A Family By Design

by Olivia Rytwinski

  For the moment, I remained alone in the silence of the night, to figure out what to do next. Should I sit it out, let the police do their work, which up to now I couldn’t exactly fault, other than they hadn’t actually managed to locate Lyssa? Or should I search for her myself. In my visions I had heard Lyssa, she’d spoken to me, and it made me wonder if I might be capable of finding her through less orthodox means.

  I was desperate to hear back from Inspector Keir about the abductor’s full name and possible whereabouts. My thoughts and any measures I could take ran riot in my head, and my mind grew ever more confused. I felt exhausted and struggled to link any of the strands together.

  Overwhelmed, I lay on the sofa, switched on the TV and turned to the news channel. I wouldn’t do anything until I’d heard from Inspector Keir. Lyssa’s abduction filled the headline and they showed a radius that covered their most likely location. I wondered how they had come up with that radius. Surely he could have driven miles away by now unless there had been further sightings.

  The report switched to Inspector Keir, her face drawn and pale, but her tone resilient and confident. “We’re following significant leads and want to urge anyone who believes they have any information to come forwards. The family are desperate and we must act quickly to apprehend this man.”

  I thought, yes find him, but more importantly, find Lyssa. Why hadn’t Inspector Keir emphasised that? I muted the sound. If I had the energy, I’d jump in the car and drive straight to Loch Lomond. Instead, I closed my eyes, and exhaustion shrouded my fears and tangled thoughts.

  In the hazy half-light of the narrow woodland track, I couldn’t tell if it was dawn or twilight. I had no concept of time and no memory of why I was there. Whatever the reason, I continued along the path, compelled, though I had no idea where it would take me. I became aware of an odd, weightless feeling, as though I was floating. I picked up pace, took long strides, and made easy work of the sharp incline. I rounded a bend in the path where the way ahead appeared clearer, and I figured the sun had risen. But, my progress suddenly faltered, and my feet sank into the mud at each step. I saw hoof prints in front of me, fresh in the wet earth. They were large, cloven and unusually spaced, one print followed by another a yard in front. What creature did they belong to? My unease mounted and I followed the unfamiliar prints. Time compressed, or stretched, and the prints led to an old stone carriage arch in front of a rundown farmhouse. I paused beneath the archway and saw the prints continued to a door, left slightly ajar. A bright shaft of light spilled onto the grass, as though it invited me to enter. I shifted position to remain hidden.

  My gaze was drawn to a small upstairs window, softly lit from within. Malevolent shadows darted about and shifted across the walls and ceiling. Shrill, terrified screams spliced the silence. I knew someone needed help and I moved, but my feet were held fast. The unrelenting screams filled my ears. Then one small hand pressed against the window and when a young, terrified face appeared, a bolt of fear ripped through my heart.

  ‘LYYYSSSAAA… LYYYSSSAAA.”

  My eyes flashed open and I saw the flickering light from the soundless television.

  Instantly, I knew it had been no ordinary nightmare, but something that had happened, or a forewarning of what was to come. I prayed for the latter.

  I ran it through in my mind and searched for clues that could help me to identify the location of the woodland, the farmhouse. Doubt edged its way in. What if it was merely a dream and my mind played cruel tricks on me? No. I suppressed the uncertainties; there was more substance to it. It felt entirely different to my usual dreams; it had been more lifelike and tangible.

  If the police believed that Lyssa was near Loch Lomond, then it seemed logical that the woodland and farm from my dream were there too. I had walked in that area several times, hiked through too many woods and forests to place them individually, but all occasions had been during my childhood or time at University. The connection, of course, was Roy Simpson and Benn Arum, but in my mind I couldn’t recall that I’d walked the same path or seen the same woods and farmhouse as they appeared in my nightmare. Yet that fateful hike had been twenty years ago. I could vaguely picture the inside of the pub but not the name of it. I could visualise the hostel, but I couldn’t remember the name of the village? That was a good place to start. I thought back to the first night Max and I slept together, but the name of the campsite eluded me? Had it been the same village where the police had found my car? Damn, it was too long ago.

  Over the years, whenever I walked a route I had ensured I carried the relevant Ordnance Survey map. I went to the bookshelf, climbed the ladder and located two maps for the area. I recalled our weekend at Benn Arum, that first momentous weekend with Max. I would never forget that hike, that death, that night together. Both maps included Benn Arum and I unfolded one and lay it out on the floorboards. I leaned in and traced my finger over Benn Arum and the surrounding villages and houses that clustered around them. There were more than I remembered. That area always seemed so wild and expansive. Youth Hostels narrowed down the name of the village, and more importantly, the start of our walk that day. There were three in the area. I switched on the iPad, and found Google maps. I soon located the three Youth Hostels. I tapped one of the YHA symbols, which linked me to its web page. The Hostel, a red brick building with a large timber annexe, didn’t look remotely familiar. I returned to Google maps and tapped another Hostel symbol and again it linked me to its webpage. I zoomed in. I stared at the familiar large and attractive double-fronted stone house with a grey, slate tiled roof, more reminiscent of a four-star country hotel than basic accommodation in shared dormitories. In the photo, I saw a beautiful display of purple wisteria in full bloom. Tippelin, the village where we had begun our fateful hike.

  I was certain now and surely by no twist of fate, only a short distance from Arrochar, where they’d found my abandoned car. I studied the map and noticed a few footpaths and bridleways that headed up Benn Arum. There were extensive areas of woodland and two farms a mile or so apart - Edge Farm and Deeren Farm which echoed my dream. Deeren Farm looked nearer to the village and on a more direct route towards the summit. Perhaps Roy Simpson had lived there and the farm belonged to the family. The more I stared at it, the more convinced I became. Something clicked into place and I knew what I had to do.

  On the sideboard, the fluorescent numbers on the DAB radio said four forty-six am, and Max still hadn’t returned. Not that I was keen to see him; quite the opposite. With no intention of waiting for his return I went silently to the bedroom, lifted my rucksack off the hook on the back of the door, and shoved a fleece and T-shirt into it. I put on my coat and boots, then returned to the kitchen and collected food supplies, water, an inhaler and emergency asthma steroid tablets. Finally, I wrote a note which explained my intention to find Lyssa and not to try to stop me. I leaned it conspicuously against the tall pepper grinder in the middle of the table. Ready to leave, I paused in the doorway, spun around and went to the knife rack and picked out a small sharp blade. I’d never used a knife for self-protection and I hoped to God nothing would make me resort to using it. I shivered at the thought, but knew that if Lyssa’s life depended on it, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second. I grabbed Dad’s keys from the sideboard, let myself out and shut the door softly behind me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Treading Softly

  “I might not hurt you if you do all I tell you to do.” He watched Lyssa closely. “And if your dad loves you enough to do what I tell him to. Understand?”

  Lyssa nodded. What did he want her to do? She couldn’t tidy her room, clean out the rabbit or brush her teeth. She took slow breaths and tried to think happy thoughts.

  “My feet are tired and I want you to massage them.” He stood close and Lyssa felt his breath on her face. “I’ll untie your hands. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  She looked at the floorboards, and wished she was at school with Eve and Jules, talking about the pon
ies at the riding school or the play they were doing that term.

  He pressed a filthy finger beneath her chin and lifted her head. “I said, if you do everything I want, then I won’t hurt you. Understand?”

  She looked away but he pinched her chin and forced her to hold his gaze.

  “I need to eat,” she said.

  It was true. She didn’t have the strength to touch anything, least of all his feet. The thought alone made her tummy twist into painful knots.

  “For fuck sake,” he said, and kicked the bed.

  “Sorry.” Lyssa recoiled and knocked her head against the wall. She clutched her head and cried.

  He stormed from the room and banged the door behind him.

  Two minutes later he returned and dangled a bag of Maltesers in front of her. He tore open the bag, lifted it to his face and inhaled deeply.

  “Open up” he instructed.

  The choking smell of sweat and rancid breath drifted up her nostrils and lingered on her tongue, like the vapours from a rotting animal carcass. She noticed black filth trapped beneath his fingernails. But, she gazed at the chocolate and it made her mouth ache and salivate. She felt torn between a surge of revulsion and a need to eat. He placed one in her mouth, and his finger lingered on her bottom lip. Lyssa held back an urge to bite him, and drew away and closed her mouth over the chocolate. With each chocolate she felt guilty and knew she should have refused, but also knew she could not. Her parents’ words of warning about never accepting sweets from strangers rang in her ears. She hoped they would understand.

  He grabbed a handful of chocolates and stuffed them into his mouth. As he chewed, the noise of his slapping lips filled the room. Saliva and chocolate dribbled from the corners of his mouth.

  He folded over the top of the bag and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. “You’ll have to earn the others and we’ll start with that foot massage.” He removed her hand ties.

  “And don’t try anything on, or I’ll wallop you with my belt.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “A good thrashing never did me any harm. Dad hit me and it taught me discipline. Your mum or dad smack you and your brother then - or each other?”

  “No,” she said. “They don’t believe in corporal punishment. They think if they smack us, we might smack someone else.”

  “Well, well, well.” He laughed and revealed the gaps in his teeth. “I only smack someone if they deserve it… Lyssa. And I’ve done worse than smacking.”

  He sat beside her, removed his trainers and socks and rolled up his jeans. He lifted his feet onto the bed and took Lyssa’s hands in his. Lyssa wanted only to pull her hands away and rub them on the mattress to remove his touch, but her strength dissolved. His hairy feet disgusted her. They weren’t like her dad’s or Louis’ and even more strange were the scaly toenails that curled over the tips of his toes like hermit shells.

  “Our feet link to different parts of our body. So if you massage my feet it’s like you’re massaging me all over.” He smiled a crooked smile. “I saw it on TV. There are massage parlours where you can get it done but it’s pricey. We’ll try. You’ve gotta move your hands.”

  Lyssa’s hands trembled. He grasped her wrists and dragged her hands back and forth over his feet and up his legs. He had a crazed look in his eyes and rolled his head back and forth, his breath heavy. A burning fear bubbled within Lyssa and threatened to overwhelm her. But a sense of disgust and anger took over and she curled her fingers and scraped her nails across his skin as hard as she could. He lifted his head sharply, jumped off the bed and stormed from the room. Lyssa heard another door slam nearby.

  She glanced at the open door. Desperate, she tugged and pinched at the knots to loosen the string around her ankles. She heard a door open and footsteps again. She froze. He appeared in the doorway, shut the door and thundered down the stairs. This was her chance; there was nothing to stop her, as long as the door was unlocked.

  A floorboard groaned as she tiptoed to the door. She turned the handle and the latch clicked open. She slipped her head through, and saw a long corridor with a low ceiling. A door led off it and daylight spilled through onto the threadbare carpet and faded floral wallpaper. She saw the stairs to her left.

  Her heart pounded. She must be brave and do all she could to get away. The thought of what he would do to her gave her the courage. Her fingers rested on the handrail and she stepped quietly down the stairs to the darkened hallway below; the front door a few feet away. A clatter of furniture nearby made her race to the door. She turned the handle.

  “What the hell are you doing?” He grabbed her hair and dragged her back across the hall.

  She stumbled and fell to her knees but he seized her arm and yanked her back up, hard.

  Lyssa screamed. “Stop! Please…”

  He jerked her head. “Shut that mouth.”

  At the bedroom doorway he shoved her into the room and locked the door behind her. She fell onto the hard, wooden floor and lay still and stunned. Blood dripped from her nose and there was a sickly, metallic taste on her tongue. Carefully, she stood up and stumbled to the bed. Then she cried - for her bleeding nose, for missing her parents, but mostly from fear of what might happen.

  Whatever the reason he had taken her, she had to get away before he hurt her, or worse. She wept into the sleeve of her cardigan and thought about home. And she pictured her bedroom with her pony posters and photographs on the wall, her favourite teddy and her warm, soft bed with its brightly coloured duvet and pillow. She imagined lying on her bed at home, her head sinking into the pillow and her mother calling to her.

  “Lyssa, it’s Mummy. Can you hear me?”

  “I hear you Mummy,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Money Problems

  Max sat on one side of the interview table, and opposite sat Inspector Keir and Detective Brooks. Their eyes burned into him and he felt the leaden weight of their attention.

  “You know why you’re here don’t you Max?” Inspector Keir spoke without her usual warmth.

  Max nodded.

  “Speak up Max, we’re recording the interview,” Detective Brooks cut in, his tone dry.

  “Yes, I know why. But this won’t help Lyssa. You should be out there searching for this maniac,” Max said. “I’m not the one holding her. I’ve tried everything to contact him - to meet him. But he’s ignoring all my messages.”

  “Trust me, we have plenty of officers out there doing their utmost to find your daughter. But we need to establish precisely what it is that you know.” Detective Brooks rested his elbows on the table and made a steeple with his fingertips. “You want us to find her, don’t you Max?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Detective Brooks eyes didn’t waver. “It’s been two days now, and I don’t need to remind you that acting swiftly is key. The longer Lyssa is with him, the higher the likelihood of her coming to some sort of harm. Am I making myself clear?”

  “I would hardly call two days acting swiftly. Could we just get on with it?” said Max.

  “Our point exactly. Two days ago you should have informed us of everything that you knew,” replied Inspector Keir. “However, moving on. Is this your phone?” She placed Max’s phone on the table.

  “You know it is.” Max reached to pick it up, but Inspector Keir retrieved it.

  “And how did you and he exchange messages?”

  “Email. My work email.”

  “He’s never phoned, texted, messaged on Facebook?” she asked.

  “He hasn’t got my number.”

  “But he found your email address, and there are ways.”

  “Have you deleted any of the messages?” asked Detective Brooks.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So are you saying you might have deleted some?”

  “Unless it was by mistake then I haven’t.”

  “Would you show me where the messages are?” said Detective Brooks, and he slid the phone across to Max.
<
br />   “He first emailed at the beginning of April, and he kept messaging, one every couple of days. I always replied,” Max said, returning the phone.

  Detective Brooks and Inspector Keir read the messages for several minutes. Every so often they exchanged incredulous looks.

  Inspector Keir tore a sheet of paper from her pad, and placed it with a pen in front of Max. “I want your login details for Facebook.”

  “Why? He’s hardly going to be a friend,” said Max, and snatched up the pen.

  “I’m going to hand your phone to my comms officer,” she continued. “We’ll see what intelligence we can gather.”

  As Inspector Keir left the interview room, Detective Brooks watched Max. The two men remained silent until she returned.

  “I have information on Roy who died . . . while in your presence,” said Inspector Keir. “We’re running a full check on him and his son. And, I’m sorry to tell you, Max, that his one son, Corey, is already on police radar.” She paused. “Although he isn’t a convicted paedophile, he was arrested last September for pestering children in his hometown Cumbernauld, Glasgow. He shared alcohol and drugs with the youngsters. And we know of one fourteen-year-old girl he invited to his flat. Fortunately for the child, her mother found out about the arranged meeting and reported him.”

  Unable to contain his anger, Max stood abruptly and slammed his palm onto the table. “I’ll kill him…”

  “You must understand the consequences of your actions Max, your delay in coming forward with this crucial information, and the impact it’s now having on your daughter - on your family.”