by Carla Blake
It hadn’t. Instead it had made her belligerent, and determined that no one was about to tell her she wasn’t having a good time, she had grabbed the bottle of vodka from Sam’s hand and chugged it down neat, resulting in a swift and very effective surge of alcohol that not only made her feel a hell of a lot more cheerful, but also managed to convince her that dancing on the floor was deadly boring and that the only place to really strut her stuff was on the nearest table.
Sam, naturally, had thought it hilarious and urging her on, had surrounded her with a group of his mates, including the Vulcan, who taking it in turns to look up her skirt and comment on her pussy, also encouraged her to take off her top and then her bra.
The next day she had wanted to die. Especially when she’d seen the pictures on You-tube, and with a mouth that had felt like the inside of a hamster cage and a head repeatedly being hit from the inside with a sledgehammer, she’d shamefully stared at images of her own tits and vowed never to do anything so stupid again. Which was why she was struggling to comprehend what she thought she was doing now.
The concierge had clocked her, she knew he had. He’d even gone so far as to approach the big, glass doors. The first time to frown at her and the second time to glance meaningfully at his own watch before retiring back to his desk and to his newspaper.
Disdainfully, Kate had glared at him on both occasions, using the sort of look she usually reserved for traffic wardens and determined that if his appearance outside was to have any detrimental repercussions on their plans, she would not be blamed for failing to try and stop him.
Looking at her watch, she sighed heavily and then turned her back on Simon’s building, resting one hand on her hip whilst the other tapped the leather folder against her thigh. She took three steps forward, her heels clicking smartly on the paving stones, then turned and took three steps back, staring down the street.
Eventually Polly appeared at the corner and waved. Unmoved, Kate merely looked at her watch and impatiently tapped her foot, waiting, non too graciously, for Polly to catch up and ‘explain herself’.
“He’s curious.” Kate pretended to shout, pointing a finger at Polly’s chest. “Twice he’s been over to take a look.”
“Good.” Polly replied, bowing her head in mock supplication. “Now I’m going to go in and tell him you’re a famous interior designer sent over here to appraise the building with a view to refurbishing the entire lot.”
Kate shook her head and looked at her watch. “You think he’ll buy that? What if he doesn’t?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Polly said, opening her handbag and taking out her diary. “As soon as I’m in there you follow and start looking round. Act snotty. And cross. Then while I keep him talking you make straight for the lifts. There’s no way he’ll be able to stop you once you get in there.”
“Right. But what floor?”
“Not sure, but start with three. I’m sure I remember Rachel saying Simon lived on the third floor. Anyway, I’ll follow.”
“How?” Kate asked, looking up at the sky and blowing out her cheeks. “He’s not going to be happy about letting one stranger into the building. Let alone two.”
Polly shuffled her feet. “I know, but believe me by the time you’ve finished ranting and raving and stomping round that foyer, he’ll be willing to do anything to get rid of you. It won’t look good for him if a resident comes down and finds him unable to control a couple of women.”
Again Rachel wiped her hands together and cursed the warmth of the airing cupboard. If anything her palms felt greasier now than when she’d started and she wondered how long it would be before the combination of heat and her own nerves prevented her from getting a grip on the metal pole at all?
Shifting over to her left, her eyes fixed on the wooden door. She knew it intimately. The plain, wooden surface, the single screw on the left hand side securing the handle in place. The slight dent at the bottom where Simon must have kicked it. She wondered if he’d done that whilst trying to get the pole in and then discovered she didn’t care. He could kick the door to matchsticks if he wanted. She hated it. It gave her no indication from the inside whether or not Simon was about to burst in and catch her trying to escape and it provided bugger all in the way of ventilation or light. In fact the only advantage it did have was, that once she was free, all she had to do was push it open to get out.
Closing her eyes, Rachel breathed through her nose and thought back to the past. And to Polly’s shelf and to the fact that it hadn’t been the shelf itself that had snapped in half and let them down, but the bracket screwed to the wall. That had been the weak spot. The Achilles heel of DIY and that’s why their linen had ended up on the floor, because the wall had been weak and unable to support the weight. Just as it wouldn’t take the weight here.
Opening her eyes, Rachel reached up and grabbing hole of the pole as close to the bracket as she could get, she prayed to whatever deity was in charge of DIY disasters, clinked the handcuffs together, and lifted her feet.
Her whole body weight now hung from the pole. The muscles in her shoulders screaming as she tried to hang even heavier. The bandage on her backside pulling and pulling until another blister popped and liquid dribbled down the back of her thigh.
Ignoring the pain, she gritted her teeth and deliberately jiggled her body, biting her lip against the red hot needles that stabbed through her nipples when her breasts bounced and flicking sweaty hair away from her eyes as she hung on, swearing, sweating, mentally cursing Simon, the heat, the lack of air, but still holding on, her hands greasy, and slowly turning around the pole as she drew up her knees and with a final thrust of effort, used them like a piston. Yanking again and again on the metal pole, grunting and straining and turning the air blue until finally..
The metal bar ripped from the wall with a bone shuddering crunch.
And she was sliding to right, quicker than she’d been expecting. The handcuffs screeching down the pole as she ran with it and hit the square frame of the bracket, the shattered wood of the airing cupboard still fixed to it as she looped the handcuffs over the top and freed herself.
Relieved beyond measure, she couldn’t stop the tears and dropping to her knees she kissed the floor, wincing when she got a nose full of soggy, urine soaked newspaper and a nudge in the backside from the immersion heater. Standing up again, she rolled her shoulders and breathed through the discomfort, briefly considering whether to try yanking the other end of the pole free to use for a weapon, before deciding she didn’t want to risk making that much noise again – Shit! Had Simon heard?- or being left with a pole that was too heavy to weald and probably impossible to use handcuffed anyway. And if Simon got hold of it, then, well - it didn’t bear thinking about. He’d probably beat her brains out with it.
Opening the door, she luxuriated for a second in the blast of cooler air wafting over the skin, then hesitated as a floorboard creaked. Stiffening and cursing her bad luck - Simon just had to have heard that didn’t he? - she closed the door again and dropped to the ground, wondering how she could have been so stupid as to think that Simon wouldn’t hear a metal pole being ripped from the wall.
Why couldn’t he have been asleep, she fumed? She might have got away with it then. He might have thought he was dreaming. There again, it would be just like him to have still been awake and listening to the whole thing. Which would mean he was out there now, leaning against the door to the lounge and smiling that horrible grin of his, just waiting for her to poke her nose out into the hallway so he could pounce on her like some rabid monster. She’d be really screwed then, with nothing to defend herself with.
Her eyes again fell on the pole and asking herself whether she really did have the time to stand up, rip it out of the wall and then belt Simon round the chops with it before he did the same to her, she came to the conclusion that she didn’t. He would be in here before she’d even laid hands on it and besides
, how could she hope to rip the other end out of the wall without using her body weight as additional force? It was impossible.
But she still had to know if he was out there and standing up, she pressed her ear to the door and listened. Hearing nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat and the soft, almost inaudible creak of a settling floorboard.
Oh, stuff this!
She flung the door open. Her lips curling back over her teeth, her manacled hands held out in front of her, ready to claw and scratch the moment Simon stepped into view. She was bloody ready for him this time! She breathed. She was going to fight! She was going to hurt him. She was going to claw his fuckin’ eyes out!
The hallway was deserted.
And for a moment she wasn’t sure what to do. She’d been so sure he’d be out there, so positive that she was about to enter a struggle for her very life, that now that he wasn’t, she didn’t know what to do.
Breathing hard, she shut the airing cupboard door behind her. There was no point in giving Simon a heads up that she’d escaped her diminutive prison if she didn’t have to, not when she needed all the time she could get to escape.
Shivering, the hallway was cold now the heating had gone off for the night, she gingerly touched the plaster Simon had applied to her backside – good, it was still mostly on if not a little tacky - and stared at the front door.
It was, she deemed, very locked. The chain slid across, the additional keyhole, fitted beneath the main one for additional security, almost mocking her with its implication of needing a second key to open it.
Simon, it seemed, had thought of everything. But if he’d been methodical in his preparation of this extra lock , then it was highly likely he’d been equally as methodical in where he’d stored the key, and that boys and girls, was most probably the kitchen, in the cupboard above the microwave, wrapped in a tissue and stored in a pasta jar filled with fusilli. The same place that he kept all his spare keys. And if she could just get to that, then maybe she could get the hell out of here before the bastard woke up.
The kitchen floor felt cold. The boxes of dried foods Simon had so diligently brought for the lock-in still arranged on top of the counters. Bitterly she poked the nearest and hoped their presence and the disruption was driving him mad!
What had been going through his head when he’d arranged all this? It was all so weird. And she felt a bit weird herself right now as well. Like she were floating through some horrible dream, her head not quite here, her body oddly light even though she could still feel the results of his butchery pulling and tugging at her whenever she moved. Yet here she was. Living the nightmare through a veil and experiencing the horror without benefit of either a cushion to hide behind or a loving hand to clutch. Just herself. Suffering every scratch and graze and yet still now quite able to completely get her head around it. Only knowing that one day it would catch up with her, probably once she was safe in Kate’s arms and her wounds had healed and she would wake up, screaming and covered in sweat, convinced that Simon was standing over her and crying and crying. Huge, great sobs that would break her and crush her and leave her wretched with the thought that this was how it was going to be for a very long time, until not only her body, but her mind had recovered as well.
But boy, she was going to make him suffer in the meantime. The minute she was out of here she was going straight to the police to tell them every last, vicious detail, and she wasn’t going to stop until they had arrested him and thrown him into prison to rot with a load of hardened cons all desperate for a pretty boy to play with. And she wouldn’t forget his precious, bastard mates either or Phil. She’d get them all, every last one of them. Get them good for all the times they’ sat in the pub, laughing together as they waited for Simon to hand round the latest photos of her tits and regale them with how she was currently back at his, shut inside his cupboard. And Wendy. Let’s not forget her. She’d have to think of something really special for her. The bloody bitch!
The key to the second lock was exactly where she thought it would be, together with another that looked like it might open a cash box, and palming them quickly, not really needing the cash box key but knowing it would infuriate Simon if she dropped it down the sink, Rachel replaced the pasta jar with the label pointing the wrong way and then took it down again when it occurred to her that the key to her handcuffs might be in there too. It wasn’t though, and irritated that Simon hadn’t stuck to tradition, she shoved the jar back and then moved to the sink, dropping the cash box key down the drain before turning on the tap and sticking her head under the running water.
The water felt wonderful and turning the tap on still more, confident that Simon wouldn’t be able to hear the running water from inside the bedroom, Rachel allowed the icy water to wash over her hot and battered face and then slide down her parched throat.
She dried herself with a tea towel, after trying it on for size around her middle and finding it didn’t cover much of anything, and dropping it onto the counter, she turned her attention to the knife still sticking out of the toaster and contemplated arming herself.
Opening the cutlery drawer, she selected a knife with a serrated edge and running her thumb across the blade, she smiled. It felt good and sharp and confident now that if Simon did come at her, he wouldn’t get away without some damage to his precious face, she gathered up the key and tip-toed into the hallway, her bare feet making little noise on the polished floor as she scampered over to the front door and pushed the key into the lock.
Twenty Three
“God, I hate that woman sometimes.” Polly sighed, leaning against the concierge’s desk and meeting his disapproving frown with a weary smile. “Do you know how many apartments she’s decorated this month? Two! That’s all, just two. But can she manage it without a fuss? Can she hell. Twenty seven times she rang me one night to complain about this apartment in Docklands. Twenty seven times! I didn’t know whether I was awake or still dreaming come the morning and do you know what she was complaining about? Soddin’ wallpaper! Had it come in yet? Was it the right shade to go with the paint available! Like I cared at three in the bloody morning! All I wanted to do was sleep. God, she does my head in!”
“So she’s annoying.” The concierge reiterated, looking bored. “But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here?”
Actually, Polly thought to herself, I’m with you there, because I can’t quite believe we’re in here either. Ten minutes we stood outside, willing you to press those magic buttons, but would you do it? Would you hell! You just wanted us to go away didn’t you? Well too bad, because thanks to that posh git coming home from an all nighter, we got in, and now, you sour faced old git, you’re going to find out what’s it like to be outsmarted by a couple of girls.
“Yeah, well, like I said.” Polly sighed again, giving a tremendous yawn that the concierge actually moved away from. “We were sent for. Don’t know why it had to be so flippin’ early in the morning though, or why I had to come. I mean what kind of team am I going to be able to get together this early? And from where? I can’t work flippin’ miracles! But madam over there won’t see it like that. Do as I say or get fired, that’s her philosophy. “
The concierge crossed his arms. “Okay, I get your drift. It’s early. She’s a difficult woman and you’re head is on the chopping board if you don’t deliver. But deliver to who? Who are you working for?”
“Working!” Kate’s voice suddenly screeched from across the foyer. “What do you means ‘working?’ For heaven’s sake, you little man, don’t you know who I am!? I am Sophie Le Mann, European interior designer of the year. And I do not ‘work’. I design.”
“Oh you do, do you?” The concierge grumbled. “Well bully for you. I’ve still never heard of you.”
“Really? I’m not surprised?” Kate replied, raising an eyebrow. “ The people I design for are not the sort of clientele I would expect you to know. But let me ass
ure you, they include some of the wealthiest and most influential people in Europe, including the client I am due to meet this morning, so if you don’t mind, rather than having to inform him that the reason I’m delayed is because the concierge downstairs saw fit to detain me with a raft of ridiculous questions, I would like to get on.”
Polly cringed. “Told you.” She added, gathering up her handbag. “Cross Sophie Le Mann and you’re likely to loose your balls.”
“Oh, yeah?” The concierge sneered. “So what’s she got of yours then? Your left tit?”
“No.” Polly smiled. “My soul.”
“And I intend to keep it!” Kate boomed, smiling with pure venom when they both looked her way. “Now if it’s not too much trouble, Rebecca, I’d like to make a start. I pay you to be my PA remember, not to stand around chatting!”
And before either Polly or the concierge could reply, Kate pulled out her mobile phone and frantically stabbing at the buttons with a pen, stormed over to a waiting life and yelling at ‘ Rebecca’ to get a bloody move on!, stepped inside.
It was all Polly could do not to laugh at the expression of utter disbelief on the concierge’s face, and worried that he might be starting to get a mite suspicious, she quickly sucked it in before offering him an apologetic smile and trotting over to the lift, just as Kate was preparing to shout for her again.
“I’m glad I don’t really work for you.” She said, once the doors had finally closed behind her and Enya had begun to sing in her ear. “You’re a bloody tyrant!”
“ Yes, I am.” Kate grinned. “But think of the perks. If you’d been Rachel, we’d be fucking by now.”