by Neil White
Someone knelt next to her. It was the woman again. Monica could smell her perfume.
‘This is your chance to go home,’ the woman said, her voice soft.
Monica didn’t say anything at first. She lay there, sucking in deep breaths. She could feel dampness in her crotch. She had pissed herself as she was kicked over, the surprise of the unexpected blow making her lose control. The woman was watching her. She could tell from the steady pattern of her breaths, patient and slow.
‘I don’t understand,’ Monica said, gasping. ‘Why you are doing this?’
A laugh. ‘You don’t have to understand. You just have to play the game.’
‘What game? What are you talking about?’
‘This game. Our game. The one we always play.’
‘This is no game,’ Monica said, straining at her ropes, but it was no use.
‘It’s simple. In thirty minutes, we will kill you. The only way you can stop us is if you get away.’
Monica sobbed, tears making it past the blindfold. ‘But I don’t know where I am. I can’t see anything.’
Another laugh, and then she whispered into Monica’s ear. ‘That, my little sweetness, is why we like it.’
Forty
Sam cursed as a traffic light turned red near his mother’s home. He pulled out his phone and dialled Joe’s number, but his phone was switched off.
‘Joe, it’s me,’ he barked, once it went to voicemail. ‘Get to Mum’s as soon as you can. It’s about Ruby.’
The lights changed to green and he threw the phone onto his seat. The journey had been too long, just a stream of red traffic lights and queues. The roads around Manchester never seemed big enough; there was never a quick route anywhere.
As he turned on to the street where he’d grown up he could see his mother in the window, pacing, looking out. Sam didn’t bother locking his car. She turned towards him as he strode to the front door, and when he rushed into the house she had taken up a position on the sofa, holding Ruby’s hand, who had been crying.
‘What happened?’ he said. He was out of breath.
Ruby looked at Sam, and then at their mother, before she said, ‘I want to talk to Sam. Alone.’
His mother looked hurt as she struggled to get to her feet, but she knew that this had been her reason for calling him, that Ruby would confide in her big brother, the nearest person she had to a father figure. Sam knew from the purse of her lips and the glaze to her eyes that she wasn’t as strong as she was trying to appear.
When the door closed, he said to Ruby, ‘Talk to me.’
She started to cry straight away. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘I know that, but if you don’t talk to me, I can’t help you.’
Ruby pulled her legs onto the sofa, long and awkward, and wrapped her arms around her knees. Tears ran down her cheeks as she said, ‘I went down the path,’ her voice breaking.
Sam went cold. He sat on a chair opposite. ‘The path?’ he said, although he already knew the answer.
Ruby nodded.
Sam closed his eyes. The path where Ellie was murdered. Images of Ellie flooded into his mind. He had tried so many times to reconstruct the last moment he had seen her alive. She used to set off for school bright and cheery, tall and awkward, just like Ruby, a cloth bag slung over her shoulder, the one that ended up thrown into the undergrowth, her school books dirty and wet. He couldn’t remember if that was how she had been that morning – it had been just an ordinary morning then, so why should he remember – but it was still something he clung on to, the idea of her smile and her goodbye as she went.
He opened his eyes to look at Ruby, who had stopped crying and was looking back at him over her knees with large, wet doe eyes.
‘Why did you walk that way?’ he said quietly. ‘We’ve told you often enough.’
‘Don’t you think I don’t know that?’ she said, her voice angry. ‘My life has always been about Ellie, but I never knew her. I want my life to be about me, so I don’t see why I can’t walk home that way. It’s the quickest route.’
‘Because it’s dangerous,’ he snapped.
‘Lots of people go that way!’
‘Not everyone has to visit a grave once a year because of that path!’ He was shouting now.
Ruby ran out of the room, crying, and Sam groaned as he listened to the stomp of her feet on the stairs. When her bedroom door slammed, he knew he had to go after her.
He went up the stairs and knocked lightly on her door. When she didn’t answer, he pushed it open slowly.
Ruby was lying on her bed, face down, her head in her arms, theatrical, teenage. Sam understood her frustration. Her whole life had been moulded by what happened to Ellie, as if Ruby had only ever been her shadow. The replacement girl.
Sam softened. ‘I’m not here because you used the path,’ he said. ‘Mum said you had been followed.’
Ruby didn’t move.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘It’s you I’m worried about.’
She lifted her head to look at him, and then pulled herself up.
‘Why do you care?’
‘Because I’m your brother, and since Dad died, I know I’ve got to be there for you. So here I am.’
Ruby wiped her eyes and sat up. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I left school just like normal. The roads were busy, and so I thought I would be all right down the path. It was just another normal day, and so why should today be any different?’
‘What, you walk that way often?’
Ruby shrugged. That was her answer.
‘Carry on.’
‘I thought it was going to rain and the proper way takes so long. So I took the shortcut.’
‘Who followed you?’
‘I don’t know, that’s the thing. I didn’t get a proper look. I turned in, and you know how it goes quiet, because the path bends round, and the trees make it private, so all I could hear were my footsteps. Then there was something else. It sounded like someone walking through the trees, like a rustling sound, as if someone was moving fast.’
Sam’s hands tensed into fists as he tried not to show his anger, some of which was aimed at Ruby, for doing what they had always warned her not to do.
‘What happened?’
Ruby swallowed and her chin trembled lightly. ‘I was scared. I looked back along the path, to see if anyone was there, but there wasn’t, although I couldn’t see the entrance anymore, because of the curve, so I didn’t want to go back. I carried on ahead, but I walked more quickly. I looked into the trees to see if I could see anyone. There was something moving, but it was between the trees, like a blur, so I ran. I was crying and shouting, and the noises followed me for a bit, but when I saw the opening ahead, to our street, I sprinted.’
‘Did anyone follow you onto the street?’
She shook her head.
‘Could you describe this person?’
Another shake of her head.
‘Not even height or clothes or hair colour?’
‘No. Like I said, it was just a blur.’
Sam considered her for a few moments. Ruby had a history of attention-seeking. She played up, became provocative. He had to be sure.
‘And are you sure someone was there?’
‘What, you don’t believe me?’
‘I know it’s been hard for you, Ruby, feeling like you have lived in Ellie’s shadow, but you know that you mustn’t say these things just to get our attention.’
Tears again. ‘Well, fuck off then!’
‘Ruby.’
‘No, fuck off, Sam. All you care about is Ellie. Mum’s the same.’
‘That’s not true, Ruby. It’s just that sometimes people say these kinds of things to get attention, and I need to be sure that you’re not. I know it’s been hard because Dad isn’t around, but you know I’m here for you.’
‘I’m telling the truth,’ she said, quieter now. ‘There was someone there.’
Sam considered her. Her room still bore the rem
nants of a childhood she was leaving behind, with soft toys strewn over her bed, but the young woman she was becoming was taking over. Make-up, perfumes, hairdryer, a picture of a teenage boy, handsome and sporty, propped up against her radio alarm. Some boyfriend, Sam guessed.
He exhaled loudly. ‘Okay, I’ll see what I can find out. Do you promise me that you’ll never go down there again?’
‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
‘Ruby?’
‘No, stop it. You can’t run my life. You’re not my father because, like you say, I don’t have one, but that doesn’t mean that you can take charge.’
Sam went over to her and kissed her on the top of the head. ‘You are you, not Ellie, don’t forget that. It’s just that we couldn’t face losing you too. So stay safe, for our sake.’
He left the room and went down into the kitchen, where his mother was adding some flour into a mixing bowl. Whenever his mother needed to distract herself, she made cakes. He put his arm around her shoulders. Music came on upstairs, the volume loud.
‘Everything will be all right,’ he said. ‘Try not to worry.’
She nodded but didn’t say anything.
‘Has Joe called?’
She stirred harder. Sam guessed the answer.
‘I’ll speak to him,’ he said.
She looked up at him. ‘He works hard, you know that.’
‘We all do, Mum,’ he said. ‘We all do.’
Forty-One
Monica took deep breaths and tried to clear the haze from her head hitting the ground. Her hair was damp and sticky from the blood oozing from the back of her head. Boots crunched next to her, and she yelped and shuffled along, her wrists still bound by rope. The boots followed her, another crunch, and she scrambled further, using her legs to move, like a snake, and then curling up to protect herself. Then there was laughter, low and mean, taunting.
She put her head to the ground. It was cold on her temple, grit sticking to her skin. She tried scraping her head along the concrete to dislodge the blindfold, but it was on too tight.
Her head swam with emotions. Terror. Pain. Disbelief that this was happening to her. She wanted it to end, and then was angry with herself for letting weakness creep in. She was a fighter, but she could feel the fight draining from her.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked, defeat in her voice. ‘Just let me go. Please.’
Monica knew how she sounded; she wanted to be stronger, more defiant, but she felt terrified, fearful, unable to know what was happening.
The boots scraped on the floor again, near to her head. Then there were fingers in her hair and she yanked herself away. A laugh. The woman. She was further away. Watching, Monica presumed.
‘Just tell me why,’ Monica said.
A pause, and then the woman said, ‘Have you ever experienced love?’ Before Monica could say anything, she added, ‘Not the kind of love you think of, with flowers and holding hands and all that romance novel stuff. I mean the real gut-wrenching, all-consuming, do-anything kind of love. Have you ever known that?’
‘I don’t understand,’ Monica said, her breathing recovering.
‘If you had known it, you would know what I mean. You wouldn’t have to ask.’
‘But how has this got anything to do with love?’ Monica strained at the rope around her wrists.
‘I don’t have to explain anymore, because you don’t understand.’ Monica recognised the snap of anger in the woman’s voice. ‘No one understands. They just condemn. So all you have to worry about is staying alive, because the clock is ticking.’
Monica sensed a change in tone, which had switched from being reflective to something more sinister, and she realised that her chance to talk her way out had slipped away before she had even noticed it was there.
Monica scrambled to her feet, teetering a little, and put her feet apart to steady herself. She turned slowly, her feet reaching out, tapping at the ground, searching for obstacles.
Something went past her hair, a bird, perhaps a bat, or even one of her captors teasing her, making her step back quickly. She ducked, scrunching up her shoulders, and then stopped, wobbling, not knowing what was there. The blackness terrified her. All she had were noises, but they were moving around, so she never knew where they were going to be until she felt someone’s breath or heard a whisper in her ear. ‘Just let me go,’ she said, pleading. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’
A laugh behind her, masculine, making her turn again, getting dizzy, disorientated. Then there was someone next to her. The scent of stale perfume. Monica jumped when there was a voice.
‘You need to keep on trying to escape,’ the woman said, her voice a sinister hiss.
‘Why not just let me go?’
‘Because it wouldn’t be the same.’
The woman’s voice seemed to swirl around her, and Monica heard the soft shuffle of moving feet. Monica tried to track her, but she made herself dizzy again, with no arms that she could put out to steady herself.
There was movement towards her and Monica flinched. There was a sharp pain on her forearm, like heat, and then wetness, as the heat was replaced by pain that made her cry out, like shards that dug deep into her skin. She had been cut with something.
She backed away slowly, screeching and gritting her teeth in pain. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘A little incentive to run,’ the woman said. ‘Don’t stay and fight it. Some of the others tried it, but it never worked.’
‘Others?’ Monica heard the tremble in her own voice.
The woman laughed. ‘Do you think you’re so special? That you’re the first?’ Then she stepped closer, making Monica flinch. ‘If you want to be the first to get away, keep running. That will make you unique.’
Monica felt her tears wet her blindfold again, and that was the moment when she knew that there was no choice. She winced again as the night air caught the slash on her arm, the blood turning cold on her skin. If she stayed, she would die. If she ran, she would die. But there was always the chance that she would get lucky, that she’d find some way to take off her blindfold and free her hands. If she wasn’t bound, it became an even fight. And Monica knew she could win it.
Monica bolted.
She grimaced, waiting to run into something, but that was better than staying there. She wasn’t running fast though, she knew that, but as fast as she dared. All she could see was the blackness of the blindfold, and so she tried to run sideways on, so that her shoulder would take any collision. There were footsteps behind her, loud, deliberate, stamping on the ground, mocking her.
Monica screamed, loud and shrill. The noise bounced back from the roof. She hoped someone would hear.
The footsteps came quicker, running now. Someone slammed into her, sending her forwards. She couldn’t put her hands out so she tried to curl her body to absorb whatever she was about to crash into, but it was no use. Her head hit something hard and metallic, a loud clunk, before she collapsed on the ground. She tried to suck in air to clear her head, but it felt like her face didn’t move with it, almost as if her cheekbone fought against it. She went faint with the sharp stabs of pain. Her cheekbone was broken, she knew that.
Monica struggled to her knees again, willing herself through her daze, trying to shut out the agony. As she stood, she knew the world around her was swirling. Blood was running down her face.
‘I’m not running,’ Monica said, her teeth gritted, the words barely audible, blood spitting forward, sucking in air through her nostrils and sinking to her knees. ‘I’m not playing your games.’
Then there were hands around her head, making her screech in pain, and then her blindfold fell loose. She blinked a few times, even though there was hardly any light to hurt her eyes. When she looked around, there was a high roof, holes in places, with metal pillars supporting it, along long concrete platforms.
There was movement. As she looked, there were two people there, just silhouettes against the moonlight.
‘W
ho are you?’ Monica said.
One of them stepped forward. It was the woman, obvious from the slender build of her shoulders, although all Monica could see was an outline.
‘Let me go, please,’ Monica said, and then put her head down, blood and tears dripping onto the floor.
The woman stepped closer. ‘You are for him. My gift. I can’t let you go unless that is what he wants.’ She turned. ‘Do you?’
Monica looked up again and as she saw the woman’s face, her mouth hung open in disbelief, but then a sharp jolt from her cheekbone stopped it. She blinked a few times to try to clear the red haze in front of her, multi-coloured speckles brought on by the pain. When she was able to speak, Monica said, ‘I don’t understand. Why?’
The man got closer, but he was behind her and Monica couldn’t see his face. ‘This one is for you,’ the woman said to him.
Monica closed her eyes and listened to the unbuckling of his belt just by her head. She started to shuffle away, but his hand went to her hair and gripped it, stopping her from going any further. She heard the acceleration of his breaths and knew what he was doing, the tremors of his rapid arm movements jolting her.
‘Stop it,’ Monica cried, disgusted, frightened, trying to pull her head away, but he carried on, moaning, tugging more on her hair, his body jerking faster. Monica looked towards the woman, but she was smiling, enjoying it, crouching, watching.
He gave out a long moan and then gasped, and as his hand relaxed, the woman rushed forward, a clear plastic bag in her hand. It went over Monica’s head and was pulled tight.
Monica took a deep breath in shock, sucking the bag into her mouth, pulling it tight around her face, so that she wore it like a skin. She breathed out, pushing it away, but as she tried to suck in more air, it was hotter, and she felt the first ache of complaint from her lungs. She could see through the plastic, saw the man stepping away, buttoning his trousers.
It was the woman who took over her vision. Her teeth were bared with effort, her eyes were screwed up. Monica tried another breath, but it was getting harder. It was the end, she knew it. She wanted to say sorry to everyone, because she knew that pain would follow for someone. Her parents. Her brother. She felt the shake of her body as her lungs tried to capture air, but whatever was there was running out.