Cry for Help

by Steve Mosby

  One last thing to do. Back on the internet, I removed the pages I’d just visited from the browser’s history. A technician would still be able to recover them, but it would at least give me a bit of breathing room.

  I heard a dull tone from downstairs.

  The police had tried another office and got lucky.

  I turned the computer off at the plug, then moved back out into the corridor, closing the office door behind me. The corridor formed an ‘L’, with the stairs just to my right. I could hear the footfalls chitting up. I ran in the opposite direction, rounding the corner in time. The fire door was at the end. As I put my hand on the metal bar, I heard someone knocking on a door back down the hall. The sound echoed for a second - and then was cut off by the piercing alarm as I pressed the lever down and pushed through into a drafty, concrete stairwell.

  Two flights of stairs: my feet drumming; a grip on the banister spinning me round the bend on each landing. At the bottom there was another levered door, and I fell through it into a dirty courtyard behind the building, full of wheelie bins and drains.

  Keep calm.

  I pressed the door closed behind me, dragged a large bin in front of it, and ran.

  The car park in the Sphere was built on about six different levels, and my car was right in the basement. I came down in the elevator and paid for my exit ticket at the vending machine.

  It was quarter to six. Behind me, large colourful panels on the wall advertised films showing in the cinema, and a couple were standing in front, clearly debating what to see. I envied them. I wished I could do anything as simple and straightforward as catching a movie right now.

  Back at my car I sat in the dark, listening to the high-pitched squeak of tyres that echoed around the garage from the levels above. Every sound down here was amplified and threatening.

  Sarah would be on her way home from the studio by now, if she wasn’t back already, and she’d be expecting to see me at The Olive Tree in about an hour and a half.

  I was thinking. The police knew I’d been in the city centre. If they were going to trace me, it didn’t matter too much if they had this car park down as my last known location. After I left, they couldn’t know in which direction I’d gone.

  So I turned my mobile back on.

  Am sorry, I typed in. Something’s come up and I can’t make tonight. Will talk soon, promise. Take care in meantime.

  I stared at the message, which felt incomplete and ridiculous, imagining her reaction when she received it: if it had been a letter instead, she might screw it up and throw it away. Frustration rose up within me, and I pressed ‘send’ before the feeling could overwhelm me.

  Then I turned the phone off again, started the engine and drove out. Halfway up the ramp, a sign reminded me to turn my headlights on, and then the car bumped up into the cold, crisp night, and I headed for home.

  Chapter Twenty

  Friday 2nd September

  You smoke too much, Mary told herself.

  But that was okay.

  When she’d been a teenager, she’d enjoyed the easy, safe flirtation with death. She felt each intake of poison in a similar way to the thin slice of a razor on her skin. Without having to think about it consciously, smoking had always seemed to keep her on some form of level, as though a part of her was always checking to make sure she was being punished, and slowly killing herself was enough to pacify it most of the time.

  A man had come up and talked to her once, outside some bar, and said that only interesting people smoked. He’d told her ‘it’s about the urge to self-destruction’, as though there was something fascinating and even romantic about such a thing, and maybe more people should pursue it. She’d wondered, briefly, how interesting he’d find it if she stubbed it out on her hand.

  Mary flicked some ash out of her bedroom window.

  She was sitting at one end of the sill, her legs stretched out so that her small feet were resting against each other. It was an old house. The window here was one of those old-fashioned ones that you simply hefted upwards, and then it stayed aloft by magic until you hefted it down again.

  On her right-hand side, there was about a metre of cold, night air. Below, a paved back garden full of split rubbish bags. Each house on this street had these little courtyards at the back: all full of crap, because you had to take your bins out front for collection, and most people were lazy. Most people didn’t care.

  She took one last drag and tossed the cigarette out into the night. But she stayed where she was for a moment. There were no streetlights in the back alley. Everything there was blue or black, except for the dull red dot of her cigarette end.

  Mary could imagine her father standing down there right now, hiding in some wedge of darkness and watching her. She was brightly lit up. He would be able to see her very well.

  Are you out there? she thought.

  It had taken her a long time to calm down after he’d seen her outside his house that day. She’d been frantic because it was clear she couldn’t deal with him herself, and yet she had to. If he wasn’t down there tonight, he would be tomorrow. And nobody would stop him.

  Gradually, though, she’d come to a kind of peace with the idea. It was either that or go insane. In place of the terror her body kept producing at the thought of him, she tried to will some determination into herself instead, and it seemed to have worked. Last time, the sight of him had slipped a key into a lock inside her, opened it, and let everything out. Next time, she would be better prepared. He was just a man.

  She kept repeating that to herself: a mantra that would help her through the approaching madness.

  Just a man.

  Mary hopped down and closed the window. It descended with a screech and a judder, and then she closed the latch. Despite her efforts, the bedroom smelled of smoke. She wasn’t sure why she even bothered—

  The phone rang.

  She held very still, listening to the noise as it blared through the quiet house. There wasn’t a single person in the world, as far as she knew, who had any reason to call her.

  Suddenly, she didn’t feel as sure of herself anymore.

  The noise kept coming, insistent and alarming.

  You have to do this.

  She crossed the hall and went into the front room.

  The phone here had Caller ID, but the number on display was unfamiliar … and then she placed it. The area code was Rawnsmouth. Her brother’s phone number. She felt a flash of anger, remembering how the police had found her. She didn’t need this conversation. But she answered it anyway.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mary?’

  She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure why. Instead, she shook the curtains across with her free hand, closing herself off from the main street below.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘I know. Why are you phoning me?’

  He paused, sounding unsure of himself.

  ‘The police called me …’

  ‘I know that too.’ The anger rose up: ‘And you told them my number. How could you do that? Did I ever give you permission to tell people my business? Do you remember that happening?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was almost whining. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve no idea how hard I’ve worked to keep my life private. None at all. And with one … you’ve put me at risk.’

  ‘Hang on.’ He sounded like he was about to start arguing with her, but then seemed to think better of it. He paused. ‘Look: I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t realise it would be that big a deal.’

  ‘Well, it is.’

  ‘I said sorry. What else did you expect me to do, though? He wanted to know where to find you, and it didn’t sound like he was going to give up very easily.’

  Mary closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, wanting to hang up the phone. Wanting all this to go away. But she couldn’t.

  Over the years, she’d been through so many emotions. She’d felt ang
er at the people who did nothing, fear at what her father might do next, and there had even been hope that someone, somewhere, would help them - because that was what good people did. But one thought had remained constant over time. It had filled her mind on that desperate night in the snow, almost the only thing she could still feel. I must protect him. Her beautiful little brother. I must make sure he’s safe.

  That urge had been the only thing that kept her moving.

  ‘Mary?’

  She opened her eyes and said, ‘Is that the only reason you’ve called? To tell me that the police have been in touch?’

  ‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘I … need some more money.’

  She should have expected that. Why else would he call? ‘Money,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. Just … I just need some.’

  Mary pictured her brother in her head. Whatever he said or did, she always remembered him in the same way, and she always would. His eyes, wide and blue, his face so still it wasn’t even trembling. Just a little boy who hid away from the terrible things he saw, and sometimes became so lost inside himself that she had to coax him patiently out again, feeling responsible with every soothing word she uttered. No matter what he did, he would always be that little boy, and she would always feel that way.

  ‘Mary?’

  She said, ‘How much do you need?’

  Later, she was sitting in the front room, her legs tucked beneath her on the settee, still thinking about her brother, when the phone went again. She didn’t check the ID this time, assuming it would be him again, and just picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  Nobody replied.

  She looked at the display on the phone. Number withheld.

  Mary’s skin was suddenly alive, tingling. She could feel every hair, every faded white line hidden away on her body

  Slowly - as though something dangerous was in the room with her - she uncurled her legs and stood up.

  She didn’t say anything else, but kept the receiver pressed tightly to the side of her face, listening carefully to the silence on the other end of the line.

  There was somebody there.

  Someone who was listening right back.

  She went through the checklist in her head. This window, that window, the front door - they were all locked. The nearest escape route, if necessary, was the network of pipes outside her bedroom window. This process was second nature: Mary did it every time she heard a creak in the night, or a thump from the plumbing upstairs.

  She crossed the room, listening to the heavy silence on the phone, turned off the front room light and returned to the window.

  Crouched down and edged the curtain aside, just a little.

  A car was there. Parked up directly opposite the house.

  She stared down, unable to make out much detail at first. The interior was dark, but she could see just enough through the windscreen to be sure there was someone inside. She could see his leg. Tracksuit bottoms.

  Oh god, please not now. The panic overwhelmed her. Not yet.

  She cancelled the call, jabbing at the receiver, her finger trembling so much she had to press the button twice, three times. Then she looked out at the car below, watching it through the sliver-gap her finger dared to make in the curtain.

  Nothing.

  And then the engine grumbled, the sound muffled through the glass. A second later the headlights came on, and the car pulled out and drove away up the street.

  Mary watched it go, then allowed the curtain to fall back into place.

  She put the phone down carefully and deliberately on the table. It felt like her mind was starring over and her thoughts disappearing entirely. She sat down on the settee, pulled her knees up to her chin and closed her eyes, searching inside for the determination and fortitude she’d once had, and finding in its place only the sensation of leather round her wrists and a body that refused to move.

  Just a man, she told herself, but it wasn’t true.

  She realised now that she’d been wrong: it wasn’t possible for her to deal with this. A phone call had the ability to reduce her to almost nothing. If she saw her father up close and heard his voice … it would be impossible. Something inside her would snap in self-defence, break irreparably into pieces that nobody would ever be able to put back together.

  After a moment she leaned over, her hand shaking, and picked her book off the coffee table. It had once been a thing of beauty to her, but now it felt almost treacherous to the touch. You came back to save me. Her father had delighted in dispelling everything good she saw within it, and yet she’d never given up hope. Faith, even. If it wasn’t true then there was nothing left.

  So Mary clung to that now: the image of Ana with the knife held high over her breast, saved at the last moment just as all seemed lost. It was all she had left. She couldn’t face her father on her own, but she wouldn’t need to. Her mantra shifted; it was no longer a cry of defiance.

  Someone will come, she told herself.

  Over and over, repeating it until the words filled her head.

  Someone has to.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Friday 2nd September

  At half past seven I should have been sitting down for a meal with Sarah. Instead, I was in my parents’ kitchen, sitting at the small wooden table by the wall.

  My car was parked beside the skip at the bottom of the curling tarmac drive, next to those arched trees I was too big to climb. The first thing I’d done when I arrived was check the house and make sure it was secure. It seemed to be. As far as I could tell, nobody had been inside since Rob, Sarah and I had started cleaning it out.

  The next thing I’d done was come into the kitchen and check the drawer under the counter, selecting a knife that would fit in my coat pocket. It was madness to think I’d ever be capable of using the thing, but I did it anyway. I could feel the weight there now, an insistent, surreal question at my side: what the fuck are you doing?

  The short answer was nothing. I was sipping a glass of water and waiting to see what would happen. There was no phone line here. I’d remembered that on the drive over: it had been cancelled after my father died. A fax machine sat in his old office, and still seemed to work, but the phone on it was dead. No matter what he’d said in the email, Tori’s abductor wasn’t going to be calling me here.

  Which must have meant I was going to be meeting him.

  Face to face.

  I was trying to subdue the panic at that idea and think. As carefully and rationally as I could.

  The only thing I knew for sure was that someone had kidnapped Tori. It was natural to assume it was the same man who’d murdered Julie and the other girls, but that raised a series of uncomfortable questions. Was it a coincidence that he’d taken Julie and then Tori? If so, it was a big one. And where was she? According to the media, the previous victims had all been tied up and left in their homes. Perhaps not, though. Maybe if one of their boyfriends had gone round to her house in time, he’d have found a letter there instead, just like me.

  But it was useless to speculate; you had to deal with what you knew. And that was simply the note, the email, and the things he’d made me do so far. Two of my ex-girlfriends were involved, my fingerprints were now at one of the crime scenes, and I’d been forced to run from the police. Was he intending to frame me in some way? He had to realise that wouldn’t work.

  What the fuck are you doing?

  I stood up and went across the hallway to Owen’s room, then turned the light on to reveal the grey, forgotten world inside.

  The sensible, rational thing to do right now was go to the police. I remembered reading a book about hostage negotiations, and the main rule was always the same: the kidnapper was never allowed to leave, even if it meant that all the hostages died. The situation had to be contained. By acting on my own like this, I was in danger of getting both me and Tori killed, and leaving her abductor free to hurt someone else. If I went to the police, they’d at least have a chance of catching him.


  I knew that.

  But I couldn’t do it.

  I walked over and nudged a book on Owen’s desk; it scraped out of place, revealing a pale square of polished wood amongst the grey. I ran my finger down the bedpost, collecting an ellipse of dust on the tip.

  And remembered something.

  It wasn’t true that nobody had been in this room. I’d come in here myself, a year or so after Owen died. I’d stood inside, thinking about the gunshot I’d imagined I’d heard, and I’d been full of guilt. Because if the beliefs my parents had started to reassure themselves with were true, then I could have saved him that day, and I hadn’t. It wasn’t long after that when I started kicking back at them, but the lesson had always been there. He had slipped, and I had let him.

  I remembered. I’d sat on the bed and looked around, missing my brother more than I could ever tell anyone. I’d hoped that - if he was still conscious somewhere - he didn’t hate for me what I hadn’t done that day. And I’d wondered whether my parents would ever love me again.

  Time dragged on, and nothing happened.

  I began to worry I’d missed something: a creeping fear that I’d messed things up in some way; that I’d been too late or stupid to catch whatever ball he’d thrown. Or that the man’s plans had been interrupted. He might not have realised there wasn’t a phone in my parents’ house. I had no idea what was going on in his head.

  Gradually, the fear was supplemented by frustration and anger. I hadn’t missed anything; he was just giving me a chance to stew, and it was working. However much I tried to keep calm and push my feelings aside, they stayed close. The police were going to show up; I was going to walk into the next room and he would simply be there, standing in the middle; Tori was dying right now …

  Isolated in my parents’ house, my emotions bred like bacteria, and by eleven o’clock I was practically climbing the walls - wired for fight or flight, but with no one to confront and nowhere to run. I was aimlessly pacing the living room when I heard it.