When she’d finished with Abby, Ellen dialled Raj’s number and put her phone to her ear as she walked the last few metres to her front door. Then she changed her mind and cut the call before he had time to answer. She’d call him later. Right now, all she wanted was to see her family.
Seventy-Nine
The air near her ear whistled as the knife came down. For a split second, she thought he’d cut her ear off. Her free hand shot up. Felt the ear, experienced a moment of sharp relief. He wasn’t going to kill her. He was just a kid, disturbed during a burglary.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I won’t tell anyone. I promise. Just go and we can forget all about this.’
‘Shut up.’ He shouted the words and she jerked, stumbled against him. Instinctively, she tried to pull away. Wrong thing to do. The knife came up again. He pressed it against her face, cold steel on her cheek, the sharp tip close to her eye. He was going to cut her eyes out. So she couldn’t recognise him if she saw him again.
‘No. Please, no.’
Not begging for herself. Too late for that. Begging for the little boy upstairs. A child who’d already lost his father. The man’s grip on her wrist tightened, hurting her. Her bones were weak, the doctor had told her that. Not enough calcium. If he didn’t let go, the wrist would break. He stank. Sweat and tobacco and something else, a rich, grassy stink that reminded her – oddly – of the city in summertime.
Up close like this, pressed against his damp shirt, she couldn’t see his face. The only bits of him she knew were the smell and the heart and the breathing. He could go now and she wouldn’t even be able to tell the police what he looked like.
‘Where is she?’
‘Who?’
He twisted her wrist. The bone cracked and she cried out from the pain of it.
He was screaming at her and she needed him to stop. If Pat heard, he’d come to see what was going on and she couldn’t let that happen. She begged him to be quiet, but he wasn’t listening. Instead he was dragging her across the hall, towards the downstairs cloakroom.
When she realised what he was going to do, she tried again to fight him off, to stop him. But he was too strong and she couldn’t do anything except let him pull her to the cloakroom, let him open the door, take the key before he shoved her inside. She fell to the ground. Pain shot through both knees and up her legs. She scrabbled forward – away from the door, away from that man – until she realised she was doing the wrong thing.
By the time she’d got up and ran to the door, it was too late. She heard the key turning in the lock and then his footsteps walking away, leaving her locked inside in the dark.
Outside, the footsteps stopped abruptly and she froze, thinking for a second he was going to come back.
‘Gran?’
Jesus, no. Dear God, please, no.
‘What the…?’ The man sounded confused. And angry.
She pictured the knife in his hand. Imagined what he might do with it. The footsteps started again, moving faster now, running up the stairs. She was screaming, begging him not to hurt her grandchild, pleading with him, telling him she’d pay him, give him whatever he wanted.
He was upstairs. Footsteps over her head. Pat screamed, called out for her, his voice cutting through her worse than any knife ever could. Screaming as the footsteps got faster. Both of them running. The man shouting over Pat’s voice, roaring at him to shut the fuck up. One more scream from Pat. The thump of something hitting the ground.
And then silence.
* * *
Ellen hadn’t expected Pat to come running to her with open arms, but some sort of reaction would have been nice. Instead, it was like they were deliberately ignoring her. Ellen stood in the hall, listening to them moving around in the sitting room. Usually it was her father who played the games. Her mother preferred the more traditional role of mock-authority. Ellen had always secretly suspected her mother would enjoy the games as much as anyone. If she’d only let herself.
‘Hello?’
The attack came from behind. Completely off-guard, she fell forward, hands out to protect her face from the parquet flooring. Confused, she thought at first it was Pat. Thought he was playing some soldier game that had got out of hand.
Until a fist came from nowhere, smashed into her lower back, knocking all air from her body. Unable to breathe, she tried to crawl forward, her only thought to get away. Something fell on top of her, a heavy weight. She couldn’t move. Another punch to the back then a hand on her hair, head pulled back and slammed forward. An explosion of pain – bright, white, blinding.
Her arms and legs flailed around. Useless. Her fist connected with something. The weight on her body lifted, shifted. She jerked her back up, the person rolled off. The clatter of steel on wood. A knife hit the floor and slid across the hall.
Scrabbling to her hands and knees, Ellen went for the knife, grabbed it at the same time a hand wrapped around her ankle. She swung around, plunged the knife through a pair of dirty denims into the lower part of a leg.
Someone screamed. A man. Not Monica. Ellen tried to strike again, but he was too quick. Kicked her chest and she fell back against the wall. She tried to get up. Still had the knife. Holding it in front of her, slicing the air between them. Trying to stop him getting too close.
White face wet with sweat. She knew the face but couldn’t place it. He moved closer, ducking out of the knife’s way. She was standing now. Only one thing for it. She dived forward, knife ready, aiming for his heart. Got his shoulder instead. Enough to knock him to the ground.
She threw herself on top of him, fists lashing out, landing punches to his face and solar plexus. She put a hand over his mouth, blocking his mouth and nose so he couldn’t breathe. Pressed hard. Beneath her, his body bucked and jerked. Ellen pressed down harder, grinding her palm into his face.
Saliva and snot smeared her hand. She saw panic in his eyes. Good.
‘Where are they?’ she said.
‘Ellen?’
Her mother’s voice. Ellen let go. Turned towards the voice. It was all the time he needed. His head jerked up and smashed into her already damaged face. She fell sideways and he kept hitting her. In the stomach, on the arms.
She rolled into a ball, trying to escape the worst of it. The blows kept coming. Something wet ran down her face into her eyes. She wiped it away. Saw blood on her hand. She crawled forward, hands clawing the ground for the knife.
His fists smashed down on her shoulders and across the back of her head. Bright, white lights – thousands of them – exploded before her eyes.
The lights disappeared, darkness invading every part of her. She tried to fight it, knew she couldn’t give in. Pat. He was here in the house. She had to find him. But the pull was too strong. She felt herself slipping, down and away. There was nothing she could do.
Eighty
Raj’s phone rang while he was driving. When he pulled over, he saw a missed call from Ellen. Before he could call her back, his phone rang again. Abby this time. He answered the call as he got out of the car and walked towards Ellen’s house.
While he listened to Abby – she’d spoken to Ellen, a search was underway for Monica – his phone beeped with a text. Hanging up, his heart soared when he saw who it was from and what it said.
In Greenwich this afternoon. Any chance you’re free? A x
A white van was parked badly so it blocked Ellen’s driveway. Raj stopped beside it. He didn’t need to go any further. Ellen was fine. Monica would be found and brought in for questioning. Everything was going to be okay.
He sent a text back, asking where Aidan was, said wherever it was, he’d be there within thirty minutes. Tops. Aidan replied straightaway. Raj read the reply, smiling. He knew the pub. Knew it was less than a ten-minute drive from here. He put his phone away, still smiling as he went back to his car.
* * *
She should have kept quiet. Ellen was winning. She’d heard every bit of the fight, her ear pressed against the door, t
oo scared at first to make a sound in case he hurt Ellen. And then, when she thought it was all over, she thought it would be okay and she called her daughter’s name. Big mistake. Now she couldn’t hear Ellen at all, just the man, banging around in the kitchen, doing God knows what.
For the last four months, Pat had been asking for a mobile phone. Ellen kept promising him one for his next birthday. Bridget thought Ellen was being too soft. The boy was only eleven. What did he need a phone for? Now she saw how wrong she’d been.
She’d made a lot of mistakes over the years, some she regretted more than others. Right now, there was nothing in the world she regretted more than telling Ellen it was okay not to give in and buy him a phone.
Bridget didn’t have one. Told herself she was too old for such nonsense. The real reason she didn’t want a phone, though, was the same reason she didn’t want Pat to have one. Because she hated the steady, determined way technology was taking over every aspect of her life. If it carried on like this, before you knew it there’d be no room in the world for someone like her. As it was, with things the way they were, she felt her own importance diminishing in the lives of those who mattered most to her.
Her grandchildren were getting older. These days, when they were with her, so much of their play involved gadgets she didn’t understand and she lived with an underlying sense of being excluded. Michael told her she was being silly. Said the kids would always need their grandparents, just as Sean and Ellen would always need their parents.
But that was Michael. Always so sure of himself. Never doubting anything. Which was good, of course. Because if it wasn’t for that single-minded certainty, they’d never have ended up with Sean and Ellen.
He thought she didn’t know. She would never tell him because she knew he wouldn’t forgive her for colluding in it. That the only way he’d been able to live with what he’d done was the illusion that he’d done it to protect her. That she was a better person than him because if she knew, she’d surely never have agreed to it.
But she knew. And still she’d let it happen. Most of the time – like her husband, she suspected – Bridget told herself what they’d done was for the best. But sometimes a sense of dread would creep over her, a feeling of unease she couldn’t shake off. At those moments, she knew what they’d done was wrong.
She had confessed. Of course she had. Many times. Each time, the priest granted her absolution, forgiving her for that and all other sins. She wasn’t sure that was enough. Now, locked in this dark room, she knew. Whatever happened to her this afternoon, it was no more than she deserved.
But not Pat and Ellen.
She prayed, not sure her God was listening, but there was nothing else she could do. She whispered the prayers she’d learned as a child, lips moving over the familiar words, repeating them. Hail Mary, Our Father, Angel of God my Guardian Dear. Listen to me Lord, she begged. Save my family. Don’t let them suffer for the sins of others. It’s not their fault.
The prayers made Bridget feel stronger. She had to believe He was listening. Her faith wouldn’t allow for anything else. The punishment was hers and hers alone. By Jesus, though, she wasn’t about to let Pat and Ellen suffer as well. She would save them. She didn’t know how, but He would show her the way. All she had to do was believe.
* * *
She had lost something important. Not a thing. A person. A child was missing. Pat. She didn’t know where he was. She swung around, looking everywhere. She was in the middle of a street, lined either side with identical Victorian terraced houses. Behind one of those doors, someone was hiding her son. She ran to the first house, fists banging on the door, shouting out her son’s name. Did the same to all the other houses. No one answered. It was as if all the people in all the houses were stone deaf. Or dead.
She screamed his name, over and over, as she ran down the narrow, empty street. The further she ran, the narrower the street became, until the houses on either side were so close, she could reach out her hands as she ran and touch them.
‘Mummy!’
His voice came from further ahead. She peered into the dark gap between the rows of houses, trying to see him. He was down there somewhere. She ran faster. Except it didn’t seem to make any difference. No matter how fast she ran, she never moved. And then she fell, face smashing onto the hard concrete. Stunned, she lay where she was, waiting for the first shock of pain to subside.
She woke up.
It was only a dream. Except her face still hurt. She tried to sit up. Couldn’t move; hands and legs bound tight behind her back. Her fingers brushed the edge of a wall.
Then she remembered.
She was lying face-down on the kitchen floor. Every time she moved, it felt like she was being stabbed, repeatedly. A broken rib. She’d had one before, remembered the pain. Almost as bad as childbirth.
Her left eye wouldn’t open, and the front of her face, across her nose, felt as if someone had smashed it with an iron bar. Grunting, trying to ignore the pain, she managed to manoeuvre her body until she was sitting up. Exhausted from the effort, she lay against the wall, panting.
She could see his feet, moving around the kitchen. He was holding something, shaking it over the floor, sloshing liquid everywhere. Blood blocked her nose and it took a while for the smell to hit her. When it did, the fear was so all-consuming, at first all she could do was concentrate on being able to breathe.
She tried not to make any noise but he must have sensed she was awake because he came over, crouched down beside her, looked at her face and emptied the rest of the petrol on her head and body.
The smell and taste of it was everywhere. Up her nose, down her throat, making her choke and cough and retch, her body slippy-sliding in the oily mess of it. Her eyes burned and she couldn’t see properly. Shapes filtered through a grey film. She blinked, but it made no difference.
When he moved, she tensed, thinking he was going to start hurting her again. Instead, he sat down on the ground and slid further back until he reached the island in the centre of the kitchen. Never once taking his eyes from her.
He was breathing heavily, like the effort of pouring all the petrol had exhausted him.
‘I’m going to kill you.’
His voice was calm. Surprisingly calm. He didn’t look calm. He looked like he was on the edge of something very bad.
* * *
So fucking tired. Feels like I’m shutting down, all the power inside me being switched off, bit by bit. The music’s stopped and everything’s gone quiet. I feel distant from it. Like I’m watching it but not part of it. Like I’m having some sort of weird out-of-body experience and the real me is up there somewhere, looking down on this.
I try to remember how it got this far. All the anger I was feeling has gone. Like I kicked it out of me when I was doing her over and now there’s nothing left. Like it was the anger that was the only part of me still alive and without it, there’s nothing.
I’m not sure now this is what I want. There’s only one thing in the world I want and that’s to be with her. But she’s gone.
‘I loved her.’
Suddenly I’m talking. Telling this woman about Mon and why she means so much to me. And why I’m so fucking angry that I can’t be with her anymore.
‘She was so scared,’ I’m saying. ‘She knew you wouldn’t stop.’
The woman on the ground is frowning, like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. And that does it. I can feel it building up again. The tiredness replaced by an angry energy I need if I’m going to see this through.
‘You hated her! You fucking bitch. Wouldn’t leave her alone. Police harassment. You hear about it all the time. You had it in for her and you were going to make her suffer. She told me what you did. Coming on to her like that, closet fucking dyke. And because she didn’t feel the same way, you turned nasty. She was scared of you, do you know that? Every time you showed up, she was in bits afterwards.’
And the stupid cunt is trying to tell me I’ve got it
all wrong, but what else is she going to say? I lift up the empty can and wave it at her. Then I tell her what’s going to happen next.
Eighty-One
There was a small, rectangle-shaped window over the toilet. Bridget took her shoes off, closed the toilet lid and climbed on top. She wasn’t too steady and the effort of getting up here hurt her hip. A deep throbbing in her side that she recognised and knew would get worse until she sat down with her legs propped up on something.
Ellen kept this window locked and Bridget knew there was no key for it. The glass didn’t look like it would break easy. She’d kept one of her shoes in her hand. A thick Clark’s brogue. The only shoes she ever wore. Using every bit of energy she had, she lifted her arm back and aimed for the glass. The impact, when the shoe connected with the glass, was hard. Waves of pain vibrated through her hand and up her arm. She nearly fell, but managed to steady herself by grabbing hold of the window frame.
The second time, the same thing. A sore arm and the window still intact. Desperate, she looked around for something else. She’d started to smell petrol. At first, she’d thought it was her imagination but the longer she stayed in here, the stronger the smell got, until she knew it was real.
Beside the toilet, a chrome toilet brush sat inside a matching chrome container. Bridget bent down and picked this up. It was heavy, much heavier than her shoe. Awkward to handle, too. Water sloshed out of it, drenching her sleeves, making the lid of the toilet slippy. More water soaked through her tights.
She lifted it and threw it at the window with an almighty roar. The chrome connected with the glass and smashed right through it. The glass shattered, the noise of it mixing with her own voice, still shouting, unable to stop now she’d started. Chunks of glass landed on the floor. She dropped the brush and container, covered her face to protect it.
The Waiting Game Page 32