BURN, BABY, BURN

by Jake Barton

  *****

  Celine stirred; her arm twitching as she awoke. Marcus saw her eyes open, she looked blankly at the wall, clearly uncertain of her surroundings. She half-turned her head and saw his naked figure alongside the bed, watching her.

  Recognition was instant and dramatic in its intensity, he was pleased to note. All expression drained from her face, like a blind being drawn to shut out the glare of the sun.

  The light went out of her eyes, leaving behind blank empty pools reflecting no hint of personality. He stroked her hair, barely making contact, but she flinched at each caress. Lying on her back, naked; arms and legs outstretched and securely tied to the metal frame of the bed with strips of cotton towel. She glared at him. Interesting. Hatred briefly overcoming her fear.

  Untying her, he removed the towels, dropping them on the floor. Pulling roughly at her wrist he dragged her to a sitting position, and then pulled her ankles off the bed, forcing her to stand. Reached out for her as she staggered, supporting the dead weight for a moment, before she stiffened her limbs and stood erect, head held high in a desperate attempt at dignity. Releasing her arm, he left the room. She was no threat. There was no possibility that she would attempt to escape.

  He knew what she was thinking. She could feel his contempt and her cheeks would be flushed with shame as she realised that his opinion of her was in no way misplaced. She was terrified, paralysed both in body and in spirit. She felt his strength, his overwhelming physical superiority.

  She had looked into his cold eyes and seen the depth of his cruelty. No, she wouldn’t move. She would stand immobile, maybe swaying slightly, and watch the empty doorway.

  Returning a few minutes later, he carried a blue chemical toilet, which he positioned at the side of the bed, and a length of heavy chain. He measured the distance from the far side of the bed to the toilet and nodded his satisfaction before pushing her back onto the bed. S

  he gasped as he reached casually across her and snapped one link of a handcuff onto her slender wrist. Holding her down with contemptuous ease, he moved her along the bed slightly and attached one end of the chain to the handcuff dangling from her wrist. Hooking the other end through the bed frame, he secured the chain with a second set of handcuffs, snapping down hard on each connection in turn until satisfied with their security.

  "Let me go," she screamed, her voice cracking with strain. "Please let me go."

  Marcus lifted his head, a wolf scenting its prey. "Do you think I care what happens to you? By the time you’ve served your purpose, you’ll be begging me to let you die."

  Her cry came from deep inside – the shrill quavering wail of a soul in torment. Marcus savoured it.

  He left the room, returning moments later with a bag of fruit and a plastic jug. He reached under the bed and retrieved a plastic cup which he offered to her.

  "Water," he said. "You’ll be thirsty. One of the side effects of that little jab I gave you."

  Her expression showed she recalled how he’d held her down in the back of his car. The careless manner in which he’d pushed the syringe into her arm and continued to hold her until she’d lost consciousness.

  His strength was incredible; controlling her frantic struggles with little effort.

  "Not so friendly now, are you?" Marcus admonished. "You were eager enough when we met. I didn’t have any difficulty persuading you to do anything then." She flushed.

  "Please. Can I have my clothes?" Her voice trembled. He walked to the open doorway, as if she had not spoken, pausing to look at her. She would see no compassion in his face, no spark of humanity. He offered a beautiful smile and left the room.

  Marcus left the isolated cabin to stand on the porch, watching and listening.

  Detecting nothing out of the ordinary, he checked the dinghy in which he’d carried the unconscious girl to the island, now carefully hidden behind a screen of brushwood at the side of the cabin. Nothing had been disturbed.

  Thunder rumbled menacingly in the distance, but the clouds overhead were high with no imminent threat of rain. He jogged through the trees to the water’s edge and waded into the icy pool of the lake. Waist deep, he struck out in a powerful crawl, pushing his body to the limit as he set off for the opposite bank, far in the distance. Behind him the cabin was invisible and the tiny island looked like a single clump of trees growing out of the surrounding vastness of the lake.

  *****

  Marcus paused at the edge of the woods, vigilant and watchful.

  Behind him, the darkness was absolute, as he approached the house, a faint beam of light danced in the shadows.

  Marcus glanced at the dimly lit window of the house next door and smiled, stepping onto the lawn. Within seconds the light was extinguished and the smile broadened, dark eyes burning through the darkness.

  "Hello Clive," he said softly. "Did you think I’d forgotten you?"

  Passing under the outstretched branches of a tree, Marcus pushed open a battered wooden door and went inside. In the bedroom, a woman slept, hair fanned across the pillow. Marcus entered the room as silently as a stalking cat; the light from the landing sufficient to show every detail of the woman’s face.

  He reached out towards her, caressed her cheek with a touch as soft as summer pollen, and then grasping the bed covers in one hand, drew them slowly down until her naked breasts were revealed. Marcus lightly touched one heavy breast with his palm. The woman stirred restlessly, on the verge of waking, he released his hold and sat on the edge of the bed, watching her.

  After several minutes, he stood and softly removed his clothes, placing them neatly over the arm of a chair. He moved towards the sleeping figure once more and pulled the top sheet completely away. The woman slumbered nude, lying on her back with one knee half bent, he watched as the faint chill brought her softly awake.

  She gasped as she opened an eye and saw his body alongside the bed. Marcus bent forward pressing his lips to her left breast, teasing the nipple with his tongue. He raised his head and smiled at her.

  "Hello, Mummy," he whispered. "I’m home."

  ~ Chapter 2 ~

  Donna debated the wisdom of pressing the button a second time, but chickened out, reluctant to provoke the anger this act of sedition would inevitably cause.

  A metallic voice from the square grill above the buzzer interrupted her deliberations. "What’s the problem today, Miss O’Prey? Alarm clock struck by lightning?"

  Donna turned to face the camera placed high on the wall. She dreaded having to confront Martha’s calculated sarcasm.

  "Sorry Martha, I forgot the code changed today. I left the new number in the glove box of my car, but had to leave the car at the garage this morning, that’s why I’m late." Donna knew she was babbling, but couldn’t help herself.

  "You’d better come in," Martha droned. "I don’t know what Mister Roper will say. You know full well his Wednesday briefing is always scheduled for nine and it must be…"

  "I know, I’m really sorry." The intercom voice sniffed loudly, but switched itself off as if bored with the conversation.

  Donna waited for the lock to be released before pushing the heavy door open and entering a cage of iron bars with a further barred door facing the entrance drive.

  At her back the spring-loaded iron door slammed, making her jump, as it always did, confining her until the camera confirmed to the watching Martha that Donna was the same person it had been looking at five seconds previously and not some gun-toting terrorist. Satisfied, the system released the electronic lock on the side of the cage and Donna trudged off along the long curving gravel drive.

  The house was impressively solid, weathered by a hundred or so years to a rich blend of honey and terracotta. Facing south, the closed shutters on the main door and front windows were bleached of any discernible colour, gloriously distressed by time and climate. Beyond the high outer wall, open fields led to the distant shoreline. Alongside the path were three overgrown buddleia, swarming with droning bees and a myriad of butte
rflies, fluttering around the blossoms like brightly-coloured guests at a Royal garden party, eager to see all and miss nothing.

  Arriving at the side door, Donna fumbled to find the hidden buzzer and was gratified when the door swung open immediately. She set off with a purposeful stride, down the tiled hallway, desperately hoping to avoid Martha, but came to a skidding halt as the mahogany door at the far end of the hall swung open and a familiar gnome-like figure held up an imperious hand. "Twenty-three minutes late, Miss O’Prey."

  "I know," Donna stammered, "My car was misfiring and I had to take it to the garage. Then I had to wait for one of the mechanics to arrive so he could give me a lift up the hill."

  Martha glared. "If you allowed yourself sufficient time to take account of such events, I’m sure you…"

  "I did. I left home at twenty past eight. That’s allowing loads of time."

  Martha gave her trademark sniff. "Obviously not, as your present tardiness proves. I really feel Mister Roper will be disappointed."

  Oh God, not disappointed again, anything but that.

  Donna’s employer, Edward Roper, former Royal Air Force, never stooped to express anger at the failings of his most junior employee.

  But frequently proclaimed himself ‘disappointed’.

  *****

  Marcus felt the power of the freshening wind on his exposed neck. He watched the low waves breaking on the sea wall, slapping gently against the red stone, more a caress than an act of chastisement. The relentless power of the tides was an appropriate backdrop to his mood. A constant force, every morning, every night, without fail, nothing could stand in its way.

  The ragged line of white foam frothed and surged before its fading power was overtaken by the next wave. Hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans, whistling tunelessly, he walked down the concrete ramp of the slipway, glancing at the flotsam bobbing on the surface of the water. The sight cheered him for reasons he couldn’t immediately discern. He flicked a stray pebble with a nudge of his foot into the water, the ripples expanding as far as the jetty.

  In the far distance, church bells rang. He frowned at the disruption to his reverie.

  At his trial the woman who’d visited him in prison, had never taken her eyes off him, projecting her hatred across the courtroom. Killing her would be a pleasure. Over the course of the past few days, he’d watched the woman and her daughter from a distance, the two of them always touching, laughing together. The woman’s daughter was more precious to her than her own life. He was about to make her regret that weakness.

  *****

  Donna flicked at her hair, a savage spiky crop with a bleached fringe, lightly gelled, glanced at her watch, frowned and headed for the door. According to the watch, it was only twenty past nine, but she’d learned not to rely on it as gospel. It needed cleaning, and probably repairing, but it had been her Dad’s and she couldn’t bear to be parted from it. With her lifestyle, twenty minutes either way was good enough. Her employer wouldn’t agree, but she couldn’t think of a single subject on which she and Mister Roper would be in agreement – a state of affairs that suited her just fine.

  As Donna pushed open the heavy door to the meeting room all conversation stopped. The Senior Partners in their leather wingback chairs were in front of her. Dexter at least appeared pleased at her arrival, but Roper, flanked on the other side by his sister, Martha, looked stern and, as promised, disappointed. Andy, the other Associate, smirked with the righteous air of one who’d arrived bright and early this morning.

  "Sorry," Donna said, quickly taking her seat, conscious of being the unwanted centre of attention.

  Roper looked away dismissively, but said nothing. Bad news. After the meeting she could expect a private bollocking.

  "Mister Dexter," Roper said pompously, "Perhaps you would be good enough to continue."

  Dexter shuffled the papers in his lap and squinted through the reading glasses he’d been promising to upgrade for three months.

  Donna managed to catch Andy’s attention, smiling ruefully at his gesture of a finger drawn across the throat. Andy dressed with the classic simplicity of those fortunate souls who don’t need to try too hard. No doubt about it, he was drop-dead gorgeous. Think of Brad Pitt on a good day, perhaps even a young Paul Newman. Donna ruminated for the umpteenth time on the unfairness of her continued single status while Andy preferred to cruise the Dock Road for handsome sailors.

  Dexter continued to give his weekly overview of the cases in hand. All except Roper were well aware how jealously Dexter guarded the demarcation of roles whereby he concentrated on actual cases and Roper dealt with the rest of the crap. Dexter may have imagined he was keeping his thoughts private, but his opinion of his business partner was clear for all to see. Dexter had been headhunted by Roper while in the last months of his police career and had been glad enough at the time for the opportunity to carry on with the work he knew best. Roper badly needed his expertise, his contacts and the name of an impressively senior former policeman to put on the headed notepaper.

  Dexter was in full flow, discussing a case referred by an insurance company which found itself facing a huge compensation payout to a man who suffered a minor road accident and yet received injuries so serious as to render him permanently incapable of work. The fact the man’s son was driving the only other vehicle involved, an old Vauxhall one step away from the scrap yard, was sufficient reason to refer the case for investigation, but nothing had arisen so far to cast doubt on the man’s injuries. "He’s working the system," Dexter declared. "I’m sure of it; never mind what his doctor says."

  "That’s the sort of thing I used to find fascinating," Roper said. "A real battle of wits. In my career as a Warrant Officer I once had to observe a bent quartermaster who looked both ways every ten seconds. The amount of stock that had gone missing from the stores made it a certainty he was behind some racket or other, but no one had been able to prove a thing. I saw the problem straight away. Impossible to watch his quarters without him clocking me, I solved it by parking a Ford Zodiac at dead of night in the street outside. I put a cardboard box on the back seat. A ‘fridge carton I think it was. He saw the car, every time he went out, by the second day he’d accepted it as part of the furniture and become careless." Roper scanned the room, readying himself for the punch line that would inevitably reveal him as a genius. "Of course, what he didn’t realise was I was inside the cardboard box, watching him through a peephole. He thought himself safe and started moving his stolen property out of the house. His face when I burst out of that box and arrested him, never seen anything like it."

  There was a contemplative silence as Roper finished his narrative. Andy cleared his throat noisily. "How long were you in the box?" he asked.

  "Three days," Roper replied. Quiet reigned once more. Donna tried to imagine the necessary sanitary arrangements, and then wished she hadn’t.

  "I think that concludes matters, unless…" Roper said, glancing around the room as if daring anyone else to prolong the meeting. "Right then, back to work. Miss O’Prey, perhaps a word before you leave?"

  Donna managed a faint smile, conscious of Andy’s amused smirk, and nodded, remaining in her seat as the others filed out. Roper kept her waiting, fiddling with the unopened morning post on his desk and making neat piles of similarly sized envelopes.

  "Sorry about being late," Donna began, hoping to forestall the inevitable. Roper waved a hand in dismissal. "Car problem, wasn’t it? Ah well, these things happen. Make sure and get yourself mobile as soon as possible. Can’t have my Associates relying on a taxi service for transport." Donna blinked. If that was the expected bollocking, perhaps she’d be late more often.

  Roper continued to fuss with his desk, arranging everything with military precision. A jutting beak of a nose, sharp chin and deep-set eyes gave him the appearance of a living skull. One glance at those staring eyes was enough to confirm Roper as a man burning with missionary zeal. Wide angular shoulders filled out his suit jacket, but
it hung loosely to a narrow waist. Either he’d lost weight since buying this jacket or he’d bought it in a very dim light. His gleaming shoes never bore a blemish. Perhaps he wore a new pair every day. Hair and moustache clipped and combed to parade ground perfection, a few red veins in his shiny cheeks the only deviation from perfect grooming.

  Donna had never entered the inner sanctum that was Roper’s apartment at the rear of the house, but could imagine the immaculate nature of the surroundings. Never a cup left unwashed on the Roper draining board. Anal Retentive with a capital Arse. At the thought a smirk sprung to her lips.

  "Something amusing you, Miss O’Prey?" Donna shook her head, composing her features into the required state of rapt attention. God, he misses nothing.

  "I’m expecting a client shortly, Miss O’Prey. Might be suitable for you. Perhaps you’d like to sit in, meet the clients face to face?" Donna stared in astonishment; this was a new development. Could she dare to hope that Roper was beginning to regard her as something more than the office junior at last?

  His next words were not quite so promising. "You’re the most local, the clients live in West Kirby, and it’s only a Mickey Mouse job so shouldn’t tie you up for too long – quick look round, full report, and on to something more rewarding."

  The head of R and D Security was the kind of man for whom the word workaholic was invented. Up before any self-respecting lark had even considered peeking out from its one hundred percent pure down duvet, first to arrive at his desk, and the last to go round switching off the office lights in the evening. He lived, ate and slept the job. Not that he seemed to sleep very often.

  Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher, the twin Demigods at whose altar he worshipped, were reputed to need only four hours of sleep a night. Roper probably thought four hours excessive. When Dexter once mentioned Roper's first name, Donna felt a frisson of shock; she'd never even considered the possibility he had a first name.