Be My Girl

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘You know. Day to day. Coffee?’

  Ed pulled out a chair from under the small circular glass table and sat down.

  Jeannie filled the vintage espresso maker. ‘I’ve got this new Kenyan blend.’

  Ed watched her shuffle across the kitchen; back stooped, hair all grey streaks, a once beautiful woman now looking 30 years older than she should. ‘Sounds nice. So how’s things?’

  Jeannie closed the door and sat down. ‘No change,’ she said, shaking her head. |’She doesn’t go out. She won’t go back to college. She just sits in her room all day watching TV.’

  ‘Any joy with the counselling?’

  Jeannie shook her head, her eyes dulled by stress and fatigue.

  ‘She won’t go. Says she would have to talk about it and, well, she just can’t. God knows what’s going on in her head.’

  Ed rubbed her arm.

  Jeannie scratched her cheek and shouted: ‘Jess! Uncle Ed’s here.’

  Ed gulped when his niece appeared at the doorway. The tops of her arms were as thin as her wrists. Her thighs looked like her calves. The long glossy hair was gone, replaced by short brown greasy tufts. A blind hairdresser with blunt scissors would have done a better job.

  ‘Uncle Ed’s brought you a present.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jess said, staring at the floor.

  Ed remained in his seat, straining to hear a voice that was barely a whisper.

  ‘Do you want to open it now?’ her mother asked.

  ‘No, I’ll wait ‘til Wednesday. Thanks Uncle Ed.’

  Jess turned and walked away, shoulders hunched, head bowed.

  Ed licked the inside of his mouth. No hugs, no excitement in her eyes or voice.

  Jeannie handed him a coffee. ‘It breaks my heart.’

  ‘Mine too. Time’s a great healer. We’re all here for her.’

  Pointless words, Ed knew. He wished he was somewhere else, wished he was in the prison cell with that bastard. Watching Jeannie’s tears roll down her gaunt face, he vowed to come face to face with the shit-bag one day, and words would be the last thing on his mind.

  Danielle Banks pulled into her bay on the Conifers Estate car park. Stocktaking was never easy and never quick. She sighed as she looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. 7.30pm. The Tarmac already had that pre-frost damp sheen. She slammed the door and her body shuddered in the sudden cold, her ears, nose and fingers numbed in seconds.

  She pressed the remote key of the metallic black Mini Cooper S and dashed to her front door, desperate to escape the night.

  She darted through the door and turned on the lights, immediately aware that the flat was colder than usual. Her cheeks tingled at a fresh flow of chilled air coming from the kitchen. Had she forgotten to close the kitchen door properly this morning? Where was the draught coming from? Her stomach had the sickening feeling she always got in a fast-falling elevator. Her heart pounded in her chest. She never left a window open, she was on the ground floor, and besides, it was February. Pull yourself together Danielle, are you really so pathetic? Taking her mobile from her coat pocket, her index finger pressed nine three times then rested on the green phone icon. Her right foot kicked the kitchen door open. She lurched towards the wall switch and flicked on the lights. ‘Bastard!’ she screamed, bringing her clenched fists up to her chest.

  Chapter Two

  Danielle stared at the broken window over the kitchen bench. Was he ever going to let her get on with her life?

  Tiptoeing towards the bedroom, her breathing shallow and fast, she flung open the door and hit the light switch. Her eyes darted around the room. Nothing.

  Danielle walked unsteadily back to the kitchen, her knees trembling and the palm of one hand on the wall for support. What had she done so wrong to deserve this? She put the mobile on to the bench and sat down on a wooden high stool, leaning forward to rest her head on her folded arms.

  How often had she sat like this since moving in? Maybe her mother was right. What had been the rush to buy a flat? At least at her parents’ she would have company, but then again, she couldn’t really unload to her mother, a woman who met her husband when she was 16. What did she know about broken relationships?

  How long had she kept her head buried in her arms? A minute? Ten? When she did look up, her reddened eyes focussed on a black-and-white photograph hanging on the wall. The photograph showed happier times, Danielle with her three lifelong girlfriends laughing on a night out, all with a drink in their hands. She couldn’t recall now who had taken the photograph, but she could remember that it was the week before Duncan assaulted her. As she wiped her eyes, she studied the picture more closely than she had ever done before. Were her clothes too revealing? Was she wearing too much make-up? Were her friends such bad people? And really, what was it with men like Duncan? At first he had been very attentive, always complimenting her clothes and body, but that changed when they moved in together.

  ‘Fucking cock tease! Where d’you think you’re going dressed like that? Off out with the slags again? Stick a sign round your neck telling every fucker you’re gagging for it.’

  There had been so much abuse, so many insults and put downs, she couldn’t even begin to recollect them all.

  Why is it the very thing that attracts them to you in the first place is the thing they most want to change?

  The photograph reminded her that it was those same girlfriends who told her Duncan was suffocating, that he was jealous and too possessive. He had a temper, too, and been in a few drunken fights in the town centre. She had laughed off the warnings. How wrong she was and how she had paid the price…

  He had been drinking in the house all afternoon. She was dressed, ready to go out with friends, when he started the argument, asking her over and over to stay at home. She tried to reason with him…it was just a girls’ night out; he had nothing to be jealous about. His voice had grown louder and louder until he was screaming obscenities, his nose almost touching hers and eyes blazing with rage. Even now she could smell the lager on his breath. As she turned to walk out of the front door, he had grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards him, spinning her around at the same time. The punch to her cheek had sent her staggering to the floor. Danielle had never been hit in her life and now the memory of the fierce burning sensation in her cheek, that dizzy feeling in her head, sent bile rising in her throat. Had she really seen stars? She recalled his apologies as she stumbled away, tears streaming down her face. Turning around hadn’t been an option.

  Danielle stared again at the photograph and took a deep breath. Picking up the pieces of shattered glass littered across the windowsill and the kitchen bench, she dropped them in the stainless steel pedal bin, concentrating on not cutting herself. She took a newspaper off the glassed-topped coffee table and used five sheets together to cover the window, sticking Sellotape along the sides of the paper and on to the window frame. She liked the Sunday Times and it always took her a week to read. It was also, she realised, much easier covering the broken window with a ‘broadsheet’ than it would have been with a ‘tabloid’. And anyway, she had never liked The Sun.

  Satisfied the newspaper was blocking out the draught, Danielle stepped back and admired her makeshift repair.

  ‘Dickhead,’ she thought as an image of Duncan flashed again in her head.

  Her ground floor flat had both a front and back door. She re-checked the locks - how many more times, Danielle? He might be a dickhead, but he wouldn’t break in - and made sure the windows were safely shut.

  Telephoning her parents would resolve nothing. They would make a fuss and come straight to the flat. The bright green lights on the microwave showed 8.04pm.

  In the bedroom, she removed her work clothes and put on a bright yellow vest top and a pair of lemon shorts. The shower could wait until morning. Back downstairs, she flopped on to the floral printed sofa, flicked on the TV and curled her legs underneath her. She scrolled the directory in her mobile and ordered a ‘Hot and Spicy Beef Pizza’ from
Romeo’s.

  The loud knock at the door 20 minutes later made her jump, the glass just big enough to stop the white wine spilling out of it. She opened the door and her heart sank. Shit…that creep again.

  The guy, in his early 20s, had scruffy, matted blond hair and was such a skinny six-footer, he could have taken part in one of those ‘Mr Muscle’ adverts.

  He made no effort to hide the lewd look in his eyes and when he licked his lips, she could see his yellowing teeth. The raw emotion of the last hour exploded from her voice. ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’

  Jerking his head, he glued his eyes to the ground, cheeks on fire, feeling the redness spreading to his neck. She grabbed the box off him and threw a £10 note on to the path. She didn’t wait for her change.

  His black training shoes made minimal contact with the ground as he rushed back to the safety of the white Ford Fiesta van, the noise of her slamming door vibrating in his ears. He jumped into the driver’s seat and grabbed the steering wheel with both hands. He shook it backwards and forwards, so hard it looked like he was trying to snap it from the steering column. ‘Bitch!’ he screamed, but as her image flashed into his mind, he had to admit that she was a good-looking bitch. His hands loosened their grip as he focussed on her long brown hair, beautiful brown eyes and a body made in heaven for men to drool over; long, slender legs, small waist and big tits, which he’s noticed were straining against that yellow top. What he would do to her given the chance. Not that the likes of her would ever look at the likes of him.

  He licked his lips again as he remembered going there about three weeks ago with a pizza. There was something wrong with the front door that night, so she shouted he should go to the back but after she opened the back door, she had to go and fetch her purse. He recalled the rush of excitement when he saw the washing basket near the kitchen door, a white thong on top of a pile of clothes. Without a second’s hesitation, he had stepped inside, reached across to the basket and by the time she was handing him the money, the thong was safely inside his trouser pocket.

  How many times since that night had he enjoyed it in the privacy of his room? The memory was arousing him. He remembered the smell – her smell – and the pleasure he felt as he imagined her wearing the thong or, better still, slowly taking it off. He had been sad to finally burn it but all good things… he smiled. He hoped to get the chance to steal another one, perhaps from her washing line. Then again, that would mean it was clean and that wouldn’t be quite the same.

  Danielle drank one more glass of wine, ate the pizza, watched a film and was in bed by 11.15. Her friends were coming tomorrow. They would chill together, go out for Sunday lunch, and have a couple of bottles of wine. Climbing into bed, a smile had formed across her face. She had dealt with the broken window and tomorrow would be a good day. She was an independent young woman who deserved to enjoy herself. No man, Duncan or otherwise, was going to ruin her life.

  Sunday

  He continually scanned the streets and pathways as he jogged to the house. Complacency at this stage would be disastrous. Potential witnesses were everywhere; clubbers heading home; early morning starters on their way to work; and, of course, patrolling police officers. He saw and heard nothing, although he noticed a light shining downstairs in the house opposite hers. He guessed it was about 3.30am.

  He slowed to a walking pace, looked around once more, and then sprinted to the back door. He hunched down and shuffled towards the window, a huge grin spreading across his face as he saw the repair.

  The knife sliced through the newspaper without making a sound. Intelligent as well as gorgeous, he thought as he let the newspaper fall to the ground. He climbed through the window and crouched on the kitchen bench, eyes straining for anything he could knock over. Lowering himself to the floor, he stood still, senses drum-skin tight, ears straining for any sound, eyes seeking any movement in the darkness. He was doing his best to control his breathing – long, slow, quiet breaths – but his heart was beating so fast, he feared she would hear it. Satisfied there was no movement, and with his vision adjusted, he turned on his infra-red pencil torch, the type sailors use to look at charts in the dark. Licking his dry lips, his tongue inadvertently touched the woollen material of the full-frontal ski mask and he grimaced. He found the key on the kitchen bench and used it to unlock the back door. Taking small steps, stopping after each one, he entered the living room and shone the torch at the front door. He exhaled slowly as he saw the key in the lock. Turning it slowly, he unlocked the door. He froze on the spot. The click of the lock opening sounded like a gunshot. There were only two other doors in the flat – one would be the bathroom, one her bedroom. The ski mask didn’t stop his nostrils smelling that faint feminine smell, a smell of light perfume layers and faded flowers. He was now in a state of high sexual arousal. He was already hard. He opened her bedroom door and crept inside. She was fast asleep, her long dark hair lying partially across the smooth white skin of her face. He stood at the side of her bed next to her sleeping body and inhaled, straining to smell her through the mask. He wanted her – ached for her – but he needed to take his time, not rush and ruin something this special. After all, he had waited patiently for his moment. Was this how a boyfriend returning from a night out felt? Just climbing into bed for a cuddle would be bliss. He turned off the torch, put it in his pocket, and opened the locking blade on his Swiss Army knife.

  Chapter Three

  The black Nike training shoes made a rhythmical beat as he pounded the streets an hour later. The mask was rolled up away from his face, transformed into an innocent woollen hat. He sucked in the cold air and watched his breath as he exhaled. The small backpack needed continual adjustment as it slipped and slithered on the shiny material of the black tracksuit. His ears were straining, working overtime to pick up the sound of anything that might spell danger. Safety and anonymity were within reach. Thinking of home caused his memory to conjure up an image of the Roberts radio. He raised his arm like a sportsman signalling a victory to the crowd. What would you make of that, radio bitch? He chuckled at the thought of referring to her as Mrs Roberts.

  On the bed, motionless, her wide eyes were staring at a fixed point on the ceiling. Not exactly daddy’s little princess now, are you, Danielle? No more than a vessel for someone else’s sexual pleasure, one step up from those disgusting blow-up dolls. A living inflatable empty of any humanity, that’s all she was. A small pool of excreta gave a clammy, uncomfortable sensation around the small of her back.

  His voice had been matter-of-fact but menacing as he was leaving, the order easy to believe.

  ‘Don’t move for 20 minutes. Someone’s watching.’

  Had 20 minutes passed? Was the single guy across the road his accomplice? Was it him who was watching her movements? The wetness of the tears on her cheeks did nothing to bring her back to her senses. She had brought this on herself. Had she stayed with her parents after she split from Duncan, this would never have happened.

  A dull fire burned through parts of her body like the dying embers of a barbecue. Her breasts throbbed from his roughness in those coarse gloves. Penetrating her had left her swollen and tender. The sound of his breathing getting quicker and quicker would live with her forever.

  How long had he lain there after he finally climbed off her? What had he been saying to her as he caressed her face? Why had he opened her handbag? What had he done to her phone? Questions crowded into her memory, yet there were so many blanks.

  ‘What if he’s still in here?’ her brain screamed. ‘Get out, Danielle! Get out!’ She jumped out of bed, ran from the flat, screaming, and hammered on the windows of the first flats she reached. Any window. Any door. Anyone would do.

  He leaned his back against the side door to the integral garage and took long, deep breaths. Hidden from prying eyes by the tall leylandii shrubs, his heart rate began to slow. A thread of remorse was already uncoiling in his head but he had enjoyed her and this wasn’t the time for reflection. Enteri
ng the garage, he walked on to the double bed sheet he had carefully laid down before leaving. He removed his gloves and dropped them on to it before taking off the hat. As it nestled next to the gloves, he wiped his face and placed the backpack on the floor beside the sheet. The backpack had never come into contact with her, and the carrier bag he had strategically placed inside would make sure nothing would contaminate its interior.

  He took a clear sandwich bag from his trouser pocket, held it towards the light, and examined its contents; a used condom, its torn wrapper, and a pool of seminal fluid.

  Looking made him stir – an involuntary response and movement – and his body shuddered. Understanding the need for total concentration, he bent down and placed the clear plastic bag on the sheet, blocking all images of her from his mind. He stood up, stretched, and allowed himself a smile. He had planned for every eventually. If he was seen on the streets, he was just another jogger. How many joggers wore hats and gloves?

  In the unlikely event the police stopped him, they might search his backpack and find the three building bricks.

  ‘Leg strengthening exercises. Stamina building. Don’t the military do it?’

  Only a more thorough search of the bag would reveal two small pieces of rope, a torch and a red Swiss Army knife.

  ‘Sorry officer. They’re from a previous camping trip. I’ve been looking for that knife. This bag hasn’t been opened for months. No need. It’s just got my running bricks in.’

  The semen-filled condom in the sandwich bag would surely raise eyebrows and suspicion, but he would say he picked it up off the street rather than leave it for a child to discover in the morning. ‘Just as well I had the sandwich bag. Disgusting people, throwing used condoms on the streets. The bag? Oh, I put my energy bar in that before I leave home for my run. I find it easier to open with my gloves on than tearing the wrapper.’