You'll Be Sorry

by Emmy Ellis

  “Kerry?” Mark called again. “I’m coming.”

  Dan shoved her roughly, and she staggered forward.

  “Over here, Lendall,” Dan shouted.

  Mark came into view, Taser raised. He looked in control, but his eyes flicked from side to side, his gaze finally resting on her.

  “Let her go,” Mark said, Taser aimed at Dan.

  “I don’t think so,” Dan said, voice calm. “She’s my wife. She belongs with me.”

  “Officers and dogs are on their way.” Mark crept closer, twigs crackling beneath his feet.

  “I suspect they are, but I’m not worried. They won’t believe you, and Kerry won’t say a thing.” He dug his nails into her cheek. “Will you, darling?”

  Kerry shook her head and widened her eyes.

  Please, just go along with him. I know how he works. Just let him…

  Let him what? Take her back home so his torture could begin all over again? Allow him to overtake her life once more—using worse forms of abuse this time? No, no, she couldn’t allow that. She slowly lifted her booted foot ready to jab her heel into his shin. Dan released her hair, giving her scalp blessed relief and extra pain at the same time. A gun entered her left peripheral vision, the barrel seeming large, so frightening up close.

  Where did he get that?

  He waved it casually. “Get out of my way, prick.” He took a few steps towards Mark, dragging Kerry with him. “Unless, of course, you want to get shot.” He paused in speech and movement. “Hmmm. That isn’t such a bad idea. Dead people don’t talk.”

  But living ones do, and I won’t keep quiet about this.

  Kerry rammed her heel back and connected with Dan’s knee. He didn’t utter a sound, just gripped her face tighter, dug his nails deeper.

  “That wasn’t wise, darling. I’m going to have a nasty bruise there soon. Still, it’ll match the new bruises you’ll have. Won’t we be a pair?”

  “Dan, let her go,” Mark said, following as Dan casually stepped backwards. “She doesn’t want you.”

  “Dan? You called me Dan? It’s sir to you. Now fuck off. You’re boring me.”

  He continued in reverse. Kerry struggled to keep upright. Her feet slipped on jutting tree roots and damp mulch. She gripped his hand again to try to snatch it from her face. Dan clamped even harder.

  “Now,” he said, gun trained on Mark. “I’m going to get in my car and take my wife home. “You’re either going to go away and keep your mouth shut, or be dead. Either way suits me. If I were you, I’d choose the former.”

  “But you’re not me.” Mark’s finger lingered on the Taser trigger. “And you know you won’t get away with this even if you do kill me. You’ve left too much of a trail. Sara. Monique. The taxi driver.” Mark paused. “You’ve fucked up.”

  Dan walked faster. “How so? Come on, tell me how I, a DI with more brains than you, fucked up.”

  “Your shit’s all over the cabbie. You won’t be called out to the scene because it looks like a car accident. How will you explain your fibres, sir?”

  Kerry’s stomach griped. Dan didn’t like being challenged or proved wrong.

  Dan hissed out a breath. “You little shit. Think you’re clever, don’t you? Think you know it all. Well…” He swallowed, the sound loud. “The fibres won’t matter. Me and Kerry are going away together. Where no one can touch us. Aren’t we?”

  Kerry nodded, frantic to appease him in return for Mark’s safety. She glanced to the side. Bushes and the star-spotted sky gave her hope. Gradley’s streetlights, still out of her vision line, lit the air above the hedgerow with an orangey glow. Though hours past midnight, surely someone would be about. Someone who maybe worked odd shifts and was on their way home. Then there was the police, on their way. The thought of freedom—so recently tasted for so little time—grew inside her, and she told herself to take the first opportunity presented and run.

  They reached the hedges, Mark a few metres in front of them, Taser still poised. His eyes slid to his right. What? What was he indicating? That the police were there? That they’d arrived? That she should dart in that direction so he could shoot? The risk was too great, the Taser could hit her, so she remained with Dan. He’d have to take his hand from her mouth at some point, and then she could shout, scream…

  He reversed into the bushes. Her head slid down his torso, resting on his stomach, and she heeled the ground to gain purchase. Thorns jabbed her face and hands, and an image of the rose canvas in Mark’s flat came to mind.

  Out the other side, Dan hoisted her up a slight rise and set her on her feet at the top. Higher than the hedge now, she stared at Mark over the hedge, moving fast to follow their path. He looked up at her, moonlight showing his pale and drawn face, and she tried to tell him with her eyes that if he pursued them, went through that bush, Dan would shoot.

  Mark stilled.

  Dan lowered his gun and dragged her along the bank, her chest facing Mark. Dan’s car, parked ahead, gave her renewed optimism that she could get away. She peered down the road in search of the taxi, the police cars. Nothing. Too far along to see. Kerry glanced the other way. In the near distance, yet still so far, Gradley’s shopping centre stood as regal as a castle. With care, she slipped her hand inside her open bag and felt around for her car keys to stab him with them. Her fingers brushed her foam Winnie the Pooh keyring.

  Mark followed them on the opposite side of the hedge.

  “Go home, Lendall,” Dan said. “You really are tiresome.” He pulled Kerry to the passenger door and opened it with his gun hand. He spun her to face him and took his other from her mouth. “Do. Not. Scream.” His gaze bored into hers. “Get in.”

  Hand on her head as though she were a common criminal, he shoved her inside, Kerry struggling to back out. He crouched, forcing her into the seat. Fumbling in the footwell, he produced a set of handcuffs and snapped one ring on her wrist while she fought. With haste, he knelt and backed away so he could close the door. Kerry swung her legs round to get out again, but he lurched forward and pressed the gun muzzle into her thigh.

  “Don’t piss me off.”

  His stare brought on palpitations, fear, and an adrenaline rush. She obeyed and placed her feet inside. He slammed the door and rose a little to reach through the open window. Christ, he had everything in place. His fingers hooked the cuffs, and he attached the other end to the inner door handle. Manic laughter rumbled from him, and Kerry brought up her other arm and jabbed a finger into his eye.

  He reeled back, a surprised cry bursting from his lips. A thud sounded, and she peered out. Dan sat on his arse then scrambled up, eye closed, tears on his face.

  “You bitch!”

  Through the open window, his fist connected with her swollen cheek, and her temple smacked against the corner of the driver’s seat. Her vision blackened, and silver specks danced like fireflies. Nausea consumed her, and she swallowed down bile. Still blinded, she willed her eyes to see.

  A sound echoed, a shot. A muffled “Ugh!” and a thwump followed. Her heart rate sped up, and she fought for breath as her windpipe closed.

  Panicked, she blinked and thrashed, yanked on the handcuffs, those fireflies fluttering faster and faster until they abruptly disappeared, leaving her in total darkness.

  * * * *

  Mark fell backwards. His arse hit the ground, and pain shot from his tail bone and up his spine. Head meeting the grass with a thud, he stared at the sky. Teeth gritted, he dared to touch his upper arm, the skin damp. A coppery smell hit him. The last thing he needed was a bullet there. Tuning out the pain, he fumbled for his work phone. The screen lit up. He selected the number for the station’s front desk.

  Cheryl picked up.

  “It’s Lendall. I’m shot and down.”

  Her gasp sounded faint as a rushing-water noise filled his ears. The phone fell from his grasp, and Cheryl’s frantic voice wailed from it.

  “Shot?”

  “I’m in the field to the left…to the left,”
he panted, “of the road to Gradley. Stone shot me. I…I need…assistance.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dan laughed. Pitiful, she looked pitiful on the basement floor, hands cuffed, ankles bound together with rope.

  Let her try and get away now.

  Her face had swollen further, her eyelid purple, puffy. When she opened her eyes—one eye, more like—he’d bet she wouldn’t be able to see through the damaged one. That hideous hoody, obviously Lendall’s, taunted him. He marched over to a shelving unit, opened his toolbox, and selected a pair of hedge clippers. Crouched beside her, he wedged the neckline between the blades and cut down to the hem. Still unable to remove the offending article, he sliced up the sleeves and hacked into the hood, throwing the material to one side. He tossed the clippers to a standing shelf unit behind Kerry. They landed on a cardboard box edge, one handle either side. The blades pointed to the ceiling and reminded him of a bird’s beak.

  He manoeuvred his wife, pulling the remaining fabric free. She groaned and shifted her head, winced, and opened her eye. Blinked. Her mouth gaped to speak, but she closed it again, her lips skewed, out of shape from his earlier punch.

  He stood and stared down at her, mentally rechecking his movements before bringing her down here. Yes, he’d secured the house doors and set the alarm. Yes, he’d locked the basement’s lower door, key safely stowed in his pocket. If officers arrived—doubtful, with Lendall down and out—by the time they gained entry, he and Kerry would be long gone.

  Death didn’t scare him, eternal rest preferable to a life without Kerry, or one with her there but not voluntarily seeing to all his needs. No, he didn’t want a life like that, didn’t want a wife as bad as his mother, a woman who’d tolerated him because she’d had to and longed for the day he’d grow up and move on. And in Kerry’s case, she’d hope he’d give up and let her go.

  Dan would never give up. Never move on. Never let go.

  No.

  “Glad you’re awake,” he said and walked to the shelves. He toyed with a matchbox. “Are you cold?”

  She grunted.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” He slipped the matchbox in his pocket.

  In the corners beside the door, kerosene-soaked kindling sat in small criss-cross stacks. He eyed them, judging where the fire would spread once he lit them. Down each side of the room, rows of wood slithers, four-by-four, lay on the floor and led to mounds of their clothing in the rear corners.

  Yes, everything was in order.

  He scooped up the hoody remnants and added them to one pile. Matchbox out of his pocket, he held it between thumb and pointer finger—and rattled the contents. Kerry’s eye widened.

  “You know, you could have had it all, darling. If only you’d just… Done. As. You. Were. Told.” He shook his head. “But no, you decided you wanted more. Wanted another man in your bed. Did he feel good? Did he give you everything you needed?”

  Her head wagged, and her lower lip trembled.

  “I do believe you’re telling the truth. You didn’t sleep with him, did you?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Good girl. Now,” he crouched, “we’re going to take a little trip. Just you and me. We’re going where no one can find us, where we’ll be at peace.” He narrowed his eyes as a thought came to mind. “Oh, I suspect we’ll bump into my mum upon our arrival, but that place is so huge I’m sure we can avoid her afterwards. I mean, Hell is a big place.”

  She gasped and struggled against her bindings.

  “No point in trying to get free, Kerry. Our destination is set, don’t you see?”

  “C-cold,” she said, almost inaudible.

  “Pardon?”

  “Cold.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, you won’t be cold for long.”

  She shook her head again. “No. You,” she slurred. “Y-you’re cold.” She laughed, a mirthless, dead echo of her former bright jingle. “Stone cold.”

  Her eye glared at him, and he fought the desire to hurt her, really hurt her. No. He wouldn’t allow her the upper hand. He had control.

  Turning from her, he walked to the corner to the door’s right, took a match from the box, and struck it on the side. Stared at the flame. Inhaled the tangy scent. And dropped the match on a kindling pile.

  Flames appeared with a satisfying whoosh and snaked along the kindling row towards some clothing. He faced his wife once more. She shrieked and heaved her torso upright, then shuffled to face the flames and scooted backwards, the seat of her jeans rasping on the concrete floor. The sound meshed with the flame’s crackle and her heavy breaths, and he delighted in the sensations coursing through him. Soon, soon they would be together forever. Free of life’s constraints.

  “It won’t be long now,” he said. “I’ll light the other pile in a minute, and our journey will begin.”

  “You’ll be sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Whatever.”

  He lifted his foot to step over her, his intent to pull her by the arm and position her back against the shelving unit. She swung her feet at his standing leg. The side of her calf smacked into his, and he wobbled, arms out for balance. He aimed to place his other foot down on the floor but trod on her pelvis instead. She bucked her hips, and, stability shot, he lurched towards the shelving unit.

  Towards the jutting hedge cutter blades.

  * * * *

  Kerry shrieked and fell back. Her head struck the floor, her cry muffled by his lower legs covering her face. He released an ear-splitting shout of agony, and his legs juddered, the toes of his shoes stabbing into her belly. Hands scraping the rough concrete, she shifted to her left, out from under him, and heaved herself upright. The flames had reached the back corner, and black-grey smoke undulated upwards, hitting the ceiling and creeping along it to the other side of the room. She coughed, eye smarting, tears streaming, and glanced at Dan.

  Motionless. Facedown in a cardboard box.

  Unable to cover her mouth and nose because of her tied wrists, she took quick, short breaths and hopped to the door, wishing her ankles weren’t bound. Heat radiated from the fire, warming her. She grunted with each inch closer to the exit, and sweat dripped from her hairline into her eyebrows.

  Please, please let me get out of here alive. Burned, I don’t care, just get me out. I must…must get out.

  Her back met the door, and she placed her soles to the floor and pushed, sliding upwards. She fumbled for the handle, gripped it, turned it…

  Locked.

  She screamed, frustration and unfairness at her situation ripping through her. No, she couldn’t die down here. She wouldn’t. Hopping over to Dan, her lungs burning, throat sore, eye streaming, she dropped on her knees beside him. Pain splashed over her kneecaps and shot up her thigh bones. She screeched through it, her teeth gritted, and sank down on one buttock to reach into his jacket pocket. Seconds ticked by—precious, precious seconds—and her fingers seemed too thick to fit in the small opening. With a surge of anger, she gripped the pocket edge and yanked, anger lending her strength. The material tore, and the contents spilt over her hands. She moved to catch them quickly, but only that fucking matchbox nestled in her palm. Frantic, she patted Dan, the space between them, the floor.

  “Oh God, please let me find the key,” she shrieked, and her fingers settled on the cold hard metal of her saviour.

  She swung her legs around and sat on her backside, mimicking her earlier journey to the door. Smoke filled the room now, and, with sheer determination, she took breaths of acrid, foul-tasting air and slid up the warming door. Hands sweaty and shaking, she held the key in one and felt for the keyhole with the other. Fumes and the stench of burning kerosene threatened to overcome her, and in her panic, she hefted in a huge breath. Coughs wracked her body, her dry throat tickling so she couldn’t stop. Fingers still questing, her eye stinging so badly she couldn’t keep it open, she repeated I can do this, I can do this over and over in her mind.

  Her thumb tip brushed over the keyhole. Her
shoulder muscles ached, and she didn’t know how much longer she could breathe in the smoke without her lungs collapsing. Key gripped, she wiggled it into the lock. She turned it, coughing so hard she thought her ribs would break, and almost heaved in another lungful of smoke in relief when the key twisted. She jumped forward a step and pulled down the handle. The heavy door wouldn’t budge, the fire having created a vacuum.

  No, please, no…

  She yanked down the handle and pulled—hard—inhuman strength infusing her. The door opened, shoving her backwards onto her bum. Gusts of smoke swirled into the stairwell, making it impossible for her to see the steps or the other door at the top. She scooted forward until her toes met the bottom one, then rolled onto her knees, turned, and sat. Her feet up, she pushed on a step, her arse landing on the next one up. She gained momentum and reached the top, the smoke curdling in her lungs, another coughing bout constricting her chest. She nudged backwards until her spine touched the door, and she tried to slide upwards again, to stand. Her strength depleted, she couldn’t rise, and another two attempts saw her slumped in defeat, head to chest.

  Harsh sobs mingled with her coughs, and she thought of Mark, shot, paramedics trying to save his life—if they found him in time. If Dan’s bullet hadn’t killed him instantly. She stood, hands slipping on the handle. The door gave, and she catapulted into the kitchen, falling hard on her side, agony ripping into her hip. Eyes closed, she gnashed her teeth and got onto her knees. Smoke poured in, and before it obliterated her sight, she got her bearings. Beside the stools by the centre island, she planted her shoulder on a seat and hoisted herself standing. Hopping, she made for the kitchen door, its opening spotted with glimpses of the living room beyond through the churning smoke.

  Blue-and-red lights danced in the air before her, and panic welled at the thought of blacking out again. She bounced into the living room, her pained wrists slapping her body with each jump, and made for the hallway.