by Park, J. R.
Holding out her hand, Emily grasped the bottle. As she pulled it towards her she found Kathryn still had hold of the other end, gripped hard in her palm and refused to let go.
Shocked at this sudden resistance Emily looked at the other woman with a sense of confusion. Kathryn’s eyes stared directly back into hers, as she did so her smile widened.
‘This is a lovely street,’ Kathryn asked in a calm tone, her eyes unflinching as they remained focused on Emily’s face, ‘seems nice and quiet.’
‘Yes,’ Emily looked back at the stranger, a sense of fear crept into her voice, ‘we don’t get any trouble round here.’
‘It’s these sort of places where things go unrecorded,’ Kathryn’s tone turned serious and her smile faded. As she continued she lingered on each word, giving every one a threatening importance. ‘Sometimes the foulest of things, the most depraved things, happen in quiet streets like these. Kidnap, rape, murder.’
Kathryn took a step forward, closer to Emily.
She looked even closer into Emily’s eyes as she continued, ‘It’s always in these quiet, unassuming suburbs where the worst happens. It’s always the quiet, unassuming people.’
Emily swallowed to clear her throat; her voice trembling with fear, ‘The neighbourhood watch is very active on this street. We have a lot of curtain twitchers, I don’t think much would get past them.’
Kathryn seemed unfazed by this, ‘Oh you’d be surprised; people so often miss the obvious. Overlook what’s staring them straight in the face.’
Her eyes narrowed as an air of menace drifted in with the evening breeze.
‘They hold regular meetings,’ Emily said as she felt the stranger lean closer, ‘they are pretty serious.’
She felt Kathryn’s breath on her cheek.
‘But even a nosey parker stood by their window can’t see through walls. Anything could be going on inside these houses.’
‘Not here I can assure you,’ Emily’s voice trailed off as her last gasp of confidence gave up its ghost in the face of this confrontational stranger.
This time Kathryn didn’t respond, but held her gaze for a moment as if looking for something in Emily’s expression. She searched into the single mother’s eyes with an almost hypnotic stare.
Then suddenly she broke into a smile and walked backwards down the path.
‘You’re probably right,’ she called to Emily, returning to a jovial and friendly tone which felt all the more threatening for its sudden appearance. ‘It does seem like such a lovely place. Thank you for your time.’
Kathryn turned and walked down the street, disappearing into the darkness of the night that had finally claimed victory over the waning day.
Emily stepped back into the safety of her house, shaken by the menacing exchange that had just occurred.
What the hell was that about?
Looking down she realised she still had the empty water bottle in her hand. Confused, she placed it in a waste paper bin whilst she wiped half formed tears from her eyes.
Suddenly a loud bang came from the kitchen.
At first startled, Emily jumped back into a corner of the room, trying to make herself as small as possible, but when no more noises followed she slowly crept across the sitting room and inch by inch peered round the corner of the doorway into the kitchen.
The room was dark, but appeared empty through her limited vision. Feeling her hand round the corner she fumbled against the wall until her fingers found the light switch. Turning it on, the light flickered for a few moments revealing glimpses of the room in microsecond flashes. As the strobe settled and the light warmed up to a constant beam Emily saw the reassuring image of her marmalade coloured cat. He was sat on the floor, licking spilt yogurt from the tiled surface.
‘Frankie, you little rascal,’ she called out, relieved.
Picking him up, and moving him out the way, despite his protests, Emily got to her knees and began mopping up the creamy liquid with a damp cloth.
The kitchen window banged against its frame, blown about by the slight breeze that the night had brought with it. Emily froze in her crouched position, her brain raced, how many other windows had she left open due to the heat?
Panicked by the fear that her homely security had been compromised Emily dashed round the house, checking the windows and locking them. She started with the kitchen, then the sitting room before running upstairs and checking all the bedrooms and bathroom.
It had been a beautifully warm day, all the windows had been left ajar to keep the house cool, as by midday it had become unbearable, but now she would gladly suffer the heat.
The last window to be closed and locked was in her bedroom and when she finished, Emily huffed and puffed, worn out by her sudden sprint. She quickly sipped on a glass of water kept by her bed then left her bedroom and walked down the stairs, satisfied that the house was safe once more.
A breeze blew against her legs as she made her way down the stairs. Puzzled as to where it was coming from, her questions were answered when she saw her front door blowing backwards and forwards. It swung on its hinges, creaking against the influence of the wind that had picked up intensity and gusted through the house.
Emily’s heart sunk in her chest.
How could that be?
Did she not lock the front door?
Did she leave it on the latch by accident?
Emily tried to think back, tried to recall the events of only a few minutes earlier. What happened after her uncomfortable exchange with Kathryn?
Her memory failed and her paranoia grew.
Had Kathryn got into the house?!
Terrified she was no longer alone, Emily walked on tiptoe, trying to be as silent as possible. Her eyes scanned around looking for every possible hiding place, fearing them to conceal the crazed woman, as she slowly and nervously made her way to the front door. A quick look up and down the street showed it to be empty and gently Emily closed the door. Softly she turned the lock until it clicked.
Hardly daring to breathe she made her way back to the kitchen and picked out a knife from the cutlery drawer. Holding it out in front of her she walked back into the sitting room and picked up the phone. She dialed a number from memory and held the handset to her ear, all the time looking round for a potential attacker.
An answer machine message played, ending with a beep.
‘Darren,’ Emily whispered, ‘when you get this can you come and get me? I’m a little spooked and need some company.’
She ended the call and felt some tears escape her.
She cursed herself for being so weak as to call Darren, but she had no one else to turn to. Despite everything their lives were entwined, always had been, always will.
Finding a vantage point in a corner of the room where she could see both entrances, Emily crouched down with the knife in her hand, held out for protection, and kept watch on the doorways. She looked for shapes in the blackness, at the same time daring and fearing someone to come at her.
What seemed like hours went by and the house remained still. The initial rush of adrenalin had settled down in her body and tiredness gradually swept over her.
Her head felt heavy on her neck as her eyelids struggled to resist gravity. As sleep began to take hold she prayed Darren would be here soon.
Opening his eyes he encountered a darkness so consuming he wondered if he still had them closed. Blinking a few times Chris reassured himself they weren’t, but try as he might his eyes would not adjust to the light.
A hint of relief traced across his face as he realised it was too dark to see the vile horrors he had witnessed earlier. No longer did he have to look at the…
He shuddered as he thought back.
The foul views lay just metres away, he knew that, but the darkness concealed them for the moment. It was little consolation, but after what he had endured it felt like the most divine of miracles.
His thoughts made him mock his own idiocy; this was no place for God.
&nbs
p; The darkness gave his eyes some respite but the low levels of illumination could do nothing to mask the stench. A mixture of rotting meat and bleach filled the air; decay and sterility in one offending, aromatic cocktail. It stung his nostrils, forcing him to reduce his breathing to little more than small, shallow gasps for fear of being sick.
His ears buzzed and his head felt swollen as his blood, following gravity, had rushed downwards, away from his feet.
Chris looked up towards them and wiggled his toes. He still had feeling there, just.
How long had he been here? He could not tell.
Every second, every minute held no significance. As indistinguishable as they were to each other in this darkened room of horrors every moment felt like a never-ending slice of infinite oblivion.
He tried to move his arms but they were securely strapped to the wall. Pulled out from his sides at right angles, he was fastened into the shape of an inverted cross. The straps held him tightly, chaffing at his wrists as he struggled in a futile attempt to free himself. His shirt was nothing more than a torn rag that hung in strips from his body. The red stripes that ran down the arms were barely visible, washed through with his own blood. Weakly he pounded the wall in frustration and tears gently trickled from the corners of his eyes, following the tracks of those that had flowed before in some other slice of this torturous eternity.
The soothing moisture of his sorrow brought a feeling of refreshment to his weary and wretched body, but it did not last long. Comforts were soon quashed in hell.
He’d grown numb to the pain, almost used to it since he’d been strung up in this cruel way, but his sudden angry movements reignited his agony. Clenching his teeth he tried to block it out, tried to focus on another sensation. He felt the blood continue to spill from the huge gash, torn across his stomach. He concentrated on the crimson fluid running down his exposed chest, but its gentle tickling did nothing to abate the searing torment.
Chris tried again, this time focusing on the jagged flaps of skin that dangled from the borders of his injury. He thought about how they waved in the air, spurred into movement by the rising and falling of his breath, sticking and sliding across his body with their bloodied trails. He felt the thick, gristly flesh of his intestine resting outside his torso. It hung in loops, part of its bloody length caressing the underside of his chin.
Grotesque as these distractions were, they were all he had, and woefully inadequate.
Chris couldn’t see the full extent of his wounds but the relentless pain told him enough.
He screamed in anger, but his mouth was so dry the only sound he could produce was a pathetic rasp, like that of a dying snake. He tried again but this time his throat tightened, forcing itself partially closed in protest. Gasping against the sharp, prickly sensation, it felt like he was trying to swallow a bag of needles, their razor points jabbing in all directions.
After a few more attempts his throat gave up obeying his commands altogether, its sandpaper soreness preventing even the most basic of noises to pass his lips.
Parched and mute, he hung against the wall as the blood continued to drip slowly from his horrific injuries.
It was useless to do anything but try and black out.
He prayed he would lose consciousness again.
Lose himself to the void and there find a perfect state of peace.
1
It was a soft and secure comfort that first met his stirring consciousness. He groaned with pleasure as he buried his head further into the plump pillow, trying to avoid the advancing reality of waking. But as his eyes opened and his surroundings slowly registered, the unfamiliar room sent waves of unease and confusion through Benjamin’s thoughts.
Where was he?
How did he get here?
A slow sense of panic crept through his mind, as he found no answers to his questions. Sitting upright in the bed he peered through the gloom for any hints of understanding. It was dark outside; a crack between the curtains let through the amber glow of street lighting but obscured any other view to the outside world.
The room was tidy and well kept. The bed sheets smelt of fresh fabric conditioner and felt soft to the touch. Benjamin gripped onto the floral duvet cover in an attempt to find some kind of comfort. This illusion of protection, first created in childhood, held no security here.
The sodium glare of the streetlights bleached the room of colour, turning everything into pale greens and browns. But despite this he could make out the pattern on the walls; bordered strips of interwoven lattices surrounded pictures of large, flamboyant flowers in full bloom. A decorative, china plate hung to the wall bearing a hand painted vista of a seaside town. Below the crudely painted scene of a beach and pier were the words Stanswick Sands.
An old fashioned cuckoo clock was positioned on the adjacent wall and gently beat the time with a small, but decorative pendulum.
His surroundings looked all too normal, and the more sinister for it.
Pain shot down Benjamin’s temple. Instinctively he put his hand to the source of discomfort as he winced, feeling a bandage taped to his tender head, moist with blood. The bruising hurt as he touched it, but out of curiosity his fingers continued to explore his injury a few more times.
He could feel the wound swell as it tightened against his skin and thumped through his cranium. The agony seeped across his face and stung at the roots of his teeth.
Had he been mugged?
The cold air tingled against his naked and exposed top half, but he was still wearing his trousers. Benjamin tapped at his pockets.
No wallet, no keys, no phone.
Empty.
Even his handkerchief had gone.
Slowly swinging his legs round, he placed his bare feet on the shag pile floor and gently put his weight on them, easing himself up to stand. He wobbled as he struggled to find balance, reaching out to the wall for support. Gaining a slight sense of composure as he battled with his spinning head, he made the three steps to a stool positioned in front of a small dresser. Benjamin lowered himself onto the stool and looked in the mirror.
His body looked unharmed except for two bluish bruises round his wrists. Making circles with his hands he noticed the mild ache that came with the movement. He leaned closer and studied the reflection of his face; his fingertips ran over his features in reassurance.
Thank God it was only his head that had been cut.
Hair could cover a scar there, but what if he’d damaged his beauty!
His shoulders rocked as he physically shuddered at the thought.
The young man’s fingers continued to caress his handsome contours approvingly. He jutted his smooth chin forward, admiring his chiseled and aesthetic appearance.
Despite the bandage taped onto his head, the wax in his hair had held well and kept his quiffed, black bonnet in reasonable style. He smiled briefly to himself.
A gentle thud against the far wall brought him out of his narcissistic meditation.
Benjamin turned round.
What was that?
Again he heard another soft thud.
He moved across the room to get closer and, straining to hear over the gentle tick of the cuckoo clock, he made out a sound coming from the wall. A scratching, scraping sound, like fingers clawing against the plasterboard.
Was that really it?
Scratching fingers?
It could just as easily be mice and most probably was, the wounded young man rationalised.
He tiptoed even closer and placed his ear to the wall.
What was that sound?
Faintly through the divide he could hear something. It sounded like an animal.
Was that a dog?
If it was it was certainly in no fit state of health.
Whatever made that noise, it did not sound good.
What the hell was that?
Disturbed by the noises adrenalin began to pump round his body driving Benjamin to more decisive action. It was useless to stay in this unfamiliar
room, playing guessing games in the dark and letting his imagination twist down fearful paths long abandoned since childhood. It was answers he needed, and they would only be found with a little bravery and logic.
He moved to the door and grabbed the handle, clenching it hard with both hands. Turning the handle he pushed and pulled, but the door would not budge. He tried again, this time with more vigour, rattling the door against its frame, but still it refused to open.
Why was it locked?
More importantly, who locked it?
From the other side of his blocked exit he heard another door creaking on its hinges followed by a loud bang. Someone was moving around.
Angry that he had been held captive, and spurred on by the knowledge that he had an audience to vent his indignant frustrations, Benjamin beat his fists against the door and screamed to be freed.
‘Let me out,’ he cried, ‘you can’t keep me here!’
His outburst was met with a silence, pregnant with company.
Benjamin’s rant trailed off, muted by the expectation of a reply. The longer he waited for a response the more he felt the skin on his neck rise into goose bumps. His mouth began to dry up, a physical reaction to the childish fears that returned to his thoughts.
He balled his hands into fists, ready to pound the door once more, driving his worries away with aggression. Still without a word spoken in answer, slow, heavy footsteps began to echo down the hallway, growing louder as they approached his makeshift cell. Each clunk of a shoe carried a sense of threat, its menace building as the sound drew nearer.
Stepping back from the door his mind buzzed with impending dread.
What had he done?
Benjamin had no idea who had captured him and why. Through his hotheaded impetuousness he had lost his temper. He had shouted and screamed, but for what purpose?