Untouchable: A chillingly dark psychological thriller

by Sibel Hodge

‘And then what!’ My voice reached shrieking level. ‘I can’t stay with you forever.’

  ‘It’s not forever. Just until—’

  ‘Nothing’s happening, Mitchell. We’ve been fooling ourselves, haven’t we? Nothing’s going to happen. They’re untouchable. How many more people will die over this?’

  Mitchell put his arm around me and hugged me towards him. ‘There’s always a Plan B.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I sniffed.

  He evaded the question and leant over, wiping the tears on my cheeks with the back of his hand. ‘Are you ready to go? We should get out of here as soon as we can.’

  I nodded, my forehead throbbing and vibrating as if someone was attacking the inside of my skull with a sander.

  When he pulled up on my drive, I wondered if this would be the last time I’d ever go inside the house. What about all my memories? The life Jamie and I had here? All the happiness? They’d stolen that from me now, too.

  Mitchell grabbed an extendable baton from inside his jacket as we got out of the vehicle. The front door was open a little way, as I’d left it when I’d run out.

  ‘Wait here until I come out and tell you it’s safe. And when we go inside, no talking, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  With a flick of Mitchell’s wrist, the baton extended to half a metre of lethal, hard metal. I watched him disappear inside. He flicked on lights as I clutched my pepper spray.

  A few minutes later, he opened the door and strode to the car. ‘It’s all clear. It was a tidy entry. There’s no sign of how they got in, but they made a hell of a mess afterwards.’

  I followed him in and crunched over the kitchen floor, which was covered with everything from cornflakes to olive oil to broken mugs and glasses. Everything had been emptied from the drawers and cupboards and dumped on the floor. Even the garden hadn’t escaped. The shed door hung open, the padlock bolt cropped off and lying on the floor, the contents ransacked, paint everywhere. The Buddha was upturned.

  Nothing had been taken again. The TV and stereo were still in the lounge, along with Jamie’s and my laptops. But pages of his books had been ripped out and scattered over the carpet. CDs and their cases smashed and broken.

  In the spare room, Jamie’s personal papers were ripped. The mattress hung half off the bed, slashed. Gutted like a fish. Pillows had been ripped open, spilling out the foam interior. My bedroom was the same, with the addition of clothes slashed and left in scattered heaps, drawers upturned, toiletries flung around.

  But the worst thing was the photos of Jamie that had been on proud display. The glass in the frames had been smashed and ground into the floor. The photos inside had been ripped beyond recognition. All except the one which had taken pride of place on my bedside unit, of us at the picnic.

  It was now on the plasterboard wall above my bed, held in place by a knife pierced through my face.

  Chapter 42

  ‘You can stay as long as you like,’ Mitchell said after I’d put my car in his garage.

  He let us in to his house, led me into his guest bedroom, and put my small suitcase on the floor.

  ‘Thanks.’ I slumped down on the edge of the king-sized bed.

  ‘Do you want something to eat? Drink?’ He hovered in the doorway.

  As tempting as a drink sounded, I didn’t think I had the energy to physically lift another glass of vodka and put it to my lips. ‘No, thanks.’ I leant forward, my forehead in my palms. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘You’re exhausted,’ Mitchell butted in. ‘Get a good night’s sleep and let’s talk in the morning.’

  I nodded because it was the only thing I could do.

  He closed the door, and I took off my boots and slid underneath the cool duvet fully clothed, knowing that even though I could hardly keep my eyes open, I wouldn’t be able to sleep.

  I turned over and over in my mind how far they were prepared to go to keep a lid on this. I knew the answer, of course. They were prepared to kill. They knew who I was now, what I knew, and it wouldn’t be long before they came back to finish the job. How had they found out when we’d been so careful? Did it even matter now?

  I needed to call Alistair. Get him to do something. Talk about my options. I wondered if I could get some kind of protection but then dismissed the thought. Any protection would be coming from the police. People who hadn’t even launched an enquiry yet. If the people who’d broken in were from Special Branch, they were the police, so how could they protect me? And if it was the others, MI5, dealing with matters of national security, how did I stand a chance?

  At some point, I must’ve finally succumbed to sleep because I was woken by a noise.

  I sat bolt upright, wondering where the hell I was. My heart pounded as it took a second for my eyes to sift through the darkness, disorientated, reacting to shadows looming in the unfamiliar room.

  Then it hit me. Mitchell’s. Of course.

  I gulped in some air.

  The noise again. Shouting. No, more like whimpering yells.

  It was Mitchell’s voice, calling something I couldn’t make out.

  Oh, God. They’re here. They’ve got him! It won’t be long before they come for me, too.

  Carefully, I slid out of bed and pulled on my boots with trembling fingers. I padded to the window and peeled back a small edge of the curtain, looking out onto the deserted, sleepy street. No one was out there. All the neighbours looked safely tucked up in bed. No strange men were walking up the path with I’m going to kill you T-shirts on.

  I edged to the bedroom door.

  Another shout. Louder this time. It sounded as though Mitchell was in pain. What the hell were they doing to him?

  Icy fingers danced up my rigid spine. My hand grabbed the door handle, my mind desperately running through what to do. If they had Mitchell, a powerful, ex-elite soldier, I didn’t stand a chance against them.

  My gaze darted back to the window. Should I climb out of it? Run? Somewhere. Anywhere.

  But no. I couldn’t leave Mitchell here in their hands. Not when he’d opened up his home and given me the kind of strength and support I could never repay. Not when I owed him so much. I knew what the outcome would be. They were there because of me, so I couldn’t abandon Mitchell to take the fall. But maybe I could cause a distraction of some kind.

  I swallowed, headed back towards my handbag by the side of the bed, and pulled out the pepper spray.

  Another cry then. I could just about make out Mitchell’s words. ‘No! Don’t do it!’

  I pressed down on the door handle. My teeth clenched tight as I opened it slowly, praying that it wouldn’t make a sound.

  Inching it open, I peered out into the hallway. A light was on downstairs, throwing a shadowy illumination up the stairs and into the end of the hall.

  No one was there.

  ‘I can’t! I’ve tried! No. No, no, no!’ Mitchell’s voice cried out from behind his bedroom door dead ahead of me. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know!’

  I clutched the pepper spray tighter in my hand and tiptoed forwards.

  I had no time to think about how many there were or what I’d do when I actually got inside, but I prayed I’d have the element of surprise.

  Trying to ignore the pressure building in my chest, making it hard to breathe, I stretched my right hand out in front of me, my finger over the nozzle of the pepper spray.

  My left hand shook so badly, I had trouble holding onto Mitchell’s bedroom door handle as I eased it down slowly. Silently. In keeping with the element of surprise, I burst through the door, desperately trying to will my eyes to adjust to the pitch-blackness.

  I swung my arm around wildly, waiting for a punch or kick or stranglehold from the intruders. But the only person there was Mitchell.

  Asleep. Thrashing around in his nightmare.

  I slumped against the wall, pressing a hand to my chest.

  Mitchell suddenly jerked awake, and before I had the chance to assure him it was me, his hand disappeared undern
eath his pillow and reappeared in a lightning move with a handgun. I didn’t know what kind it was, but it was pointed at my chest.

  I could tell by his glazed expression that he didn’t recognise me. ‘Mitchell, it’s me! Maya!’ I held up my left hand, palm up. ‘It’s just me. You were having a bad dream. A nightmare.’

  His chest heaved, his breath coming out in heavy pants, but his trigger hand was completely steady.

  The blood curdled in my veins.

  ‘It’s just me!’ I cried.

  He blinked furiously, his gaze darting around as if he was taking some kind of inventory of the room. ‘Chair, wardrobe, floor. Chair, wardrobe, floor,’ he muttered like some kind of mantra. He shook his head repeatedly. Then recognition seemed to spark in his eyes.

  ‘You were…God, I’m sorry. I thought…’

  He didn’t speak for a while, the gun still pointing towards my chest. Then he fixed his gaze on me, and I couldn’t read the expression in it. Anger? Embarrassment? Devastation? Pain? Hatred? I didn’t stay to find out. I didn’t know who Mitchell really was, and a horrible realisation hit me that I’d put my trust in the wrong person. For all I knew, he could be working for them, keeping me close, watching me from the very beginning, until they decided I should die, too.

  I fled the room, ignoring my handbag in the bedroom and rushing down the stairs so fast I slid down the bottom two. I heard Mitchell’s footsteps behind me. Heard him calling my name as I tried to open the front door.

  It was locked.

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I tugged on the door, and he was there.

  Behind me.

  Chapter 43

  He grabbed me, his arms around my waist and chest so tight, locking me into him. I tried to struggle, but I couldn’t move. Tried to gulp in enough oxygen, but my throat had closed and my head throbbed.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you, but you can’t go anywhere.’ He held on tight.

  I managed to gurgle some kind of scream.

  He held me tighter. ‘Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you, okay?’

  I nodded, whimpering, all the fight going out of me, surrendering to the inevitable. I was no match for him. He was trained to kill people. I wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Slowly, he relaxed his grip and let me go. I stumbled away, backing into the wall, starting to hyperventilate

  He didn’t make another move towards me. Just stood there, watching. ‘If you go out there, they’ll find you.’

  I slowed my breathing, trying to take deep inhales and exhales. ‘Who are you?’ I cried, tears streaking down my cheeks.

  ‘You know who I am.’

  ‘No, I don’t!’ I yelled. ‘Are you going to kill me? Are you working for them?’

  ‘If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it by now.’ He shook his head, his blue eyes boring into mine. ‘Shit, I need a fucking drink.’

  I watched him go into the kitchen. Looked back at the front door. That was true, wasn’t it? He’d had plenty of opportunity to kill me by now.

  I heard him banging around in the kitchen, opening cupboards. He made no attempt to come and get me. Silence me. Finish me off.

  What the hell was all that, though?

  Mitchell obviously had his own demons. I thought about his angry outbursts, the strange reaction he’d had outside Simon’s office. Was that a flashback? And he obviously had nightmares, too. Was Mitchell suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress? He had to be, and I wasn’t surprised, after everything he’d been through. He was probably wracked with survivor guilt, too, just like me. But was he unstable? Was he a danger to me? I couldn’t decide, but it didn’t matter now, anyway. He was all I had. The only other person close to me who could help.

  Finally, when the panic subsided, I went into the kitchen. I definitely needed that bloody drink now, too.

  Mitchell stood at the worktop, staring into a glass of brandy. He turned to face me. Ran a hand over his shaved head and left it there, his piercing blue eyes full of apology. ‘Look, I’m sorry about that. I—’

  ‘Can I have a drink?’

  He poured me a shot of brandy and handed it over.

  The adrenaline was wearing off, making me shivery. I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair where I’d left it when we’d come in last night and wrapped it around me as I sipped the drink.

  ‘Sit down.’ He waved a hand at the chair.

  ‘I should leave. I was selfish, getting you involved in all this. You have your own life to—’

  ‘You didn’t get me involved. It was my choice.’ He downed his drink in one go and poured himself another. ‘And where else would you go, anyway? Like you said earlier, they know who gave Alistair that evidence now. Somehow, they’ve found that out. You should stay here, where no one will think to look for you. At least until it all comes out. And once it does, there will be no need to kill you anymore because the truth will be already out there.’ His gaze wouldn’t meet mine as he sat down at the kitchen table in his jogging bottoms and T-shirt.

  ‘You don’t believe that, though, do you?’ I could tell by the tone of his voice.

  ‘I don’t know what to believe anymore.’ He fingered the edge of the glass.

  ‘The nightmares? Are they about the army? Or Alex?’ I took another hit of brandy and pulled my coat tighter around me.

  He stared into his glass and swilled the liquid around. ‘Both. One of the times I was in Iraq, my squadron was part of the joint SAS/Delta Force team known as Task Force Black. We went out literally every night hitting al-Qaeda cells, and I lost count of the amount of contacts we had, but one in particular still scares the shit out of me now. We had good J2 intelligence, backed up by human intel from our source that a bomb-making factory in Fallujah was making sophisticated shaped charges which could penetrate the US Army armoured trucks. Lots of soldiers were getting hit by them, and casualties were mounting.

  ‘When we eventually identified the right house, in one of the suburbs, we put a rapid plan together to assault it. Straight from the off, we knew it was going to be a hard takedown, and from the minute we stacked up outside the entry point and placed the door charges, we came under fire from across the street, which alerted the team inside the stronghold. As soon as the doors were blown, we pushed our two war dogs in through the breach and followed them up.

  ‘The first few guys in were shot, and as we struggled to make our way into the building to secure it, a suicide bomber inside detonated, dropping an internal wall which crushed one of our guys. Eventually, we fought our way through, systematically shooting and grenading everything that moved before we cleared the building, but we lost two guys dead, three injured, and the poor bloody dogs as well.

  ‘We killed three insurgents, and the suicide bomber made four, but there was one left still alive in the dust and the rubble, a young boy, no more than a kid about Alex’s age. He’d been shot in the chest and in the side of the head but for some reason was still alive. I tried to stabilize him as we waited for the QRF to secure the outer perimeter and extract us, but he was never going to live. He died in my arms—there was nothing that could’ve saved him.

  ‘It turned out that the young boy was being held by the terrorists as assurance for the cooperation of his father, who worked for the coalition as a building contractor and was being forced to provide information about troop movements in and out of the police station he was helping to renovate. It got worse, too, as we later found out that the suicide bomber had been the young boy’s sister, a fourteen-year-old girl, again a hostage held against her will, who’d been remotely detonated by one of the bomb-makers as a sick human claymore mine. The young boy and his sister, his father and the rest of his family, they were the real victims of the war on terror. Innocent people just trying to survive—collateral damage—lives rendered worthless as part of a wider military strategy and a hidden plan that most people aren’t even aware of.

  ‘The war went on, and I went out on more operations, more assaults, night after night, but
I couldn’t stop seeing that boy’s face all the time, the lights going out in his eyes, or imagining the sickening fear of his sister, as she trembled in her suicide vest waiting for the end. I saw him choking up foaming blood. Heard his never-ending screams. And in my mind, his face mingled with Alex’s. In a way, he represented my son. Maybe it was even a message from Alex. I hadn’t been there to save my boy. And I couldn’t save this innocent child, either.’ He drank the rest of his brandy. Stood and poured some more with his back to me, one hand gripping the granite worktop so hard his hand shook. ‘That’s when I knew I had to get out of the regiment. It was my wake-up call. My beliefs were changing, and I couldn’t be a part of it. I couldn’t justify the things I was doing in my country’s name anymore.’

  I rose from the table, wanting to comfort him. I stood beside him, took his hand in mine, and squeezed it. I didn’t speak. Didn’t think any words were good enough.

  He squeezed my hand briefly then sat back at the table.

  I leant against the worktop. ‘Have you spoken to someone about it all? Someone professional, I mean? They could help. With the nightmares. The flashbacks. The guilt.’

  He snorted. ‘What’s the point? I can’t undo what I’ve done. In the end, it comes down to one thing. The powerful deciding who’s going to live or die and why. No amount of talking is going to change that.’

  ‘Why don’t you have any photos of Alex around?’ I’d noticed it before but hadn’t wanted to bring it up. The photos I’d had of Jamie had become more precious to me than anything since his death, because one day I’d forget what he looked like. One day, I would close my eyes and be unable to see him clearly in my head. I needed those photos. And now even most of those had been stolen from me, too.

  ‘My ex took them all when she left. She thought I didn’t deserve to have them.’

  ‘What? That’s so…’ I searched for a word. It was callous. No wonder Mitchell blamed himself so much. ‘It’s just unfair!’

  ‘Is it?’ He glanced at me with watery eyes. ‘She was right. I couldn’t keep Alex safe. I was a world away from here when it happened, fighting for other people’s twisted agendas. That’s what digs the knife in deeper.’