by Maggie James
‘No wonder she’s always despised you so much.’ Lori spits out the words.
‘Ah, babe. I’ve waited seventeen years for this. You were cute as a kid, with that smile that always got me hard. You don’t remember me, do you?’ He grins. ‘Can’t think why I didn’t track you down sooner. My only regret is that your mother never saw us together. I’m sure it would have brought back fond memories.’
‘You bastard,’ Lori grinds out.
‘Now Dana’s on the mend, from what you tell me. That’s why you’re here tonight. It’s time her life took a turn for the worse.’
Across the room, from the depths of her bag, Lori’s phone trills. It’s the second time it’s rung. The first time, Ross Reynolds didn’t even acknowledge it. This time he glances towards the sound.
‘If that’s my sister, you’ll be in a morgue when she next sees you,’ he says.
The blow, when it comes, knocks him sideways. Lori’s heel catches him above his Adam’s apple, her weight solidly behind it as her foot lashes out. A groan of pain issues from his throat, his eyes crazed with fury, before his hand grasps her ankle, pulling her off-centre. Lori goes down hard, her shoulder striking the wooden table, the pain sharp and terrible. She crumples, a cry of anguish tearing from her lips, as her body thwacks against the floor. The iron grip of Ross’s fist is tight around her neck.
He’s upon her, fury sparking in those inhuman eyes, his intent clear, and Lori thinks: this is how I’ll die, right here, right now, the same way Jessie did. She has one consolation: at least he never raped her first. His hands grab her throat, begin to squeeze her larynx. The rage in his face is terrifying. Her knees scrabble, seeking to press upwards into his groin, but he’s anticipated that, moving to straddle her, pinning her to the cold floor. Then a bang! startles both of them as the door bursts open and slams back on its hinges.
Ross Reynolds’s head snaps around. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
Aiden’s across the floor, adrenaline fuelling his muscles as he yanks Ross off Lori. Without hesitating, he lands a cracking punch on her attacker’s jaw, causing him to hit the floor. While down, though, Ross scores a vicious kick on Aiden’s ankle, and he hisses with pain. Before Ross can get up, however, Lori’s standing over him; with the full force of her weight, she stamps her heel into his groin, ripping an agonised howl from his throat. Then she runs towards the small door in the corner, the exit nearest to her, tugging the handle to open it. Aiden follows, wincing at the pain from his kicked ankle. As he slams the door behind them, tortured groans reach his ears.
In front of him, Lori stumbles, almost loses her balance.
‘Stairs,’ she hisses. The darkness envelopes them in an inky shroud. Lori and Aiden ascend the steps, rounding a bend at the top, before entering a corridor. Aiden’s fingers touch glossy ridges: more door frames. The corridor must run parallel to the one he inched along earlier, he reasons, in which case they’re heading back the way he came. If he’s right, there should be a turn towards the exit soon.
Noises from below. A howl of rage, followed by a door opening. A gasp of panic from Lori.
‘Run,’ Aiden says, although hobbling is the best he can do, given his injured ankle. He grits his teeth, tries to ignore the pain.
Seconds later Lori hurtles into a wall, sending Aiden piling into the back of her, an oof! tearing from his mouth. Too late he remembers the mobiles in his pocket, the light they provide. Shit. They’ve reached a dead end, with no access to the front exit this side of the building. Ross Reynolds is close, too close, and Aiden acts on instinct once he’s re-activated the torch function on his phone; he grabs Lori’s hand and they head to the closest door, which he yanks open. Then he pulls her through and slams it behind him. Once inside, he locates a light switch, flicking it on.
The room is large, presumably once an open-plan office, long deserted and heaped with rubbish. Aiden’s eyes hunt for possible weapons. To their left is a row of windows, their tattered cloth blinds pulled halfway, the glass grubby and unwashed. To the right is a row of wooden desks, all piled to the ceiling with cardboard storage boxes, along with stacks of paper and old phone directories. The top drawer of the nearest one is open, revealing a plastic tub filled with staples, rubber bands, marker pens, a yellow cigarette lighter. More boxes line the wall under the windows, allowing only a narrow gap to access the back of the large space. Another desk, its top bare, sits nearer the entrance, in front of the others to their immediate right.
Aiden thinks through their options. Which aren’t many. His damaged ankle won’t bear his weight for long if they have to make a run for it. Also, Lori looks pale and unwell. She’s had one hell of an evening, after all. How much fight, if any, does she have left?
His eyes flick to the cigarette lighter.
An idea surfaces, a way of escaping this maniac.
It’ll be dangerous, though. Aiden licks his dry lips, breathes in deeply. Then he snaps off the light, relying on memory to guide him to the nearby desk, dragging it across the doorway, its size and weight sufficient to block it. As a barrier, it won’t hold for long, but it’ll do for now.
Ross Reynolds has reached the other side of the door, his hands grappling with the handle. ‘Bitch!’ he screams. ‘I’ll make you suffer for this, Lori. You and that prick you’re with.’
Aiden seizes Lori’s wrist, pulls her to behind where the door will open once Ross breaks through. Already a small gap, an inch in width, is showing, and as Ross shoves harder, the inch becomes two, then four, its progress slowed by the table legs dragging against the carpet tiles. Aiden leans into Lori, brings his lips to where he judges her ear must be.
‘Stay silent,’ he whispers. ‘And get ready to run.’
From what little moonlight shows through the filthy window, Aiden sees the table shift another inch; it won’t hold much longer. Ross gives another furious push, sufficient to topple the table, which crashes over, its legs in the air. This allows him to shove open the door, forcing it in front of Aiden’s face, rendering him and Lori invisible.
Aiden’s right hand curls around the cigarette lighter that’s now in his palm.
His breath stills in his chest. Lori’s does too, he guesses, seeing as she’s so silent.
Aiden pictures the room as Ross must see it. A row of desks, all piled high with junk, offering a hiding place, possibly concealing another exit. The obvious move is to skirt around them to access what’s behind, through the narrow gap. And that’s what Ross does. Aiden’s left hand gropes in the dark, seeking Lori’s, so they can get the hell out of here.
First, though, he has to ensure their safe exit.
His thumb flicks against the wheel of the cigarette lighter. A burst of flame illuminates the room for a nanosecond before he holds the lighter against the stacks of paper nestled by the cardboard boxes on the central desk. They’re old, dry and dusty, meaning they ignite instantly; ribbons of flame shoot upward, to the left, to the right, burning everything in their path, charring the wood beneath them. With lightning speed, Aiden touches the lighter to everything within reach. From behind the inferno, Ross twists round in surprise; at the same time, Aiden holds the lighter to the tattered blinds. They ignite at once, a fiery tornado devouring the old cloth. The gap is small, and the twin blazes unite over it, a riot of orange and yellow, sealing shut Ross’s exit once Aiden sets fire to the storage boxes under the window. He’s trapped, although the room is so large he has enough space to remain behind the fire without getting burned. As the blaze takes hold, Lori emits a strangled cry of terror.
Now, Aiden thinks. He moves through the open doorway, dragging her with him, the light from the flames illuminating the corridor. Pain stabs through his injured ankle, but what’s more alarming is the way his airways are closing over, rendering breathing increasingly difficult. They run back the way they came, down the stairs into the room below, out of its door and along the parallel corridor, their breath noisy and harsh. Up the stairs, round the bend to the last set of s
tairs, moonlight ahead of them, shining through the door Aiden left open when he entered the building. No sounds behind them, no pounding of feet on the stairs, only banging and crashing from somewhere within the building, along with muffled shouts.
They run to where Aiden’s Golf awaits. Once he’s behind the wheel, he executes a hasty manoeuvre, bringing the car alongside the main door to block the exit.
‘The door opens outward,’ he explains. The words crawl from his throat with difficulty. In his chest, an iron fist is squeezing his lungs. ‘No idea how long that fire will last with limited fuel to sustain it. No way is that bastard going to escape.’
‘Call the police,’ Lori urges.
Aiden nods, reaching for his mobile. He never places the call, though. Instead, his breathing grows even more ragged; his hands clutch at his chest in panic. A hacking cough issues from his throat. From experience, he knows his face will be pale and sweaty. He fights for breath, all the while feeling his airways constrict, forcing fear into every cell in his body.
‘Aiden?’ Lori says, terror in her voice.
After that, he doesn’t remember much, just his frenzied attempts to drag air into his tortured lungs. Lori’s hands frantically searching his pockets. Her gasp of relief as she locates his inhaler. Her pleas for him to stay calm as she forces it into his mouth. His agonised gulps as he draws the contents deep into his lungs. It helps, but not enough, leaving Aiden wrung out, exhausted, still barely able to breathe. His world reduces to this moment, to the sheer effort required to inhale. Only a few things penetrate the haze surrounding him. Lori’s voice as she calls 999. The flashing blue lights that follow, after a wait that seems to last forever. Police, a fire crew, along with an ambulance. Mostly, though, all he can focus on is the vice-like grip crushing his lungs.
Chapter 22
CONFESSION
‘Will he be all right?’ Dana asks, worry etched into her expression. Beside her, Lori chews her lip, equally concerned. She’s tired, too; it’s now the early hours of the morning. On the other side of the hospital doors, through the glass, she can see Aiden lying in bed. His face is stripped of colour, his fingers twisting the sheet that’s covering him.
‘From what the senior staff nurse has told me, yes. They’re keeping him under observation, just to make sure he’s OK. God, Mum, he scared me. He was in a terrible state; he couldn’t talk, could barely breathe. Seems the fight he put up, running with me to safety, then gulping in the cold night air – all the stress triggered a severe asthma attack.’
Dana doesn’t reply, merely nodding, tears in her eyes. The night’s been harrowing for her too; Lori gets that. She almost lost her remaining daughter, and now her son’s in hospital. Then Dana envelopes her in a fierce hug. They remain that way for a long, sweet moment before her mother pulls back, framing Lori’s face in her hands, tears spilling from her eyes. Her pallor shocks Lori, yet despite her obvious exhaustion, an ecstatic glow radiates from Dana.
‘Thank God,’ her mother says. Two words, yet they convey a world of meaning. Her smile could light Las Vegas for a month. ‘My darling,’ she says. ‘You’re safe now. Such an incredible relief.’
Lori nods, choking back a sob. ‘You tried to warn me,’ she says. ‘But I didn’t listen.’
‘It’s my fault,’ Dana says. ‘I should have told you about your uncle. The truth was so ugly, though.’ Her fingers trail over the bruises on Lori’s cheeks, her temple, the red marks on her throat. ‘That bastard,’ she says. ‘He hurt you.’
‘I’m OK, Mum. Really. A mild concussion, that’s all. And a sore shoulder.’
‘I’ve called your father,’ Dana says. ‘He’s in Singapore; the flights are booked solid but he’s getting the first available seat to Heathrow.’
Lori smiles. That’s good.
‘Can you talk about it?’ Dana asks.
‘I’ll try.’ Her mother already knows the gist of it, kept informed by DC Campbell once the police got involved. But not the full horror of what happened.
‘I thought I’d die,’ she tells Dana. ‘In that filthy warehouse, the life choked out of me by my own uncle. A man I’ve slept with, for God’s sake. A thousand showers wouldn’t make me feel clean.’ She shivers with revulsion.
It’s then Lori cracks. The horror of last night slams into her with the force of a tidal wave, causing her legs to collapse under her as she sinks to the floor. Thick choking sobs fill her throat, clog her nostrils with snot. She’s vaguely aware of Dana helping her to her feet, guiding her to a nearby waiting room. Once inside, her mother sits her down, her arms tight around her daughter, pressing her head against her shoulder.
‘My precious girl,’ she murmurs into Lori’s hair. ‘I’ve not been much of a mother to you recently. Let me be one now.’
So Lori does. She cries for what seems like a century. When she eventually hiccups to a halt, her head aches, her eyes are sore, but she feels lighter, cleansed. As though she’s purged a small part of the hurt inside.
‘He played me for the sucker I was,’ she says. ‘I trusted him completely.’
Dana nods. ‘You’ll understand now why I didn’t want you to find him. The reason I kept you and Jessie from him all those years.’
‘What happened between you two?’
So Dana tells her the ugly truth. Ross’s hand squeezing her breast, his insinuations about Lori, the final blow that was Kelly Somers. When she finishes, Lori’s silent, absorbing what Dana’s told her.
‘He murdered Jessie,’ she says. ‘Admitted it; even gloried in it. Aiden heard him too. He recorded most of it on his phone.’
Dana nods. ‘With a pervert like Ross, I’m betting Jessie’s rape and murder aren’t the only crimes he’s committed since molesting Kelly Somers. I think I always knew. That one day he’d kill somebody, I mean. From what you say, I was to be his final target. It was him, setting all those fires. Fitting that he ended up trapped by one, until the emergency services arrived.’
‘The police have him in custody, Mum. They’ll take a full statement from me later, also from Aiden once he’s discharged. I’ve already told them how he abducted me. As well as him admitting to murdering Jessie, to framing Spencer, to being Bristol’s arsonist. They’ve seen the bruises where he tried to kill me.’
Dana shudders. ‘Let’s hope it’s sufficient to keep the bastard locked up until the police search his place. There must be something that backs up the statements from you and Aiden, the recordings he made. Enough to convince them to bring charges against him.’
Took her knickers as a souvenir. Lori smiles. ‘I think there will be,’ she says.
When Lori finally arrives home later that day, escorted by the police after giving a formal statement, Dana gives her a hug that threatens to crack every rib she possesses. Then she takes her daughter’s hand; together they go into the living room. To Lori’s surprise, Jake Hamilton’s standing by the window.
‘You’re back,’ he says. His broad smile conveys his relief.
‘Aiden texted me,’ Dana says. ‘Said he’d been discharged, that he’s fine, that he’s about to give a statement to the police.’ She sits on the sofa, pulling Lori down beside her. Jake takes the space next to Dana.
‘I’m glad you’re safe,’ he says. ‘Your mother couldn’t stand losing you as well.’
Lori nods. She notes the way Jake’s arm is tight around Dana’s shoulders. A hint at new beginnings for them, perhaps.
‘Spencer,’ she says. ‘What will happen to him?’
‘I’ve been talking to the police about that,’ Jake replies. Beside him, Dana fidgets nervously, clearly uneasy around this topic. ‘Thanks to you and Aiden, they now have an explanation for Spencer’s DNA being under Jessie’s nails. I’ll ask his lawyer to appeal against the custodial order, based on the new evidence that’s emerged.’
Dana grimaces. ‘I don’t imagine he’ll ever forgive me. I said such harsh things. I’m not sure we’ll ever be comfortable around each other.’
&nbs
p; ‘Don’t underestimate him,’ Lori says. ‘He’s a decent guy, once you dig beneath the surface.’
Much later, alone in her bedroom, Lori stares at the ceiling, her brain looping through the previous night. Something’s troubling her. She can’t make a piece of the puzzle fit, no matter how hard she tries. Lori tells herself she must be mistaken. Except she knows what she saw.
She reaches for her mobile. Time to talk to Aiden. With any luck, he’ll be home by now.
He answers on the first ring. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘How’s it going?’
Lori doesn’t prevaricate. ‘Can I come over?’
They make arrangements, then Lori heads downstairs, her jacket over her arm. When she reaches the hallway, she calls to her mother. ‘Mum? I’m going to see Aiden. Not sure when I’ll be back.’
Dana appears from the kitchen, worry written across her face. ‘I can’t stop you,’ she says. ‘Call me when you arrive, though. So I know you’re safe.’
Lori laughs, but understands. ‘OK, mother hen.’
Within ten minutes, she’s at the house Aiden shares with Damon Quinn, ringing the bell. When he answers, she’s relieved to see he’s pale, but otherwise OK. He ushers her inside, after a fierce hug. ‘I’ll get us a couple of ciders,’ he says. ‘We could both use one.’
Lori settles into the bean bag, a can of Thatchers in her hand. Aiden sits opposite her on the sofa, staring at the livid bruises on Lori’s neck. ‘That bastard,’ he says. ‘You sure you’re OK?’