It stopped her crying immediately. It also hurt like hell. The blow had been so fierce she had felt like her head was coming off.
She had no doubt that he was more than capable of killing her. And she realised that, even with everything that had happened to her - Martin Fletcher, finding Tony on the floor of their house - until now she had never truly experienced fear.
He bent down again. She tried to get to her feet, but couldn’t. Still sitting, she scuttled away from him.
He reached her quickly. She pushed herself back into the wall. He stood over her, bearing down. She began to whimper.
Then remembered the screwdriver, held it out in front of her with both hands, point towards him. Hoped he wouldn’t notice how much her hands were shaking.
‘Don’t . . . don’t . . .’ Her voice was failing her.
He looked down at her. ‘You gonna use that? Eh?’
She kept pointing the screwdriver at him, her hands still shaking.
‘You gonna use that on me?’ He laughed. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘You’d better. You do that again, pick up somethin’ and point it at me, you’d better be ready to use it. ’Cause baby or no baby, I’ll stop you.’
He moved in towards her, his hand outstretched again.
Marina started to cry once more.
Then the lights went out.
‘Bastard . . .’
The darkness was all-enveloping. Phil was trying to use the torch as he went down, hoping to see how far he had to go, but he was finding it difficult to hold on to it and the ladder at the same time. He missed his footing and the torch fell from his grasp. The light bounced and swung as it dropped down to the bottom of the shaft.
He put his arm out, tried to grab it, and lost his balance, almost following it. Desperately he cast around for something to grip on to and found the black cable attached to the other side of the shaft. He grabbed at it, hoping it would steady him, but when he pulled, transferring all his body weight to it, it came away in his hand.
He flailed around in the dark, trying not to fall. Luckily, his other hand managed to get a grip on the ladder once more. He clung to it, steadying himself. Took a few deep breaths, continued his descent.
As he neared the bottom, he noticed a dim light shining upwards. His torch. Thank God it was still working, because he was sure he had pulled out the power cable. He stepped off the ladder, picked up the torch. Looked round.
He quickly worked out that he was in the cellar of the house that had once stood above him. A quick examination of the walls bore that out. Bare brick with overhead rafters and a hard-packed dirt floor. He swung the torch’s light into every corner. No sign of Marina.
He looked round again, saw a door set into the wall. Heavy and old, made of solid timber. He almost ran to it, trying the handle. Locked. He tried pulling it. Too thick to budge.
‘Shit . . .’
Then something caught his eye. Against one wall was an alcove. He assumed it must have been a fireplace at one time, with a chimney leading up to the rest of the building. Someone had customised it. Bricks were piled at one side of the opening and it looked as if a tunnel had been hollowed out through the fireplace.
He examined the hole with his torch, making mental measurements. There was no other opening in the room, no door in or out, so this must be the only way through. Phil hated confined spaces. Tried to avoid lifts, even, whenever possible.
But he got down on his hands and knees, the torch clenched in his teeth. He really should go back, tell the others, get them down here. Send them into the tunnel. He tried to look along it, see if there was any light, hear if there was any sound.
Then came a scream.
‘Marina!’
And he was on his knees and into the tunnel, his fear of enclosed spaces on hold.
In the sudden darkness, Marina could feel her assailant in front of her. She didn’t think something like this would stop him getting hold of her. Stop him hurting her. Using the wall behind her as a brace, she pulled herself up to a standing position. Adrenalin kicked in. It was either do something or submit. And she wouldn’t give in without a fight.
‘Bloody generator,’ he mumbled. ‘Bloody power cuts . . .’
It was now or never. She gripped the screwdriver tightly in both hands and thrust it forward as hard as she could.
It connected. She could feel it hit something solid. She kept pushing, hard. Harder.
He screamed. In anger or pain, she couldn’t tell.
She put all her weight behind the screwdriver, drove it in as far as she could, letting it take her body with it. Then, when she could push no further, she let go of the handle.
‘Bitch . . .’
She closed her eyes, tried to remember the layout. Turned right, away from where he had been building the cage, and, keeping as low as she could, moved quickly away from him.
‘Fuckin’ bitch . . .’
She could hear him thrashing about behind her, coming for her.
Her heart felt like it was about to burst as she felt her way along the wall. Her fingers came to a corner. She followed it round. It was some kind of alcove, a recess. An old fireplace, perhaps? Something like that. She didn’t care. It was somewhere she could pull herself into, curl up and hope he wouldn’t find her.
She squeezed inside, aware that the baby was stopping her from getting any further in. She hoped the baby was still all right. There was nothing she could do if it wasn’t. She had to save her own life first.
She made herself as small as she possibly could, held her breath.
Prayed to a God she had long since ceased to believe in, that he wouldn’t find her.
Prayed that she would just survive.
85
Phil crawled.
Using his elbows to propel him, he worked his way through the tunnel. The torch was heavy in his mouth, his teeth gripping it as hard as he could, his jaw cramping up. He wanted to let it drop, take a rest, but he knew if he did that he would never get it back between his teeth again. There wasn’t room in the tunnel to move his arms, get his hands to place it back there. So he kept moving.
He was committed now. He couldn’t go backwards. There was just enough space for him to keep moving forward. The walls and ceiling of the tunnel were right in on him. Brick, stone and dirt all around, with what looked like prop shafts keeping the ceiling up. It didn’t look too sturdy. If he disturbed it in any way, pushed too hard, it could all come down on top of him at any second.
He was starting to feel light-headed. Air was in short supply. He tried to keep calm, not panic, concentrate on moving forward. The only alternative he had was to stop. And that was no alternative at all.
And then it started. A panic attack. He felt his chest constrict, his breath come in ragged gasps.
‘No . . . not now . . .’
He screwed his eyes up tight. Willed it to pass quickly. It wouldn’t. He had to fight against it, keep going. But he had no strength in his arms, no power in his body. He couldn’t move.
He had to. He didn’t have the luxury of staying still. He had to fight it, work through it. Not give in to it. He pushed, pulling himself along with his arms, taking huge breaths in between. And again. And again. Good. He was doing it, he was fighting it, he was winning . . .
Then the tunnel began to narrow.
‘Oh God . . .’
And it was on him even more. He closed his eyes, kept going. Felt tears begin to run down his cheeks. Ignored them. Just kept going.
The air changed. Became slightly less stale. And he knew. He had done it. He had come through to the other side.
He pulled himself out of the tunnel and lay on the ground, on his back, panting like he had just run a marathon. His legs felt weak, his chest ablaze, but he didn’t care. He had made it.
Then there was another scream.
‘Bitch, sow . . .’
He had found her. Marina screamed as he grabbed her hair, pulled her out of the alcove.
‘Come ’
ere . . . thought you would escape, eh? From me? I built this place, bitch, I know every corner of it . . .’
He dragged her free. The pain shot through her head and down her neck. She struggled, screamed, fought. No good. He was too strong for her.
‘You hurt me, bitch, you pissin’ well hurt me . . .’
‘Well don’t hurt me,’ said Marina, ‘because if you hurt me you’ll hurt the baby. And then I’ll be no good to you, will I?’
He paused, seemingly thinking about what she had said. Then resumed pulling her. ‘I can still have fun with you, though . . . don’t you worry ’bout that . . .’
He was breathing heavily, his grip not as strong as she had expected. She felt a small elation. She had hurt him. Good.
But it didn’t make things any better.
Without her realising, tears were running down her face as he dragged her back to the cage.
Phil shone the torch around quickly, trying to find where the scream had come from. He took in his surroundings. A workbench against one wall, an ancient collection of tools above it. Some kind of survivalist’s store room, he thought. Crossing to the workbench, he picked up a heavy claw hammer and moved in the direction he thought the sound had come from.
Marina was kicking her legs out behind her as he dragged her along the passageway. Her hands were on her head, trying to release his grip, or at least make it less painful for herself. He was walking slower, his wound affecting him now, but still strong. Too strong for her to deal with.
As he dragged her, Marina started to be able to see.
At first she thought it was just her eyes becoming accustomed to the dark, but after blinking a couple of times, she realised that there was a light coming towards her.
Her heart began to beat faster; hope rose inside her. This was it, she thought, this was the rescue. But then just as swiftly as it had arrived, that same hope plummeted within her. What if he had an accomplice? What if there was more than one of them?
She didn’t know what to do. But she had to do something.
She took a chance.
‘This way,’ she shouted. ‘I’m here . . .’
Her assailant grunted, turned. Saw what she was looking at.
Then paused for a few seconds, dropped her and ran.
Phil rounded the corner and stopped dead. At first he thought the light and lack of oxygen was playing tricks on him. He blinked. Again. No tricks. There was Marina. Lying on the ground ahead of him.
His face split into a grin as relief flooded his body. He ran to her, dropping down beside her, laying the hammer down, taking her in his arms.
‘Oh God, oh Marina . . .’ He held her tightly to him. ‘I told you I wouldn’t leave you . . .’
But he sensed that Marina didn’t share his relief.
‘He’s here, Phil, he’s around here somewhere . . .’
Phil sat back, looking at her. About to ask more questions, but they were stopped in his throat. Because Marina’s assailant was on him.
‘Phil!’
He felt hands round his throat, choking him. A feral roar accompanied the action. Phil felt himself go light-headed. He put his hands to his neck, tried to pull the hands away. No good. The grip was too strong.
He dropped the torch, tried to scrabble around for the hammer, couldn’t find it.
The beam of the torch etched the whole thing against the wall in a grotesque shadow play. He saw the man behind him, his shadow making him look seven or eight feet tall. He had to fight back.
He pushed his elbow back as hard and as fast as he could. The man grunted in pain, loosened his grip. Phil pressed the advantage, did it again. The grip round his throat loosened. He grabbed the man’s thumbs, twisted them away from the rest of his fingers as hard as he could.
The man shrieked in pain. Howled like a wild beast. Phil kept pulling until he heard them snap. Then he let go, wriggled away from him. Turned and faced him.
The man was older than Phil had expected, tall, well built and bald. He looked like an older, meaner version of Hester. Phil knew straight away who it was. Laurence Croft. Hester’s father. Hester’s husband.
Sophie had been wrong. Or she had lied to him.
Croft lunged at him. Phil tried to dodge out of the way, but Croft’s right hand came down as a fist, crashing into his face. Phil spun away, lost his footing, the blow was that strong.
He hit the ground on his back and was winded. He spat out blood, felt a tooth amongst it.
Then Croft was on him, aiming another punch at his face. Phil tried to move, but was too slow. He felt his nose break as the knuckles connected. Felt blood spurt out of his battered face.
Croft knelt over him. Phil tried to sit up, fight back, but his head was spinning.
Croft laughed, brought his fist back for a blow that would cause Phil serious, if not fatal, damage.
Then stopped.
His eyes went wide, his head jerked to the side. His arms fell to his sides.
Phil opened his eyes, confused.
Croft’s head jerked again, his eyes once more widening.
Then again.
Then his eyes rolled to the back of their sockets and he fell over sideways, hitting the ground with a huge, echoing thump.
Phil looked up. There, standing over the inert body of Laurence Croft, was Marina. Holding in her hand the hammer he hadn’t been able to find, the head coated with blood and other matter.
It dropped to the floor. Phil stood up, went to her.
Had her in his arms before the tears started.
Both hers and his.
86
November gave way to December, and with it Christmas. But there would be no celebrations for Phil.
He sat in his house, the only seasonal decorations a couple of Christmas cards from colleagues, one from Don and Eileen. And one from Marina. He opened it. There was a letter inside.
Phil sighed, decided not to read it, not just yet. He could-n’t face it without his props. He got up, went to the kitchen, fetched himself a beer, came back to the sofa. Flicked the remote at the stereo. He knew which album was in there.
He closed his eyes, rubbed his hands over his face. His nose was healing. He hoped the rest of him was too. He took a mouthful of beer. Thought back over what had happened since that night in Wrabness.
He had found the key to the door in the pocket of Croft’s overcoat, saving another crawl through the tunnel. But Marina was clearly in pain, clutching her stomach as soon as they made it out. He bundled her straight into an ambulance and off to the hospital.
Then it was a question of mopping up, sorting out.
After having his nose patched up, he had gone back to the station, Anni alongside him, trying to come to terms with what had just happened.
‘So Hester’s husband was real after all,’ said Anni, sinking exhausted into her office chair.
Phil nodded. ‘Sophie played us.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘Protecting her father?’
‘After all that?’
‘Who knows? Maybe she still loved him.’
‘Or maybe she just lied.’
‘They all lie to us. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. Something I said to Clayton . . .’ He sighed, his eyes moist. ‘Christ. What a mess . . .’
The media spotlight was intense. Phil kept out of the way as much as possible, leaving it to Fenwick to deal with. After that, things moved quickly.
Laurence Croft was pulled out of the cellar. Dead. Phil knew there would be an inquiry, but it was strongly intimated that no charges would be brought against either him or Marina. If anything, he would receive a commendation.
Hester was taken to a secure hospital and placed under psychiatric supervision. Phil believed it was only a matter of time before he - he couldn’t think of him as she - was declared insane. The baby was doing well and would soon be released to her father. Phil hoped that Graeme Eades would be able to
cope.
Brotherton was going to stand trial for attempted murder. And Sophie Gale/Croft had been formally charged with murder.
Which led Phil to recall Clayton’s funeral.
That was the toughest part of all. It was held at the Colchester Baptist Church in Eld Lane, right in the middle of town. The Georgian building looked out of place sitting alongside the eighties red-brick shopping arcade that took up most of the town centre.
Philip Brennan 01 - The Surrogate Page 38