Felicity know?’
‘It was a big decision to make, but yes, she was told?’
‘How did she react?’
‘She calmed down right away. It was like any hold he still had over her was gone. It was believed that when he abused her it wasn’t always for the pleasure of others. Excuse me, I think I’m going to be–’
Stephen helplessly watched as his mother leapt from her seat and ran upstairs.
Fifty-Nine
‘I made you a cup of tea and a glass of water,’ Stephen said when his mother rejoined him in the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Mrs Bridges said, taking the water.
‘No, I’m sorry. Sorry to put you through all this.’
‘Do you think it’s been helpful?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know. I’m sorry to ask, but how did Felix die?’
‘It was January the sixth. Twelfth Night. The house burnt down and everyone inside perished. They put it down to the Christmas tree lights.
‘He was definitely dead?’
‘What do you mean, Stephen? They found his body under the tree. They think he may have been playing with the lights. I only hope the electricity killed him before the fire started. It would have been a horrible way to go.’
‘If he was so dangerous, why was he left with two foster carers?’
‘They weren’t your usual carers. They were specially trained. An ex-policeman and a social worker, I think they were. It was almost twenty years ago, Stephen. It was a safe house. It was virtually impossible to get out of. It was, for all intents and purposes, a prison made to look like a house. He rarely left it. He even had a teacher come to educate him.’
‘When did you tell Felicity?’
‘About a week later. There was an investigation, obviously.’
‘Was there a funeral?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you go?’
‘Felicity wanted to, yes. We never told her how he died, but she needed to know he was gone. The psychologist told us it was important she could say good-bye. She cried for days, but things did start to get better. I doubt you remember, but you were sent away to stay with Gran for a week.’
‘I remember. I had the whole week off school.’ Stephen smiled at the positive memories that he had. A few months later it was the Easter holiday and Mum had set up one of her famous egg hunts around the garden. In fact, now that he thought about it, Stephen remembered Felicity painting a gnome and calling it Felix. When he’d asked his mother about it at the time, she just shook her head, and Stephen knew not to pursue it any further. He’d assumed it was named for a friend, not a dead brother. It was from that Easter holiday that he and Felicity had become really close. He’d asked for a skateboard instead of eggs.
‘You had that
scooter she loved,’ his mother said as if reading his mind.
Stephen smiled. ‘It was a skateboard.’
‘Scooter. Skateboard. They all have wheels. Toys for boys.
‘I was almost sixteen. A spotty man-child.’
They laughed for a while and then fell into silence. Stephen drank the tea his mother didn’t want while she drank the water.
‘You’ll always be my little boy,’ Mrs Bridges said, a tear spilling from the corner of her eye.
‘I love you, Mum. I’m sorry for–’
Mrs Bridges shhed her son quiet. ‘You need to learn to let this go, Stephen. All of it. The quest. The guilt. Felicity’s dead, and she’s in heaven with her brother.’
‘And Georgia?
‘Let the police handle it, Stephen. You’re just going to make yourself ill.’
‘She’s my sister.’
‘I don’t want to sound unkind, but you don’t know her. She’s what – sixteen – and your father kept her a secret from you the whole time.’
‘That doesn’t sound very Christianly, mother,’ Stephen snapped, a little more than he intended.
‘Don’t start a fight with me, Stephen. I’ve done nothing wrong. And telling you not to get involved has got nothing to do with my beliefs as a Christian – or a rejected wife for that matter – but for my concern for you as your mother.’
‘But she’s been kidnapped.’
‘You’ve said yourself you’ve nowhere else to go. There are no clues. You’ve always been fascinated by mysteries, Stephen, ever since you were a little boy. Your father and I half expected you to become a policeman. I’m not going to say this again and sound like a stuck record – let it go.’
‘A stuck record? What’s a record?’
‘Oi! You’re not that young, and I’m not too old to put you over my knee.’