by Michael Kerr
He dictated the note, and she wrote it word for word. He had known that her daughter had died in tragic circumstances; even knew her name. But he did not how it was spelt.
Laura had no warning of the blow. As she finished writing, her head lit up with a starburst of light and she was instantly dead to the world. His fist, clenched around the worn, wooden handle of the knife, had flicked out with the speed of a cobra’s tongue, catching her skull behind the ear, hard, jarring her brain into unconsciousness.
As her head snapped sideways and she began to topple from the chair, he gathered her in his arms and lowered her onto the carpeted floor, face down. Pulled a reel of duct tape from a pocket and quickly secured her wrists behind her back and her ankles together, and finally covered her mouth. He was gentle, even pulling her Disney night-shirt down over her thighs, aroused by the sight of her bare buttocks, but covering them out of long-standing high regard for the woman who was now his defenceless captive. Taking the car keys from her shoulder bag, he scooped her up and draped her over his shoulder like a rolled-up rug, then carried her outside and carefully placed her in the boot of the small Fiat, ensuring that she was on her side, even taking the time to retrieve a throw from the rear seat to fold and place under her head.
Back inside the cottage, Hugh set the scene, filling a holdall with a selection of clothes from the bedroom drawers, and taking essential toiletries from the bathroom. He then returned downstairs and left the note on the coffee table, its corner pinned by a large ashtray, and left.
Driving Laura’s Fiat back past where he had dumped the expendable Jeep, he lit a cheroot and thumbed the cassette that jutted from the stereo into the slot. It was Sinatra; Laura had taste. He played it loud enough so that she would be able to hear it in the boot, should she have regained consciousness. He even sang along with ‘Old Blue Eyes’; a splendidly out of tune rendition of My Way, sung his way.
Trish sat on the bed and concentrated, examining every item available to her as she deliberated and eventually formulated a plan that might save her life. The sick copper would get more than he bargained for when he next ventured down into the cellar. She had no intention of making it easy for him; was not the cowed, pathetic prisoner that he supposed her to be. Her readily submitting to his every demand had been out of fear, and now that same fear was motivating her to fight for life and freedom. He did not seem to realise that if she had nothing to lose then, like a cornered, frightened animal, she would expend her last ounce of energy on defending herself.
Removing the books and magazines from the coffee table and turning it onto its side, Trish brought the sole of her foot down onto one of the two legs that were now eighteen inches from the floor, stuck out horizontally like the stiffened legs of a dead sheep. The effort caused her to cry out in pain as the unyielding timber bruised her bare foot. After massaging her sole, she placed open magazines over the leg as padding, stood on the bed and jumped down with her feet together and knees flexed. The leg sheared off with a sharp crack as the dovetailed and glued joint snapped, causing her to fall awkwardly over the table, her left side connecting with the raised edge as she put her outstretched arms out in front of her to save her head from hitting the concrete. Screaming against the pain, she slid down into a sitting position and held her side, moaning as every shallow breath caused sharp, stabbing pains, convincing her that she had cracked or fractured one or two ribs.
After waiting for the agony to subside to a dull ache, she examined the now detached table leg. It was a heavy length of hardwood that tapered to a diameter that she could hold comfortably in her hand. She now had a weapon; a club, but doubted that she would be able to use it against him effectively in her weakened state.
Necessity truly being the mother of invention, she turned her attention to the small portable loo. It was constructed from a hard plastic material, and gave her an idea.
Using both hands, she lifted up the foul-smelling container, her stomach heaving at the stench of her own waste, that mixed with the disinfectant liquid was a potent brew that almost made her vomit. She breathed through her mouth, hefted the loo up to the edge of the sink and emptied the concoction, gagging as the liquid slowly seeped away to leave a clotted layer of faeces, that even the running water from the tap would not clear. She rinsed out the receptacle and then swung it with all her might against the corner of the wall, where it rebated into the stairwell, to turn her head to the side as it shattered and left her holding the handle. The loo disintegrated and was reduced to an array of blue shards that flew off in every direction, to land on the cellar floor and the top of the bed.
“Yes...Yesss!” Trish cried out in triumph, hugging herself and grimacing as her ribs complained at the physical exertion.
Crawling around the floor and gathering the pieces into a pile, she inspected the various sized fragments of plastic. Finally, she selected and picked up a twelve-inch long spearhead-shaped shard and pressed it against her palm, laughing as it pierced her skin with the sharpness of broken glass.
An hour later, Trish was as ready as she ever would be. The coffee table was again upright, standing like a three-legged dog, with the books and magazines back on its top. She had put the end with the missing leg farthest from the stairwell, and then gone over to the bottom step to look back and survey her work, content that without close inspection, nothing seemed untoward. She then gathered up all the other pieces of the loo and placed them in a heap in the corner to the left of the steps, out of direct line of sight from anyone entering the underground room. Sitting on the bed, she examined her work. The table leg she had broken off was now no longer a cudgel, but a shaft. The pointed plastic shard was a blade, bound tightly to the wood with strips of bed sheet.
Timing would be critical. She rehearsed the scene over and over in her mind, ‘seeing’ Parfitt walking down the stairs with a tray or plate in one hand, and a drink in the other. He was arrogant, too sure of himself, and that was in her favour. He could not now imagine her as a threat. In his eyes she was just a weak and compliant plaything with no will left; reduced to a cringing and pitiful creature that relied on him and feared him. Making a move against him would be the last thing he would expect her to do, with the threat of pain, or worse, to be returned to the rat-infested barn and shackled to the cement block. As he leant forward to place whatever he was carrying on to the tabletop, she would lunge forward with the spear that she had fashioned. In one smooth movement she would bring it from concealment at her side and drive it into his face, throat or chest, then leap over the end of the bed, race up the steps and throw the door shut behind her and bolt it, to trap him wounded, dying or dead in his own stinking cellar.
She shook in a state of mingled fear and excitement at the thought of being free, daring to contemplate success, and already picturing herself phoning the police as the Tacker beat his fists against the door and screamed obscenities at her. If this didn’t prove to be a career-enhancing opportunity, then nothing ever would be. Christ, she could write a book of her nightmare ordeal as his prisoner: the true story of how after suffering at the maniac’s hands, she had finally not only escaped his clutches, but ensnared or killed him. It would be serialised by a tabloid, without doubt be at the top of the best seller list, and would in all likelihood be made into a movie. There would be a very lucrative upside to recompense her for the near-death experience, and rightly so.
The element of surprise would be on her side. She played the scene over and over again, even practising the move that would save her life, repeatedly bringing up the spear from her side and thrusting it ‒ like a quick draw gunslinger ‒ to where she expected him to be. Her hatred for the demented copper who had tricked her, abducted her, and used her so repeatedly and violently, gave her the strength and the resolve to do whatever was necessary to live to tell the tale.
He parked the car in the barn, remained seated and listened to Sinatra finish up singing The Lady is a Tramp, before ejecting the cassette and pocketing it. He then left Laura i
n the boot and walked across to the house. There was still a lot that had to be done before the night was through. No rest for the wicked. Ha!
Once ready, with a claw-hammer secreted under a tea towel on the unit top behind the kitchen table, he went upstairs and changed back into the shorts and T-shirt. He planned to bring Trish up from the cellar, allow her to sit at the table in the belief that he was going to make her a hot drink and allow her to shower, and then kill her with one devastating blow to the skull with the hammer. He would immediately put a bin liner over her head and tape it around her neck. What little blood escaped would quickly mop up. It should all be over in a few seconds, and he would then bury her in the shallow grave and transfer Laura to the cellar. He did not intend for Trish to suffer unduly, or even for her to be aware that it was time for her to check out. He bore her no ill-will. She had just outlived her usefulness; had become excess to requirements.
The sound of the bolts being drawn back caused Trish to whimper with fear at the overwhelming significance of what the next few seconds held. She was under no illusion and firmly believed that this was truly a life or death situation. She sat at the head of the bed, legs stretched out in front of her, and the weapon – that seemed so puny now – at the side of her leg, with the blanket bunched up to help conceal it.
His feet, bare legs, shorts, upper body, and finally his head and shoulders came into view as he descended the steps and smiled at her.
Her heart tripped, skipped, and felt as though it was being crushed in the grip of an iron fist. He had stopped three feet from the foot of the bed, and had nothing in his hands. Trish stared at him, horrified, her plan evaporating. The rehearsals had been a waste of time. For ome reason he was not going to come within striking distance. Panic seemed to drain her mind of all ability to think, and her limbs were rigid, muscles locked. The smile on his face had transmuted to become a look of disgust as his eyes narrowed and his lips drew back and twisted in a scowl.
“Jesus, it stinks down here. Have you just been?” he asked, taking another step forward before turning his head towards the sink and seeing the blue-brown swamp in the sink, and immediately knowing that the malodorous stench emanated from the pungent, heady mix of excreta and disinfectant. He then saw the broken remains of the loo: the pieces of plastic gathered together in a small heap, as if it were kindling ready to be lit. For just a second he was dumbfounded and could not understand why she had done it. What the fuck was the stupid bitch hoping to gain by smashing her toilet to bits?
A blur of movement in his peripheral vision jerked his attention back to the bed.
Trish knew it was now or never. She hurled herself forward towards him like a coiled spring, thrusting the short spear out straight-armed in front of her; a guttural scream of combined terror and rage escaping her lips as she leapt catlike into mid-air.
He twisted and pulled back to avoid her, but felt a searing flash of pain in his side. Falling to his knees, he realised that she had a weapon, had stabbed him, and that if he had been a fraction of a second slower he would have been skewered through the stomach. He gasped as she withdrew the hand-held spear, and threw himself sideways as she struck out again, to roll across the cellar floor, cursing as another stinging slash opened his cheek to the bone.
Trish hesitated. She had stabbed him once, felt the plastic point enter him, and watched as he folded to his knees. She pulled it free, and saw the resulting outpouring of blood seeping through his cotton T-shirt, resembling a spreading wine stain on a tablecloth. She tried to take advantage, lunged again, jabbing at his face. And as he rolled away from her she took her chance, dropped the weapon that had served her so well and dashed up the stairs to the open door and freedom.
Bad timing. Had she kept up the onslaught and continued to stab him as he lay on the floor, momentarily helpless, then she could have killed him and been done with the whole sorry business. But her second of hesitation and subsequent decision to flee proved to be a monumental mistake.
He was fast. Knew that if she had the composure to pause and close and lock the cellar door on him, then he was finished. As he raced up the stairs, she was already swinging the door to. It shut with a heavy thud.
Trish fumbled the top bolt, hand shaking as her brain screamed directions to it, willing it to grasp the head of the bolt and slide it smoothly into place. At last her trembling fingers found it and...
...He hit the inside of the door with his shoulder as he heard the bolt scrape across the metal surface. The iron finger slid into thin air, and he careered out into the kitchen.
Trish stepped to the side, turned and made to run, but he grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her backwards. She twisted, wild-eyed, with her mouth darting at his face, jaws snapping, attempting to bite him.
Hugh reacted. Swung her against the kitchen wall, once...twice...three times, before letting go and walking over to where he had secreted the hammer, as she slid down to the floor, leaving a swathe of blood from her split forehead in her wake on the faded wallpaper.
Trish was conscious, but could not find the strength to move. She was knelt, head hung between her shoulders as if in prayer, knowing that she had lost the battle for life and was about to die. She felt nothing, was dazed, consumed by a weariness that overcame her, robbing her of all resolution, to infuse her with a strange acceptance while awaiting her fate: a condemned prisoner acceding to the inevitable, climbing the steps to the gallows almost willingly, having come to terms with what was unavoidable.
The gleaming hammer arced down on to the crown of her head, and the round barrel of steel split her scalp open to punch a hole through her skull and plug into the underlying brain tissue.
Trish felt a stabbing, piercing pain, and was at once paralysed and struck blind, although still aware. She could hear a loud whining, stammering sound, but had no idea that it was an emission from her own mouth. She was jerked back as the tool was wrenched free from her skull, and having been rendered sightless, was spared seeing the glistening hammerhead as it scythed into her forehead and terminated all perception of being.
Standing back, Hugh dropped the hammer and placed his hands on his knees, gasping for breath as he watched the blood pool out onto the cracked and worn linoleum.
What a fucking mess! He would need more than a bin bag now. She was still convulsing, thrashing about like an epileptic, and the sight was riveting; one he thought would have been enhanced by a suitable backing track of upbeat dance music.
It took him over an hour to clean up. He wrapped the body in a plastic dust sheet, took it out to the barn and buried it as planned, then returned to the house and using a mop, cloths and a bucket of hot water he went to work in first the kitchen and then the cellar, removing every trace of body fluids, and even clearing the blocked sink, breathing through his mouth as he poured a full bottle of pine-scented disinfectant down the plug hole. Back upstairs he examined the ingenious weapon that the sneaky bitch had fashioned. He couldn’t help but admire her effort. Had he been a fraction of a second slower, she would have probably killed him with it. He threw it outside the back door, along with the other pieces of what had been the Chemiloo, to join his blood-sodden T-shirt and shorts. He determined to bag the lot up and dump it when time allowed.
In the bathroom he showered and inspected his injuries. The sharp plastic had gone through his side. It was painful, but only a flesh wound. No big deal. He stepped out of the shower, dried off and then poured TCP antiseptic into the jagged gash and used a full roll of bandage to wrap tightly around his waist. The cut to his face merited a few stitches, but a large Band-Aid would have to suffice. He dressed in fresh T-shirt, jeans and trainers, and went to get Laura; his last task of this long, eventful night.
Laying Laura on the bed in the cellar, he removed the tape from her mouth and held the knife in front of her face.
“Listen very carefully, boss, I’ve had a long day,” he said. “And believe it or not I’m going to work later, so I need some shuteye. There’s
a jug of water and some biscuits and fruit on the table next to you. Plan on making it last for about twelve hours. I’m afraid there’s no toilet down here, just a bucket in the corner. If you behave, you’ll be free by this time tomorrow. Once I’m well away from the area, I’ll phone the station and tell them where you are.”
“Why should I believe you?” Laura said, wincing as her swollen jaw complained.
“Because if I’d wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”
“You must know that you’ll never get away with this, Hugh.”
“Save the lecture, boss. Remember, I’m a cop, like you. And if you’ve any sense, you’ll pack the job in. You don’t really make a difference. Shit has always happened, and always will. You’re just an aspirin trying to treat a cancer.”
He cut the tape from her wrists and ankles, and then walked towards the steps.
“Hugh,” Laura called after him.
“Yeah, boss?” he answered, pausing and half turning.
“Why the staples, and...and all the other mutilation?”
“Because she deserves it,” he said. “She’s a whore...a fucking slut. She has to pay.”
“Who is, Hugh? Who deserves it? Who has to pay?”
His eyes clouded and became unfocused with a thousand yard stare. His face went slack, and his mouth dropped open. A muscle began to twitch in his right cheek, drawing his top lip up in an unwitting impersonation of Elvis Presley. For just a moment, Hugh had left the building.
“Mummy,” he murmured absently. “Mummy has to pay. She has to keep being punished for what she did to me.”
A Hugh Parfitt that Laura did not know once more showed her his back, and trudged heavy-footed up the stone steps. As the door thudded into place above her, and the bolts snapped across, she could hear sobs. He was actually crying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE