Degrees of Darkness

by Tony J. Forder

  ‘More of the same. Described in detail all the things he would like to do to her. She just listened until he was through, then said goodbye. Told me it had been like listening to some pervert making a dirty phone call. I asked how she knew about such things, we both laughed, and that was it. Neither of us mentioned it again.’

  ‘He won’t get to her,’ Nicky said. ‘He won’t have the chance.’

  ‘I want him.’ Frank hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

  Nicky shook his head.

  Frank tossed back a shot of scotch. ‘I want some time alone with him. He’ll never bother anyone again.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Frank. You know that. My balls would be in the mangle if I left you alone with him.’

  Frank nodded. ‘I understand. Too much to ask of even our friendship. But if Laura dies, Nicky, I’ll come through you to get to him if I have to.’

  ‘Laura dying would change everything, Frank. If that happens, I’ll happily stand aside.’

  46

  Lawrence Swain did not consider himself to be either a madman or a deviant in the way that Frank Rogers thought of him. Indeed, during the time he spent outside the nightmare of reality that seemed to be expanding every single day in order to swallow him whole, Swain considered himself to be just like any other ordinary man. An ordinary man with desires that were just … different.

  In the swarm of darkness that enveloped him from time to time, however, there was no clear idea of exactly how he thought of himself. In the darkness, there was only the rush and blurring of time, wave upon wave of ambiguous emotion and movement. Everything was distorted, twisted out of shape, a surreal life run at double speed. Moments in time he had no control over.

  He was a haunted man. Haunted by those he had killed, and by the unbidden thoughts raging inside his mind. Voices cried out, others whispered, each insinuation like a dagger to his heart. They waged a war inside his head and would not let him be. Worse still, they were gaining in strength, voices becoming louder, like a hurricane tearing its way through his soul.

  Soon, he thought, I will be taking Laura into the darkness with me. Just like the others. And afterwards it would be no surprise at all to discover that he had emerged from it alone. As he had on six previous occasions.

  Laura’s time had just about run down. He would use her, abuse her, and dispose of her. That was his way. It was a kindness. The same kindness he had demonstrated when disposing of the girls’ families. No child would want to live having been used and abused by him and Violet. It would have been heartless to have left them alive, agonising, waiting for the hammer to fall. Surely no one could fault him for that. He knew that society would scorn him for the incestuous relationship he shared with his sister, but they had no idea. Violet was the only one who truly knew him, the only one who would understand why he did the things he did.

  There was a time when he had actually considered Laura to be almost as perfect as his sister. The one he had been waiting for all this time. Had she been, well, his mission now would be so different. She was close. Oh, she was so close. But …

  Today, at the department store in Kensington, more than fifty children had sat before the almighty Nikon. Little more than half had been girls. Of these, only four were the right approximate age. Two had been dark, one a red-head, but the other, oh, the other was the most magnificent creature he had ever seen.

  Stacey Kimble.

  Even the name sent a shiver through him.

  Thirteen years old. Strawberry-blonde hair, long and lush and flowing. The face of an angel, cast from the finest alabaster. He had almost swooned when he saw her approaching. But he was nothing if not professional. One day, perhaps, he would slip into the darkness while working. If he did that in the presence of those children and parents, he was going to be caught. He would take a few of them with him, of course, but it would be over. Somehow, immense pride in his work dragged him through, even when the darkness seemed to linger close by, beckoning. Stacey had been put at her ease with a smile and a silly joke, and while her mother hovered in the background, she had given him all he needed. Except for the phone number and address, and those came straight from the mother’s lips.

  Stacey lived in Winchmore Hill, with her parents, a younger brother, their pet dog Dougal, and a hamster called Roland. The dog was a small King Charles spaniel, instantly loveable no doubt, and easily destroyed. Stacey’s room was lilac, with pink curtains raised against a window that overlooked the back garden. Now, Swain knew where to look and what to look for when he drove past the Kimble home – which he would do several times before reaching a final decision.

  He had also to see if the house was alarmed, to make sure that entry to the rear was possible, that he could park close by without leaving any tyre depressions. All this he would do soon, maybe even on Monday after he’d been to the Hammersmith office. If all went well, there would be a new girl to take Laura’s place within a fortnight.

  First, he and Violet had to have their fill of Laura. They would enjoy her in so many different ways. He would allow himself to taste her pain. Then he would get down to the more serious work.

  These thoughts and more raged through his dizzy head as he lumbered home in the rush hour traffic. It was another sweltering afternoon, the open window afforded little breeze, and a band of sweat collected around the edge of his baseball cap. He idly tapped his long fingers on the steering wheel. Today he would not lose his temper with other drivers. Today he was at peace with himself and everyone around him.

  Except for Laura.

  His expression changed dramatically when he thought of her. He’d done everything possible for that fucking little bitch. He’d changed his working schedule so that he wouldn’t have to stay away from home. He’d shown her what aesthetic wonders lay in store for her, the beauty of a true artist’s work, he’d treated her fairly, with enormous kindness, hadn’t even starved her like the others.

  And for what?

  So, the devious little bitch could go behind his back, so the little bitch could make pacts with his own fucking sister. So, the little bitch could try to escape.

  As the sweltering metallic line edged forward, Swain’s face grew darker still. He could feel the empty husk of the darkness moving closer, looking to swallow him whole. Soon it would be time to enter it again. For once, he would welcome it.

  47

  Laura didn’t know how long she had to live. What she did know was that soon, very soon, she would have crossed over into a realm where madness reigned. She had moments of delirium, experienced passages of time where she seemed to float out of her body. Several times lately when her mind had snapped out of a self-imposed unconsciousness, she had found herself shambling around the room, uttering incomprehensible sounds to the rhythm of both hands slapping against her bare thighs. Not soft taps, either, but hard smacks that left behind obvious marks.

  She had taken to squatting in one corner of the room for hours at a time, twisting her greasy strands of hair, winding them around her fingers, and yanking on them until she cried out in pain. On other occasions she would gasp suddenly, look down at her arm to see that she had been scrubbing at it with her nails, the skin raw and red and unsightly. Left unattended, these sores wept a watery pus, then scabbed over, only to be broken by her nails again soon after.

  All were rare moments laid against the broader canvas of her day, but their frequency and momentum was increasing. She was becoming unhinged, and there seemed no way of preventing it from happening.

  During her most lucid hours over the past few days, Laura had sensed a shift in the atmosphere. The woman, Violet, was just plain crazy and unreliable. But the man was now subject to constant fierce mood swings, turning three different ways almost in the same breath. He was unstable, unpredictable, and therefore by far the more dangerous of the two. A human time-bomb waiting to detonate.

  The swings were escalating daily. The mental violence had become physical, culminating in a further beating with his belt. Now sh
e sensed there were sexual overtones in everything either of them said or did. The more Laura considered these things, the more she brought them into sharper focus, the more she was convinced that it was steadily building to a climax. Before long, one of them was going to take matters too far. One of them would seriously damage her, perhaps even kill her in one frenzied moment.

  As soon as Laura worked this out, she decided there were only two courses of action open to her. She could give up, become their punchbag, accept anything that came her way, until the final welcome oblivion.

  Or she could fight.

  The first alternative meant death. Eventually, death was a certainty. But before that there would be a great deal of pain, she was sure. Pain she did not want to endure. The second option, fighting, meant trying her damnedest not to be around when that time came. It meant escape. And even if she were caught, what more could they do to her than kill her?

  Laura had always known she was wise beyond her years. She believed she had figured things out well, that she had coped admirably for a girl her age. And for the most part, this was true. But in her thoughts, there was still much naiveté, for Laura simply could not imagine anything worse than death.

  The truth was so very different.

  Late on Saturday afternoon, Laura decided to fight. It was either that or succumb to them or the onrush of madness. By then she had worked it all out. The door was far too solid, but there were other exits; means of escape she had not considered before because they were out of sight. The room had four wooden shutters, beneath which were four windows. The shutters were nailed to the frames, and she had no tool with which to prise them loose. Except for just one faint hope.

  With one of her long fingernails, Laura managed to ease out a screw that held the blade of a pencil sharpener in place. The blade was small, but it was unused and therefore still sharp. She ran down to the shutter furthest away from the door and, the blade pressed between forefinger and thumb, began to cut into the first of five wooden slats that comprised the shutter. Beneath the grimy surface, the wood was almost white. Laura cut into it again, as if peeling an apple. Her intention was to create a large enough gap so that her hand could slide between the slats. If she could prise just one away using some leverage, the others would surely yield.

  In this way, Laura worked steadily for hour upon hour. She sliced into the wood until her finger and thumb became swollen and sore, then took a brief rest. She couldn’t allow blood to be drawn, but she thought she might get away with the odd blister. And all the time she kept one ear cocked for the jangle of keys, terror spurring her on to greater efforts.

  Since she’d begun, Violet had brought in her lunch a few hours ago and the man had brought in her tea. There were two visits to the toilet, also. Alerted by the keys each time, Laura had been sitting playing quietly by the time the door had swung open, the blade carefully hidden. Although she was living with constant fear, Laura was proud of herself. She was fighting back. Not only that, she was winning. And neither he nor his sister had any idea of her intentions.

  So, Laura carried on attacking the wood, blissfully unaware of the video cameras watching her every movement.

  48

  Each digital memory card lasted a day before it needed replacing. Lawrence Swain went through them three times a day: before he left for work he took time to study the previous night’s output; when he got home he would look at what Laura had been up to while he was out; and last thing at night, before he turned in, he would run through her evening’s exertions.

  Swain kept his video equipment in the room directly behind the doll’s house. There were three cameras, cabled together and timed so that when one tape finished another began. He had done all the wiring himself. There was a machine for editing, and a TV with a 32-inch screen. When he wasn’t at work or with his sister, Swain spent much of his time in this room.

  It would have been impossible to sit and study every frame of film, of course. Swain reviewed them all at twenty times normal speed, slowing the film only when something noteworthy caught his attention.

  At first, he had selected moments such as the times when Laura first saw what they had given her to eat. Then there were the regretfully few occasions when the girl changed her dress. It was as if he had captured the moment a butterfly emerges from its pupal state; the girl emerging as a woman, the butterfly beating its wings for the first time. There were times when he simply wanted to watch her at play.

  But then there were other, more important selections. He slowed the recording when his sister unexpectedly wandered into view. He watched as she paced the room, saw the blow, the caress afterwards. A specially rigged microphone secreted next to one of the ceiling lights picked up every whispered word. By the time Violet left the screen, Swain’s face was pinched tight by fury.

  It was some time before he noticed exactly what Laura was doing at the far end of the room. At first, he thought she was merely playing a game, then it occurred to him that she might be trying to force the shutters open. Finally, after rewinding, he saw her hide something small and shiny just before Violet came into the room with a tray of food.

  The next time he glanced at the screen, the recording had ended. He looked at his watch, astonished to discover that three hours had gone by. Hours when he had no doubt drifted back into the darkness. He hadn’t left the room. If he had, Laura might already be dead. Then he remembered what he had seen on the monitor.

  You ungrateful little bitch. I treated you better than any of them, and how do you repay me? After conspiring with my own sister, you try to escape. You actually try to escape. You insult my fucking intelligence, that’s how you repay me is it, you little horror? You think your damned freedom lies behind those shutters? Do you? You think I’m that fucking stupid?

  He felt betrayed, and not by Laura alone.

  Now, as afternoon merged with the evening, Swain smiled to himself and chuckled. He’d fully intended to end Laura’s miserable life tonight. But now he had other plans. He’d fucked with the father’s mind and found it hugely entertaining. He saw no reason to deny himself a little more fun before the hard work began all over again. No, he was going to fuck with her mind. Let her fingers get sore, let them blister, let her heart misinform her. Let her believe the pain was worthwhile because escape was just a few scraps of wood deep.

  Around seven-twenty that night, the man brought Laura her tea. Meatloaf, new potatoes, processed peas, gravy. No surprises. The best meal they had served up in almost two full weeks. He chatted for a while, his mood seemingly lighter, for which she was thankful. She managed to keep her hands out of sight for much of the time.

  She ate heartily, waited for the tray to be cleared away, for Violet to escort her to and from the toilet. Then, when the key was turned for the last time that night, Laura went back to work. She had already created a chink of fading daylight. Within an hour she found purchase for one finger. The breakthrough made her work all the harder.

  49

  Frank and Debbie lay curled up on the sofa together. For him, it was a delight to feel this close to someone again. Yet his heart sank as he spoke, fearing he was about to blow it yet again.

  ‘You know I have to be on my own tonight?’

  ‘I do. You want me to go home?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head, pecked her cheek. ‘You take the bed. I’ll stretch out on here. I won’t sleep anyway.’

  ‘You might surprise yourself. You may find sleep comes naturally tonight.’

  But Frank knew he would spend the darkest hours lying wide awake, thinking about the morning, running the possibilities through his head. It was his way, always had been, and he was too long in the tooth to change now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d rather be cuddling up beside you than sprawled out here on my own, but I’m not good to be around at those moments. I can get a little manic, a bit self-involved.’

  Debbie brushed his arm with her soft hands. ‘Shhh. It doesn’t matter. You’re the one who ha
s to be in the right frame of mind in the morning. Do whatever it takes, Frank. We’ll keep.’

  The phone rang, its strident tone causing Frank’s heart to lurch, his flesh to crawl. Was this him now? Was he about to give up another body? And would he stray from the chronological order he’d maintained so far and deliver up Laura?

  The relief he felt when he heard Zoe’s voice was palpable. Frank felt a trickle of sweat slip from his brow even as he started to smile. Zoe wanted to know if he would be going into the office the following morning, her bouncy manner a stark contrast with his own.

  ‘Not tomorrow, Zo. I have something on in the morning, and I’ll be tied up all day. If things go to plan, I may see you on Tuesday.’

  ‘Okay.’ She sounded flat, dispirited for the first time. ‘I don’t know how much longer I can hold the fort on my own though, boss.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Frank looked to the ceiling, tried to think. ‘Listen, I promise you this: if I can’t make it in, I’ll send someone else in my place. Someone will be there first thing Tuesday morning. Give them all my usual calls.’

  ‘What about any new business?’

  Frank made a snap decision. ‘You handle it.’

  ‘Me? Frank, they’re not going to want to see someone like me. They want to see the boss.’

  ‘You’re my assistant. Assist. Take whoever I send with you, so they can see we have the necessary muscle. But you know how the business works, Zo. I have faith in you.’

  ‘But I’d have to wear … normal clothes.’ She sounded doubtful.

  Frank recalled the cremation ceremony. Zoe had looked good in black after all. ‘Get yourself a nice suit,’ he said. ‘Charge it, and let me know how much it comes to. You can do this, Zoe. It’s not rocket science.’

  She laughed then. ‘Just try to be here yourself. So how are things?’