The Basement

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Sarah, take your hands away from your face.’ She does as she's told. She's wearing a red silk robe and you can see that she's naked underneath it. Under other circumstances you'd be tempted to play with her, but first she has to learn the error of her ways. ‘Put your hands behind your back.’

  ‘Please don't...’ she begins to say, but you hold up a warning finger. She stops mid-sentence and slowly puts her hands behind her back. She arches her back and the motion pushes her breasts forward. She licks her lips and you realise that she's trying to use her sexuality to distract you. You smile and stroke the side of her face. It's reddening from the slaps but there wouldn't be a bruise. You were careful not to bruise her.

  ‘You're going to have to be punished, Sarah. I don't want to, but I must. You do understand that, don't you?’ She nods, slowly. ‘You have to learn to obey me.’

  ‘I'm sorry,’ she whispers.

  ‘But sorry doesn't make it right.’

  ‘I won't do it again.’

  You smile. ‘Oh, I know that.’ You take the stun gun out of your pocket. Instinctively she turns her head away but you grab her hair again, forcing her to look at the crackling electrodes. Her chest heaves and her eyes are wide and staring.

  ‘Please don't hurt me...’ You cut her short by backhanding her across the face and she falls to the ground, the robe riding up around her waist. You touch the stun gun against the soft white flesh of her lower leg and press the switch. She screams and her body goes into spasm. ‘There, there,’ you say soothingly as she writhes in pain. ‘It'll soon be over.’

  * * *

  There's a chill wind blowing through New York and on CBS's early morning news they say there's a seventy per cent chance of snow before the end of the week. I'm wearing a thick wool overcoat, belted at the waist, and I've got my hands deep in the pockets. I'm in the park because I needed a breath of fresh air. I've been in the apartment for three days, pacing around. I've a lot on my mind. I want to get my own back on Turner, I've still not got any further with Checking Out, and I've decided that The Big Loser isn't worth pursuing. The characters just aren't sympathetic enough, and there's nothing I can do to make it work.

  I think the problem is that I'm better at thrillers than comedy. While I was pacing around the flat trying to come up with a big bang ending for Checking Out I had a sudden brainwave. I saw a documentary about hypnotic regression last year and it impressed me so much that I scribbled down some notes. I found the notes when I was going through the briefcase under my bed and I read through them as I walked around the room. The idea hit me like a cold shower.

  A class of psychology students are learning about hypnosis. A lecturer is demonstrating past life regression on an old man, taking him back to a former life as a Roman soldier. Most of the students are fascinated, but a girl is sure that the whole business of past life regression under hypnosis is a con. She argues with her boyfriend, who is also a psychology student, and they end up making a wager. The next time the lecturer demonstrates the technique, the girl volunteers. To everyone's surprise she is a perfect subject, and quickly slips into a trance. She takes on the persona of a middle-aged woman, married with children. What starts as a look at her life takes a sinister turn - the woman is murdered and the girl comes out of the trance badly shaken but not remembering anything. She and her boyfriend decide to find out all they can about the woman, but attempts to identify her are fruitless. They persuade the lecturer to hypnotize her again, and when he agrees they discover why they weren't able to trace the woman - far from being a past life of the girl, the woman was killed only fifteen years previously. The student has recalled something from her past, not a previous life, and the memories get stronger and stronger, though she cannot recall the face of the killer. We gradually realise that the murder happened when the girl was very young, that she saw her father kill her mother but then blotted it out of her mind. When her father discovers what is happening, he realizes he must kill his daughter to keep his secret safe. The title came to me as I pulled on my coat to go out. Past Imperfect.

  I walk to Strawberry Fields. It's just about my favourite place in Central Park, though sometimes there are some weird people about. The sort who think that John Lennon isn't really dead, and that he's serving burgers with Elvis in Cleveland. Crazy types. Today I'm alone so I stand there for a few minutes looking up at the Dakota building, wondering if Yoko is in there, prowling around from room to room, missing her man.

  I recognise Marcinko from more than a hundred yards away, even in the bulky coat and the scarf wrapped around her neck. She's on her own, carrying a manila envelope in a gloved hand and heading in my direction. There's no sign of Turner and I wonder what she's doing out on her own and if it's a coincidence that we're both in Central Park at the same time. I watch as she walks towards me. The way she smiles and gives me a little wave almost suggests that we'd arranged the meeting, two friends getting together for a walk, maybe going for a meal or a movie. ‘Hi, Lisa,’ I say as she gets close.

  ‘Marvin, how are you today?’ she says. ‘Fine.’

  She stands by me and looks up at the building. ‘Is she in?’ she asks. ‘Is that a trick question?’

  She laughs and for a moment I forget that she's a cop. ‘No, Marvin, it's just conversation. Do you want to walk?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, and we turn our backs to the Dakota and walk into the park. Two blonde girls in skin-tight spandex whiz by on rollerblades, too cool to be cold. An old woman walks by with two very large Dobermans in tow. One of them sniffs at my leg. ‘Is this a social call, Lisa?’ I ask.

  ‘I was heading towards your apartment when I saw you,’ she says.

  I look at her sideways. I can't think of any route from her precinct to my apartment that would take her across the park. Besides, detectives have cars. ‘On your own?’

  ‘Turner's taking some sick leave.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I can tell from her voice she's lying. ‘What's wrong with him?’

  ‘Oh, the flu I think.’

  Yeah, right. Lisa Marcinko isn't half the liar she thinks she is. ‘Well, I hope it's not serious. Do you think I should send flowers?’

  She laughs quietly. ‘No, Marvin, I don't think you should.’

  ‘Yeah, you're probably right.’ We walk in silence for a while.

  ‘What's in the envelope, Lisa?’ She's been tapping it against her leg for the past fifty yards.

  ‘It's the script you sent to Brian DePalma. The Bestseller.’

  ‘Yeah? What do you think?’

  ‘It's interesting.’

  ‘Is that why you're here, Lisa? Because of The Bestseller?’

  ‘It's not good, Marvin.’

  ‘It's only a synopsis, Lisa. The finished script will be much better, it'll....’

  ‘No,’ she says, interrupting me in full flow. ‘You don't get it, Marvin.’ She holds the envelope up, almost pushes it into my face. ‘What do you think this looks like?’

  ‘An A4 envelope,’ I say, giving her the boyish grin, but now she's not laughing. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’ she asks.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Did you really think anyone would buy this?’

  ‘Sure. It's a thriller.’

  ‘It's scary, Marvin. It's a story about a serial killer who craves media attention. A killer who thinks he's so smart that he won't get caught. A killer who dismembers his victims.’

  ‘Victim,’ I say, correcting her. ‘He only kills one woman.’

  ‘Okay, but you can see where I'm going with this.’

  ‘I'm not sure that I can, Lisa. You think that if I was the killer you're looking for I'd be stupid enough to give myself away like that. Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Where did you get that from?’

  She hesitates as if she's thinking that maybe she shouldn't tell me, but then she nods to herself as if deciding that it's okay. ‘One of the studio execs you sent it to in Hollywood had been following stories
of our serial killer and thought they should pass it on to us.’

  ‘So it wasn't DePalma?’

  ‘No. No, it wasn't.’

  That's good, because it still means I'm in with a chance. I'd really be depressed if he'd handed it in to the cops. At least now I know he's still got it. ‘Lisa, I want to ask you something else.’

  She stops and turns to look at me. The wind catches her hair and blows it to the side. ‘I'm the cop, Marvin. I'm supposed to be asking the questions.’

  ‘And I'm a writer,’ I say. ‘I want to know whether or not you think I'm the killer.’

  ‘What?’ she says, surprised.

  ‘I want to know if in your heart of hearts you think I'm the serial killer.’

  Her eyes go wide and her jaw drops. ‘What do you think this investigation is all about, Marvin? Do you think I'd waste my time like this?’

  ‘I think that Turner is sure I'm guilty. And I think that maybe you're under pressure to get a result on the case.’

  ‘So we'll settle for anyone, is that what you think?’

  ‘I know I haven't killed anyone, Lisa. I know I didn't do it. So if you and Turner insist that I did, you're behaving illogically. Neither of you is crazy, so there must be some other motivation.’

  ‘That doesn't make sense, and you know it doesn't. Suppose we do arrest the wrong person, and suppose he goes to prison. What happens when the real killer strikes again? When the TV stations get another video?’

  ‘You'd say it was a copy-cat.’

  She shakes her head and makes a tutting sound, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘And we're back to square one. No, we have to get the right man, Marvin. We can't afford to get it wrong.’

  I look straight into her deep blue eyes. ‘Lisa, I'm not the man you're looking for.’ She looks at me, a slight frown creasing her forehead. ‘Do you believe me?’

  She stands looking at me for several seconds. Eventually she nods. ‘I believe you, Marvin,’ she whispers.

  I grin because I can see that she means it. I want to step forward and hug her but I figure that wouldn't be a smart move. Besides, Turner might be close by, watching through a long lens to see how I react to finding Lisa on her own. This could be a ploy, some sick plan of Turner's to get me to drop my guard. ‘Thanks, Lisa,’ I say. ‘That makes me feel a bit better.’ She hands me the envelope and starts walking again. I follow her and catch up. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ I ask.

  She shrugs. ‘It's up to you. It's your property.’

  ‘It's not evidence?’

  ‘You tell me.’ She hunches her shoulders against the cold.

  ‘No. It's not evidence. Lisa, what's going on here?’

  She doesn't look at me as she answers. ‘Nothing's going on, Marvin. I just wanted to return your script. And....’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don't know.’

  This doesn't sound right. Lisa Marcinko isn't some lovesick schoolgirl, she's a hard- bitten Homicide detective, and while I've been flashing her the boyish smile at every opportunity, I'm not stupid enough to believe that she's fallen for me. There's something else going on, and I'm damn sure it involves Sergeant Ed Turner.

  ‘Do you come here a lot?’ she asks.

  ‘It's a good place to think.’

  ‘Dangerous at night.’

  ‘Places aren't dangerous. People are. You know that.’

  She smiles thinly. ‘What about you, Marvin? Are you dangerous?’

  I think for a few seconds before answering. ‘Only when provoked.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. I'm not a predator, I don't want to go out of my way to hurt anybody. I don't feel enough about people for that. They don't affect me, so I don't even think about them. They're not in my universe. But if anyone threatens me, I'll protect myself. I'll strike back.’

  She nods, but still she doesn't look at me. ‘Ed's sure you're guilty,’ she says.

  ‘He's wrong. And you know he's wrong.’

  ‘He's heading up the investigation.’

  ‘So until he's convinced otherwise, the pressure stays on, is that what you're saying?’

  ‘Or until the real killer is caught.’

  I sigh in exasperation. ‘But if Turner is wasting his time chasing me, the killer isn't going to get caught. Why can't you get him off my back?’

  ‘That's not how it works, Marvin.’ She looks at her watch and I realise that there's something wrong. Something very wrong.

  ‘Well, thanks for this,’ I say, raising the envelope. ‘I'll see you around.’

  The panic is clear in her eyes and she all but grabs my sleeve. ‘Walk with me for a while, will you Marvin?’

  ‘I don't think so,’ I say, my voice hardening. I'm annoyed not because she's tried to fool me, but because she thinks that she's so much smarter than I am. She thinks I'm just like the rest of the trash she pulls off the streets. Well, Lisa Marcinko is wrong. Dead wrong. ‘I've work to do.’

  ‘There are some questions I'd like to ask you,’ she says. Her eyes flick involuntarily in the direction of my apartment building.

  ‘Get a warrant, Detective Marcinko.’ I turn my back on her and head home. I'm furious, furious that she's so underestimated my intelligence. She shouts my name, just once, but I don't look back. I didn’t have to look to know that she was reaching for her cellphone. To warn him.

  I'm sweating despite the cold when I get back to my apartment. It's been trashed. Totally trashed. The typewriter has been thrown against the wall and stamped on, the pages of my work in progress have been torn up and dropped into the toilet bowl, the bed has been upended, the sheets torn, all my clothes have been trampled on. Turner has done a thorough job. I hope he's proud of himself. Marcinko, too. Keeping me talking while her partner rips my life apart.

  The armchair is on its side so I stand it up and sit down, still in my overcoat. I sit for maybe half an hour, planning what I'm going to, then I go down to check my mailbox. There are two letters there, both from New York's Commissioner of Motor Vehicles and both relating to my queries about Turner. Both letters give me the details of five different Ed Turners and I take them back upstairs to read.

  One of the letters contains replies to my request for drivers licence information. Each sheet gives me details of the subject's height, weight, hair colour and eye colour and whether or not they wear spectacles. Only two of the Turners wears glasses and one of them has blue eyes, so I'm pretty sure I know which is the Homicide Detective. The date of birth is on each sheet, and so is the subject's address and social security number. So now I know where Turner lives. The other envelope contains details of the cars owned by the five New York Ed Turners, and I pull out the one that applies to the detective. He owns just one car, a five-year-old Chrysler. Actually, he's shown as the part owner. There's another name on the sheet. Jaleesa. His wife. I smile and study the two sheets. This is going to be such fun.

  * * *

  Sarah is standing by the bed, her eyes averted, when you close the door behind you. She's wearing the lingerie you bought her, stockings, suspenders, a black lacy bra and a black silk dressing gown. She's put on make up, just as you told her, the lipstick a brighter shade of red than she would normally use and her lashes thick with mascara. The slut from hell. ‘Perfect,’ you say. ‘Just perfect.’

  She says nothing. She's breathing heavily and you can smell her fear. You stand in front of her and stroke the side of her face. You slip your thumb between her lips and inside her warm, wet mouth. Without being asked she sucks gently like a feeding baby, her eyes closed. You move your thumb in and out, slowly, sensuously, and you feel her tongue run along its length. You run your other hand down her chest, along her stomach and between her legs. ‘Open your eyes,’ you say. ‘Look at me.’

  She obeys. You smile at her as she sucks your thumb. Her teeth gently scratch your skin, a contrast to the soft tongue. Hard and soft. You like that. You like the image. The teeth that bite, the lips that kiss. And
Sarah's well trained, now. She won't bite. She's been trained for pleasure. She'll do anything you ask.

  ‘You've been a good girl, Sarah,’ you say. She keeps on sucking, her eyes never leaving your face. You slowly take your thumb from between her lips. She moved forward, her mouth open, as if trying to recapture it. You shake your head and take the padlock key out of your pocket. She looks at it and frowns.

  ‘Yes, it's the key,’ you say. All the time she's been in the basement she's been chained, either to the bed, or to the wall. The chain around her waist allows her to get to the bathroom and almost to the door, but it still restricts her movement. ‘This is to show you how pleased I am with your progress,’ you say as you unlock the padlock. The chain slips around her waist and rattles on the floor. Her eyes react instinctively, flicking towards the door, the way out. ‘It's still locked,’ you say. She flinches as if you're going to hit her, but you smile. ‘There's nowhere to go, Sarah,’ you say. ‘Now don't go spoiling it. Are you going to be good?’

  She looks down at the floor. At the chain. ‘Yes,’ she says.

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘I'll be good.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  You help her off with the silk robe and drop it onto the floor, on top of the chain. ‘Lie down,’ you say and you watch her sit on the bed and lie back. You start to unbutton your shirt. ‘Play with yourself,’ you say. She puts her hand between her legs and slips it under her panties. You let your shirt fall onto the floor. ‘Are you wet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘I'm wet.’