89: A Psychological Thriller

by Stuart Keane

  “Shit,” he uttered.

  He grabbed at the buckle, trying to release some slack in the material, attempting to make it longer. He yanked the belt hard, chafing his palms on the rough cotton band.

  The tyres of the coach smoked on the road, howling and screeching in the darkness of the night. The smell of scorched rubber assaulted his nostrils. Greg found himself leaning to the left as the coach left the motorway and dropped down an embankment.

  He glanced up, watching for Jessica.

  She stood there, at the front of the coach. Watching him, staring, eyes nothing but dark voids in a pale, grinning face. Streaks of darkness – the driver’s blood, he assumed – peppered her face. Her front glistened a dark red under the low, fluorescent lights. The coach swerved to the left, spilling Greg from his seat, away from the protection of his seatbelt. His stomach lurched as he tumbled into the aisle. The last thing he remembered was Jessica grinning at him, watching him from a few feet away.

  For some reason, he remembered shivering. She smiled, like a predator hunting its prey.

  Then the coach rolled.

  The weight of the vehicle sent it toppling off the road and veering down the steep embankment. The speed and momentum gained from its perfectly normal journey gave it some lethal pep, a boost, launching it into a death roll, like a car hitting a ramp. The silver metal tube, adorned with sharp glass and durable plastic and tough rubber, tumbled like an empty toilet roll down some stairs, spinning repeatedly. Overgrown foliage and untouched mud sprayed into the air, glass shattered and tinkled on wood and concrete, rubber squealed and exploded under unnatural weight and obtuse angles. The loud crashes and clanging of metal shattered the quaint, early-morning silence, despite the buffering of the soft earth below. The tube spun, raining debris into the air, and came to a rest after sixty long seconds, the structure of the coach mangled and broken, bent and crippled. The windows no longer existed, the roof buckled in a hundred places. The rear wheel continued to spin, the shredded rubber flapping at the wind uselessly.

  Murky, choking smoke rose from within, the engine obliterated. Petrol sluiced onto the grass, flooding the moist ground. The quaint, early-morning silence surrounded the vehicle once again, its momentum spent.

  After a moment, there was movement within.

  Greg lifted his head from the buckled metal, groaning loudly. He was lying inert on the inside of the roof, face down, surrounded by pebbles of shattered glass. He slowly opened his eyes and flinched, sudden pain erupting through his entire body.

  He raised his hands and moved them before him, squinting his fuzzy eyes into focus, looking at his blurred fingers, his senses prickled by a hundred tiny bolts of white-hot agony in his palms. He saw a collage of dark blood and twinkling blue. The red dripped off his savaged palms like water, splashing and dribbling onto the metal roof with an ominous reoccurring thud.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Multiple shards of transparent glass punctured his trembling palms, some sticking out like rocks on the beach, some embedded deep beneath the ragged flesh. He noticed sickening lumps under the skin, like alien abnormalities or a brutal kind of glass acne. They turned the flesh purple with internal bleeding, the glass ripping and tearing everything so delicate inside. He trembled, not daring to place his mutilated palms on the floor. He slid his body around, smearing blood with his feet, and screamed, a burning pain streaking up his side. Greg glanced down and observed a shard of green plastic, the length of a cricket bat, embedded in his side just above the bottom rib. As he moved, he could feel the plastic scraping the bone there, grinding between the ribs with a hoarse whine. He closed his eyes, on the verge of blacking out.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Greg smelled acrid smoke, the stench of burning metal and rubber. He breathed in and yelped loudly, the expansion of his chest aggravating the ragged puncture wound on his side. He composed himself, reached down and yanked the plastic away hard, removing it from his ravaged body. The hole in his side sucked and squelched as the plastic pulled free. Greg screamed, pumping adrenaline into his system. Blood began to dribble down his sweaty, blood-soaked skin. He placed a hand on it, feeling the hot secretion, and slid forward, using his elbows.

  Greg crawled through a broken window, navigating the debris carefully and patiently, the metal scraping behind him as his feet remained inside. As he removed himself from the wreckage, the noise vanished, his battered body sliding along soft, disrupted earth. He could still hear the blood dripping on the dry grass. He batted away some overgrown stinging nettles, not feeling the pain.

  After a moment, he collapsed on his back, exhausted and sweaty. He stared up at the night sky, breathing heavily, watching its vast blackness. No stars were out tonight. The rain had stopped, but still lingered heavy in the air. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell, the fresh, crisp scent of rainfall. The pain in his side was beginning to numb in the chill.

  He moved his hands into sight again and flexed them, closing them into fists.

  The agony was relentless, a thousand stabbing spikes of pain nailed at his cerebrum as the glass scraped and sliced against delicate muscle and tendons and bone.

  Greg howled.

  The pain made him black out.

  TEN

  “Get up.”

  Greg groaned, his brain throbbing in his skull, the words coming to him slowly, staggered, in slow motion. They penetrated his ears like a hundred sharp knives, and made him feel nauseous as the two syllables snaked around in his aching cerebrum. His brain felt like it was expanding, pushing against the inside of his cranium, pulsing to escape.

  “Get up, you stupid sack of shit.”

  He moved gently onto his back, and screamed in vehement torment. The pain wrenched him from his groggy reverie as he pushed down on the ground with his mutilated hands at his side, an automated movement. The glass shifted and stabbed at his shaking palms, causing more cuts and gouges. He felt the glass sliding around beneath his flesh, crunching against itself, slicing the muscle and causing more internal damage. He tried to move his fingertips, just an inch, a gentle up-and-down movement, and felt fire scorching up his arms, seizing the muscles, making him shudder. Sticky drool spilled from his mouth, mixing with the flaky blood that was clotting on his lips. His nose throbbed in the middle of his face, adding to the complex agony behind his palpitating eyes. He rolled onto his side.

  Greg glanced down at his crippled hands.

  Will I ever write again?

  How did I survive? I should be dead.

  He curled his hands towards him, rolling over onto his front, using his forearms for support. Pushing up on his elbows, he hissed through his teeth, thick dribble and blood spattering onto the grass, arcing on the air, his veins working overtime and bulging in his neck. The pain and emotion overwhelmed him. He turned his head to the left, his muscles contracting against the excruciating pain that rattled his very being. His entire body felt stiff, as if he was clenching, ready for something.

  He noticed the coach, the battered silver tube, inert and upended on the whispering grass, the straight lines and contours of its frame bent and mangled, pounded by the stiff embankment that currently sat behind him. The darkness of the night made the shattered windows look like infinite black squares, massive yawning abysses of absolutely nothing, leaving the interior of the coach a mystery. The streetlamps from the shoulder of the motorway shone down on them like a large halo, illuminating the immediate surrounding area in a dull jaundiced glow.

  He scanned the wreckage. The dead passenger, the woman murdered by Jessica, lay broken and bent on the grass, her legs still inside the dark vehicle. Her skin was a mass of contusions and incisions; the glass had done a number on the corpse. A dark pool of blood congealed under the head, slicking the curled grass beneath. Her arms angled off the wrong way, the bones piercing through the dead skin and flaccid muscle. The corpse lay in a twisted, ruined tangle. He imagined her rolling around in the coach as it spun through the air, no control, batterin
g against every angled seat, every sharp window, and every hard surface.

  You did that too, he thought. I should be dead.

  But, you’re not.

  Instead, I’m crippled.

  Greg began to cry.

  Hang on, he thought. The words…

  A savage blow from the right cracked his skull, spilling Greg onto the grass. He grunted and slapped the ground like a ragdoll. He could feel his speeding heartbeat through every muscle and sinew of his torso. It pulsated around his brain, rendering it nothing but jelly. A ringing shattered his equilibrium, destroying the early-morning silence that made the pain almost bearable. It made his head pound like a snare drum. He automatically slapped both hands to his ears, in an attempt to block the sounds, but the glass sliced into the side of his head rupturing the flesh there.

  He heard a laughing. Recognised it immediately.

  “You really need to learn how to obey orders.”

  Greg pushed his head into the dirt, screaming loudly, sputum dribbling from his soggy mouth, his body completely crippled by intense agony.

  “Obey orders. And learn when to quit. You’re not paid to think, you’re paid to write.”

  Greg tried to speak, urged to utter a snarky retort, but his tongue wouldn’t work, his mouth flapped, dribbled, and said nothing. He scrabbled around in the dirt and eventually found his footing. Greg pushed from his feet, hands floating before him. His thighs screamed as he straightened up, putting his weight on the soles of his feet, extending to an upright position without any assistance from his useless arms.

  Then, he was standing.

  “Well, I did say get up. Well done.”

  Greg opened his eyes. He used his forearm to sponge his flickering left eye, to wipe the seeping blood that oozed onto his lower eyelid. He blinked some of the red away, clearing his vision. The strong smell of copper made him heave.

  Before him stood Jessica.

  He groaned inwardly.

  Her face was a subdued amber in the yellow gloom. The left side of her visage was jet black with blood, her hair spiked and bent, glittering with a shiny wet hue. Her jacket and scarf were gone; as were her gloves. She wore a jade, sleeveless shirt with a low cleavage and figure-hugging design. For the first time, he saw her hourglass figure, the clothing adhering to it like body paint. The shirt also gleamed in the darkness, and he realised she was bleeding heavily from a head wound. Her entire left arm was slick and greasy with the essential bodily fluid. It trembled by her side. A large shard of glass stuck out of her right forearm. She didn’t seem to notice.

  She took a step forward and stumbled, her left leg wobbling beneath her.

  “I suppose we got lucky, huh?” She said it with confidence and conviction, as if luck was a regular occurrence in her life, a regular partner in crime. Jessica took another wobbly step forward. Her foot gingerly felt the ground before planting firm.

  Greg said nothing.

  Jessica laughed. “Lucky, yes, but you think you got away with it, don’t you?”

  Again, Greg said nothing. He just watched his foe intently, fighting the smorgasbord of pain and suffering that was exploding behind his eyes like fireworks in a Portacabin.

  “I want sixty percent,” Jessica said, her voice wavering a little.

  Greg thought about shaking his head. Closed his eyes and focused. Opened them again and watched Jessica. “Not going to happen. Like I said, it’s over, Jessica.”

  She said nothing. A smirk curled her lip.

  Greg grunted. “Or should I say, Mrs Wilson.”

  Jessica smiled and took a step sideways. She flicked her gaze to the coach and back. The smoke emerging from the body was becoming darker, cloudier. The smell of burning made her sniff the air. Sigh in delight. “I love the smell of burning, don’t you? Especially the burning of a career. A career like yours.”

  “I should have seen it sooner,” he said, exasperated. Greg wiped his face with his forearm, slowly. He coughed, spraying blood onto the ground.

  Jessica nodded. “You did well. No one else would have figured it out. No one did. But Sean always did say you were smarter than most. He put it down to you being a pathetic loner, isolated in your home, locking yourself away from society, not tainted by the tomfoolery of the outside world.”

  Greg snorted. Said nothing.

  “Of course,” she continued. “It doesn’t change a thing. You’re going to die tonight, regardless. Sean has put the wheels in motion. It’s going to happen.”

  Greg shuffled sideways, stepping away from the bus. The smoke was increasing. He coughed, spraying blood onto his hand. “Tell me why. I have the right to know.”

  Jessica smiled. “Why? Your book sales suck, that’s why. Sure, your debut was a bestseller, but the publisher projected millions of sales. The book had something about it, the ‘it factor’, if you will. You sold just over half a million copies, which only just covered your advance. Bad for business. So, they gave you a second shot. You hit a million copies this time, but they projected three million. See a pattern developing here?”

  Greg nodded, cursing himself as a spike of pain dug into the base of his skull. “Sure I do. Publishers who are shit at maths is what I see. Over-ambitious, and frankly greedy, numbers.”

  “Be that as it may, Sean didn’t want to take the risk with your third book. Hence this trip.”

  “Why John and Kevin? What did they do wrong?”

  She smiled. Jessica wiped some blood from her lips, hovered her hand over her blood-soaked shirt, and finally smeared the crimson mess on her arm. “John was a one book author at best. They say everyone has a book in them, but no one has two. So, we took advantage. In the wake of his ‘disappearance’, we sold over a million more copies.”

  Greg spat onto the ground. “And Kevin?”

  “He would have had a bright future, but he was arrogant, selfish and small-minded. He would have self-destructed within years, probably due to drugs or booze or women, and we couldn’t risk that. So, we took steps. His book sold over a million too, same as Kevin. Pure profit since the author’s cut was no longer … ahem, needed.”

  “You’re sick,” he uttered weakly.

  “Yes, but it’s also lucrative. You though, you’re a completely different kettle of fish. Three books … think of the potential in the aftermath.”

  Greg coughed, covering his mouth with his forearm. He spoke over the limb, his lips brushing the downy hair. “Why not just announce their deaths?”

  “That’s phase two. When an author disappears, he sells well. When he dies, he sells for life.” Jessica rubbed the tips of her finger and thumb together. “Money for life.”

  Greg said nothing, dumbfounded by the brazen confession.

  Jessica stepped forward. “It’s simple business, no offence.”

  Greg chuckled in disbelief. “Fuck you.”

  Jessica sighed. Took another step forward. “Despite your insolence, I have a question. Tell me, and be honest, when did you realise what I was doing? I’m intrigued.”

  “Why should I tell you anything? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

  Jessica smiled. “To retain a little dignity. Get it off your chest. Everyone should have the chance to go to the grave peacefully. With a little respect.”

  Greg nodded and sighed, the movement almost imperceptible. His eyes roamed to the blackening smoke. He noticed a yellow glow flickering off the steel of the coach. The engine was alight, the flames licking at the wreckage slowly. He took another stumbling step backwards, moving away. The heat was beginning to warm his skin.

  “Well?” Jessica uttered. She took a step forward, moving closer to the bus. Greg said nothing. He wondered if she knew about the fire, confused at how she didn’t sense or feel it. He stopped looking at it, his eyes remaining on her.

  Sensed an opening.

  “I realised when you took out the photos. Well, shortly afterwards. Once I played it back in my head. I thought you were just confused. The naïve act was actually convin
cing. A proper buffer.”

  Jessica nodded. “Why?”

  Greg laughed. “I didn’t realise at first, but the last photo? My ‘wife?’ That was a picture of you. Longer hair, and indistinct because of the range on the lens, but the shape and complexion was there. The eyes too, albeit a little innocent. I reckon the photo is a couple of years old, during a friendlier time. Before greed corrupted you. Before you married Sean.”

  Jessica laughed. “I wondered if you would spot it.” She clapped mockingly, wincing as her arms reverberated from the movement. “Clever. It’s going to be a shame to waste you. I’m a sucker for a man with a bit of intelligence.”

  Greg narrowed his eyes, the flames from the coach engine now warming them a little too much. His skin felt hot, seared. He held his forearm up to protect them.

  Saw an opening.

  “Why did you marry Sean then?”

  The smile dropped from Jessica’s face. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  She chuckled. “You’re having a dig at my husband?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Sean is intelligent. His job depends on it.”

  “Your husband is nothing but a suave conman, a salesperson with an ego.”

  “Both of which you fell for. He got you, hook line and sinker. And now? You belong to him, for what little time you have left, anyway. He’s a genius.”

  “Yet he has you doing his dirty work.”

  Jessica fell silent.

  “You’re doing all the work, all the stuff that could bring him down. You stabbed that woman, and you killed the driver. What if you get caught? You think he’ll come and rescue you? You don’t think he’ll distance himself from his psycho wife with a stalker complex for authors? Seriously? Get real, Jessica.”

  Jessica’s eyes wobbled in their sockets. “He wouldn’t. He loves me.”

  “Until you get caught, I’m sure he does. You’re the perfect patsy.”

  “Shut up,” Jessica said, taking a step forward. She put her arm up to shield her face. Greg realised she could feel the heat from the flaming engine. Yet, she continued to move forward. “Shut up,” she repeated.