The Chosen Ones

by Howard Linskey

  ‘Let’s give it a go, then.’

  ‘Give what a go?’

  Tom took some long thin pieces of card from his rucksack. ‘You are the girl and I’m the speeding car.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Tom walked a few paces away from Bradshaw towards the exit then stopped, turned around and looked back at the detective. ‘What?’ asked Bradshaw.

  ‘That’s not how it was,’ Tom reminded him. ‘She wasn’t just standing there.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ moaned Bradshaw. ‘I’d have put old clothes on if you’d warned me.’ With a sigh the detective lowered himself till he was on one knee, then he lay down on the pavement, feeling foolish. He twisted round so he was on the ground but facing towards the exit, in a loose approximation of the woman’s position that night.

  ‘What exactly have you got there?’

  ‘The reg number,’ Tom told him. ‘Hang on.’ He walked the final yards to the exit and stood at the point where the car would have had to slow to take the bend on to the road. He then held the reg number he had scrawled on to one of the pieces of card at approximately the right height.

  ‘The letters are exactly the same size as a number plate,’ he assured the detective. ‘Now, what can you see?’

  ‘I can see the reg number she gave us,’ Bradshaw informed him. ‘Clearly, even in this light.’

  ‘All right.’ Tom switched the card for another one with a different registration number on it. ‘What do you see now?’

  Bradshaw read it out. It wasn’t easy, but he took his time and felt he had picked out every letter.

  ‘Good,’ said Tom. He tried another card. ‘What do you see now?’

  ‘Same number as the reg plate she gave us … but you’ve changed it by one letter. There’s an A where there should be an E.’

  ‘Well spotted.’

  ‘I am a detective,’ Bradshaw reminded Tom. ‘Are you done?’

  ‘Almost.’

  Twice more Tom held up a different card with a new reg number and got Bradshaw to recite it, then he held up a third card, which had the same reg number as the one the girl had identified. Bradshaw was able to correctly read them all.

  When he did it again, Bradshaw became impatient. ‘Come on, it’s hacky on this floor.’ He wanted to get up and brush the thick grey dust from his coat and trousers.

  ‘Last one!’ called Tom, and he held the final card up.

  It was the number the woman had given the police and Bradshaw impatiently informed Tom of this. Then he got to his feet and brushed his coat with his hands as Tom came towards him.

  ‘I knew it,’ the journalist told him.

  ‘You knew what?’

  ‘I’ve been playing around with that reg number, examining the letters, considering the possibilities, and that last one …’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You got it wrong.’

  ‘What?’ snapped Bradshaw. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘You did.’ Tom held it up. ‘But only by one letter, and it is an entirely forgivable error.’

  Bradshaw peered at the final card and realized to his astonishment that Tom was right.

  ‘Down here, in this gloom, lying on your back and twisting your head to stare at a moving car, it would be very easy to make the same mistake. When you look at a reg plate the letter X looks very like the letter K and, under these circumstances, it’s almost identical.’ Tom let that sink in before adding: ‘Which means that we have been looking for the wrong car.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  He stood facing her as Eva removed her clothes, holding the shotgun loosely. She walked naked to the shower and hung the towel on the peg. She turned the dial and the water came down, cold at first, as usual; it would gradually rise in temperature until peaking at tepid. She didn’t wait for that, though. She gasped as she stepped under the cold water, ignoring the discomfort as she went to work on the shower head, which turned slowly as she began to unscrew it from the hose. Eva imagined him sitting there on the bench, shotgun by his side, waiting impatiently for her to finish washing. She had to be quick.

  It took five full turns before the shower head gave way and came free from the hose, the water shooting out on to her in a torrent instead of a measured flow. She hoped the change in sound wouldn’t alert him. She took the hose out of the slide bar and let it fall so the water would flow straight down, then placed the head on the floor by her side. If she finished washing too soon he would be suspicious, but if he came in now she could say it broke free. She washed herself as she normally would, sticking to the usual routine, then, when she was finished, she turned the shower off and picked up the heavy metal shower head.

  Eva reached around for her towel with one hand and wiped her face with it while holding the shower head in the other hand, hidden from view by the alcove wall. She dried her body quickly before wrapping the towel around the shower head, which she now held parallel to her arm. It might look as if she was simply holding her towel over one arm when she stepped out and she was gambling he wouldn’t scrutinize her naked form too closely. He didn’t like to do that and he had no reason to suspect anything.

  Eva stepped out of the shower, her heart thumping. He was sitting on the bench waiting, the gun next to him, her clothes close by. He picked up the gun and placed it over his lap so he could level it at any moment, but he didn’t point it directly at her. She kept the towel that was hiding the shower head on her right side so it was partially hidden as she walked towards the bench and made as if to pick up her clothes, but as she bent to do this she removed the towel from her right hand with her left. This was it.

  Everything happened very fast. The towel fell on to the bench then slipped on to the floor; Eva turned towards him and raised her right arm. He must have seen it then, the shower head she was clutching. He had hardly any time to react and she brought it crashing down on the top of his head with a cry. The blow rocked him and he seemed to sway on the bench, but she could tell he was still trying to lift his gun. She couldn’t let that happen. Eva knew she had to be strong. She hit him again, putting everything she had behind a sickening blow, and he dropped the gun, pitched forward and fell on to the floor.

  He lay still then and she thought of picking up the gun and shooting him where he lay, but if he was unconscious, would that be self-defence, or murder? In any case, he had fallen across the gun and she didn’t think she could roll him off it. All her senses were screaming at her to just get out of there as quickly as she could and call the police. They could deal with this madman.

  Eva grabbed her clothes, ran out into the corridor and started to pull them on. If only there was a lock on the shower room and she had the key. She could have locked him in there then, but she couldn’t dwell on that impossibility. As soon as she was dressed she ran all the way back down the corridor, revelling in the feeling of her bare feet slapping against the concrete floor, powering away from him.

  Had she killed him? Would she care if she had? Maybe she should have finished the job while she had the chance? Was she capable of such a brutal act, even against her captor? He was unconscious now, but how long for ‒ a minute, ten, longer? The uncertainty made her run even faster.

  She reached the bottom of the hatch and started to climb the ladder. Almost as soon as her foot touched the bottom rung she heard it. The sound of the shower-room door being wrenched open. Oh God, so soon. How could he have got up again so quickly? Was he not human?

  Eva reached the fourth step, but in her haste her wet foot slid on the rung and she slipped, falling straight back down to the bottom and banging her chin hard against one of the higher rungs in the process. Ignoring the jarring pain, she climbed again, as fast as she dared; she could not afford to slip again.

  She could hear the sound of a man running and she tried to focus on the ladder and her climb to the hatch. She could see it clearly above her now. It was tantalizingly close.

  She reached the top a moment later, grabbed the wheel that turned t
he hatch then twisted.

  Nothing happened.

  The hatch was locked somehow, but how? She looked for a padlock or a space for a key, but there was nothing. Perhaps it was just too tight for her. Eva strained against the hatch and put everything into it. Slowly, it began to give.

  Once she had broken its resistance, the wheel began to turn. A surge of hope went through Eva and she kept on twisting the wheel until the hatch felt loose enough to be opened. With a surge of exhilaration that gave her strength, she pushed hard and the hatch moved upwards then fell back. A burst of cold fresh air hit her.

  She was free.

  ‘Don’t move!’

  Eva froze, not daring to look down. She could tell from his voice he was directly below her. He sounded determined, confident even, in control, and she knew why. He was pointing the shotgun right up at her. His words were a warning as well as a command.

  She had a choice to make. Submit and go back down inside to her underground hell and an almost certain death or try to make a break for it and hope he didn’t fire? He could hardly miss from this range. Would it be better to die that way? He would surely kill her now anyway ‒ or was there a chance he would let her live if she gave in to him? She thought back to the blows she had administered to his head and how tough he must be to have got up so quickly and chased after her. She could only guess the pain he was in. He’d want revenge.

  Run for it, Eva. Run.

  And then he would shoot her. It would be over, at least, but what if she didn’t die immediately? What damage would that shotgun inflict on her? What terrible injuries and horrific disfigurement would she have to endure?

  She forced herself to look down. He was standing there, right below her, aiming upwards.

  ‘Get down.’

  Make your choice, Eva. Do something!

  But she knew what she had to do already. He was too close and the gun was aimed straight at her. She wouldn’t be able to take another step before he fired. There was no hope of escape. Eva took one last gulp of cold fresh air and a final glance at the sky above her then made her decision. Slowly, reluctantly, she climbed back down into the bunker, knowing this might be the last thing she ever did.

  As soon as her feet touched the ground at the bottom of the ladder the air was knocked out of her. All it took was a jab in the stomach from the shotgun and she collapsed like someone had just pulled the plug on her. As she lay groaning on the cold, hard ground she told herself she was still alive. He hadn’t fired the gun.

  He picked her up by grabbing the back of her shirt then hauling her upwards and dragging her along. She managed to stagger back down the corridor until she reached her room. He gave her a final thump in the back with the butt of the shotgun which propelled her forwards to the bed. He pushed her on to her back then pinned one of her arms at the wrist with one hand and clamped the other around her throat, hard, as he climbed on top of her. His grip was so strong Eva started to choke and she instinctively grabbed at his arm with her free hand but the muscles felt like iron and she couldn’t budge him. He was so close she could smell the sweat from him. His balaclava had a dark stain on its side and she knew it must have been blood from the blow to the top of his head. He squeezed harder, until she thought her eyes were about to pop out. She could feel the fury in him. She tried to wriggle free but she couldn’t break away from his grip.

  Eva’s hopes ended then. He’d only brought her back in here to kill her, but without using the gun. He’d strangle her here instead. It was all over.

  She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t breathe. She felt her throat compressing as she fought for a last breath. Then she gave up. It had all been for nothing.

  He let go of her suddenly and let out a snarl of frustration, releasing his grip. There was a great gasping sound as she exhaled, the pressure on her throat released all at once, then she took in great breaths, fighting for air between choking coughs that racked her whole body.

  ‘No, no, no!’ He was shouting the word over and over, but not at her. It was as if he was berating himself, not Eva. ‘There have to be five!’ He brought his hands up to his head, as if he was in turmoil.

  Then, abruptly, he went to the door. ‘I’ll be back for you!’ he shouted as he stepped through it. ‘Maybe I’ll put you back in the crate for good!’ He slammed the door behind him and locked it from the outside, while Eva gasped and coughed and tried to breathe in great lungfuls of the stale air around her as she attempted to take in the most surprising and unlikely part of it all.

  Somehow, she was still alive.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Jenna had been downstairs for a while when she remembered the milk delivery. She always got up early and enjoyed the calm before the working day in the shop began. She had glanced at the mat by the door as soon as she came down the stairs and, thankfully, there was no new note waiting for her there. She opened the door, picked up the milk bottles and straightened up. That was when she saw him, leaning nonchalantly against the wall on the other side of the road, staring right back at her.

  She almost dropped the milk. She wasn’t sure how but she knew instantly that this was her tormentor. Maybe it was the way he was looking at her, with a faint trace of amusement on his face, because he knew the real Jenna, or possibly it was the unforgiving demeanour of the man. He looked so big and powerfully built, which added to her sense of helplessness. How the hell could she stand up to someone like this? When he spoke, his words were accompanied by the sneer of the bully.

  ‘Come on,’ he told her, and jerked his head to one side to indicate she should follow him. ‘We’ve got things to discuss.’

  Bradshaw did not expect to be convinced. He was hugely sceptical, in fact, until he ran a check on the number plate the next morning. Then he called Tom with the results.

  ‘That registration’ ‒ he explained himself further ‒ ‘the one you came up with, I mean.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘It’s from the region. The first letter in a reg plate is the age identifier, which gives us the year of registration; the last two letters are the area identifier, and those have stayed the same. The letter you are querying gives the vehicle its unique identity, along with the numbers. The registered owner of the car is a Mr Joe McEwan, and he lives in the area.’

  ‘Do we know anything about him?’

  ‘Ex-serviceman, fought in Iraq in ’91.’

  Tom knew this might be significant then instantly felt some guilt. On one level, an ex-serviceman had selflessly volunteered to put himself into danger, risking his life to serve his country in a war zone. The man was a hero, obviously. There was a flip side to this, though, and both he and Ian Bradshaw knew it. The vast majority of armed forces personnel could get through a war, return to their families and go on to lead very normal lives. Others were adversely affected by the experience. Killing changed a man, no matter what the circumstances, and many struggled to live with what they had done. Some, however, actually enjoyed the experience or had perhaps already been a bit unhinged before they signed up. This was not just a prejudice Tom held. He had known a lot of army veterans, having interviewed survivors of the Korean and Falklands wars and the Second World War during his career as a journalist. Every one of them was a good man but each had stories to tell of less fine ones who had fought alongside them. Then there was the ten per cent of the prison population who had served. That meant around six thousand former members of the armed forces had been convicted of crimes serious enough to put them in jail. It was a sobering thought.

  ‘Anyway, I wanted to let you know that we are bringing McEwan in.’

  Jenna left the milk on the doorstep and closed then locked the door behind her. She had to move quickly to keep up with the man as he walked briskly along the high street. She hoped no one would see him and ask her later who he was.

  She drew alongside and waited for him to say something, her heart thumping in her chest, but he remained silent. She couldn’t abide it. ‘Who are you?’ she blu
rted out. ‘What do you want?’

  Was this really a police officer? He looked more like a criminal or a hooligan; a big thug of a man. He didn’t even look at her. ‘I think the real question, Jenna, is who are you?’ He said it airily, as if it was just a little matter he was keen to clear up. ‘Nice little place, this; good, decent folk with polite, well-behaved kids, mostly. I can see why you might want to make a home here. It’s a world away from the … life you knew.’

  His words pierced her, each one wounding and weakening her, robbing her of the will to stand up to him.

  ‘It would be terrible if they found out just who had been living among them. Imagine their shock when they learn the truth about the woman who serves sweets to their kids or sits near their husbands in the pub, all on her own, pretending to read a book while secretly’ ‒ he turned to look at her and raised his eyebrows significantly ‒ ‘it’s what they’d think, isn’t it?’

  It was what they would think, she knew that.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he told her. ‘You took a bit of tracking down. The others were easier, but you’ ‒ he shook his head ‒ ‘you went further afield. These days, though, who can disappear for long, eh? And what did I find’ ‒ he smirked at her then ‒ ‘a pillar of the community; the lady who sells groceries to the villagers and has bar meals in the pub of an evening. I bet she even goes to church on Sundays?’

  Jenna could not speak at this point, even if she had wanted to.

  ‘No? That’s a bit much, I suppose, even for you, Jenna. I suspect your confession might take quite a while.’ He chuckled to himself at that.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m the only who knows your little secret, and I might even be prepared to keep it that way.’ He beamed at her. ‘For a small consideration.’