by West, Sam
Is that you? she wrote. Do you have another phone, now?
Is what me? What are you talking about? came the instant reply.
Claire’s frown deepened. She supposed that she could go through her entire call list and ask each and every person if it was them playing silly buggers, but she didn’t relish the thought. It would take too long and besides, it would make her look foolish.
It’s only one of my friends playing a practical joke on me. And when I find out who it is, I’m gonna bloody kill them…
The phone beeped in her hands and she yelped, the fag slipping from her fingers.
Shouldn’t you check on the child? the message read.
“Fuck,” she hissed, the garden spinning and closing in around her. It took a few attempts to write back because her hands were trembling so much:
I’m calling the police. Right now.
A rustling in the bushes at the edge of the garden on the right made her heart slam painfully hard.
Probably just a fox, or something.
She told herself that, but she didn’t quite believe it. Not taking her eyes off the high bushes that wrapped around the football-pitch sized garden, she edged backwards towards the kitchen door. She hadn’t realised that she had come so far out, and panic curled upwards from the depths of her guts, forming a tight knot in her chest that made her want to scream to relieve the pressure.
Her phone beeped again in her hands, and she screamed, this time dropping it in the grass.
Bending down to scoop it up with wildly trembling fingers, she read the new message:
Is everything OK sweetie?
Barbs. A harsh sounding giggle escaped her lips. Clutching the phone to her chest, she edged backwards towards the opened kitchen door.
Get inside, check on Saskia, then call the police…
The door was so close now and when the phone rang and vibrated against her chest, she yelped in shock. Except this time, it was ringing.
Fuck, it’s that number. It’s him.
Because she knew instinctively that it was ‘a him’. A very bad him.
Jabbing at the green ‘accept’ button, she pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hello?” she whispered.
“Hello, Claire,” said an unfamiliar, male voice.
“Who is this?”
Another rustle from the hedges caused her head to snap round in that direction.
It’s just a breeze. Or a fox.
“What’s your favourite scary movie?”
Despite the fear that clung to her like a wet shroud, she barked out a harsh laugh.
“Who are you? Because I’m pretty sure that none of my friends would be so lame.”
“I am the boogeyman. Boo!”
She screamed, almost dropping the phone when a figure jumped out of the bushes from where the rustling sound had come from. The person was too far away to make out details, but the form was unmistakably male, with the hood of his jacket pulled over his head.
She turned tail and ran for the safety of the kitchen door, almost landing flat on her face with the sudden about-turn.
Dimly, she was aware of laughter coming from the phone as she hurtled through the kitchen-door, slamming it shut behind herself and forcing the bolt across.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She staggered backwards away from the door, her breath coming out in harsh, quick gasps.
“Don’t hang up!” the voice shouted from the phone. If you hang up, Saskia will die.”
No. Impossible. He’s outside, remember?
Is he? You sure about that? Is every window locked? How about the French-doors in the living room?
Another small whine escaped her lips and she pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to force the panic back down.
With wildly trembling hands, she brought the phone up to her ear.
“Who are you? What do you want?” she said, stumbling out into the hallway. The landline was out here, she could call the police on that…
She picked up the receiver and almost howled in frustration. No dial-tone.
“Do you really think I’m that stupid? As if I would let you use the landline.”
She froze, the receiver slipping through her fingers and clattering to the tiled floor.
He’s in the house.
He’s watching me.
“Where are you?” she whispered.
“I want to play a game,” he said in a low growl. “Do you want to play, Claire?”
Claire hurtled out of the hallway, stumbling and crashing into the wall, knocking over the 1920’s style umbrella stand in her haste.
In the living-room, she threw herself against the French-doors. Relief coursed through her.
Locked.
She cupped her hand against the glass and peered out into the black garden. The French-doors were adjacent to the kitchen-door, offering a view of the garden and the spot where the man had jumped out of the bushes.
There was no sign of him.
“Do you know where I’m hiding, Claire?” chuckled the voice on the end of the phone. “Why don’t you come and find me? Let’s play hide and seek.”
When Claire spoke, she found she was hyperventilating. “I’m calling the police,” she gasped.
“Hang up and Saskia dies,’ the voice barked.
Saskia.
Him mentioning the child’s name again jolted her into action and she half-ran, half-stumbled back into the kitchen. She grabbed the biggest knife out of the chopping-block and ran for the stairs.
At the foot of the winding staircase, she stopped.
Don’t go up there. Hang up and call the police.
She dithered, unsure of what to do. She felt exactly like a character in a horror movie, about to make the dumbest decision of her life.
Fleetingly, she thought about simply exiting the house through the front-door and screaming for help. But what if that resulted in Saskia’s death?
“What have you done with her?” she asked in a whisper.
The man laughed and she held the phone away from her ear. “Fuck you,” she whispered. “Fuck this and fuck you,” she repeated, louder this time.
Turning her back on the stairs, she ran for the front-door, severing the connection on her mobile as she did so.
“Fuck!” she screamed when she reached the door.
She rattled the door but it wouldn’t budge. Why the fuck was it locked? She hadn’t locked it.
No, you didn’t. He did.
Whimpering, she punched in 999.
“999. Which service do you require? Fire, ambulance or police?” asked the female voice on the other end of the line.
But Claire barely heard her because movement near the top of the stairs caught her eye.
“Put down the phone, Claire.”
Dimly, she was aware of the calm-sounding woman on the other end of the line:
“Hello? Please state your emergency…”
“I want Mummy.”
Claire locked eyes with the terrified child, the hallway tilting, then seeming to close in around her.
A man she had never seen before had a tight grip of Saskia, a knife pressed to her throat. He seemed young – only a few years older than her. He was dressed in black jeans and a black hoodie, beneath which was a black t-shirt. A dark rucksack was slung over one shoulder. It was impossible to tell if it was the same man that had jumped out of the bushes in the garden.
“Do it,” he said, pressing a hand to the girl’s mouth. Saskia’s eyes bulged above his palm, wide and bright with terror.
Claire severed the call.
“Okay, I hung up, see?” she said, holding the phone out in front of her. “Don’t hurt her, she’s just a kid…”
“Shut up! Throw the fucking phone down, now,” the stranger ordered. “And the fucking knife.”
Claire looked dumbly down at the kitchen knife; she had forgotten she was holding it. Throwing the phone meant smashing it; there was no way it would survive a knock against the tiled
floor. She let it slip from her fingers, wincing when she heard it shatter.
“Please don’t hurt her,” she repeated.
He’s really good-looking, came the strange thought, swiftly followed by, I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before.
“Did the tramp I paid to jump out on you from the bushes give you a good scare? I’ve been hiding in the house for hours, Claire,” he said as he descended the stairs. “Now, this is what’s going to happen. We are going to get rid of the kid, and then you’re coming with me.”
Her blood ran cold, and when she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper, her lips numb. “What do you mean?”
He was almost level with her now, on the third step from the bottom. Her eyes locked with his.
Green, she thought absently. Like Dad’s.
He smiled at her, revealing even, white teeth. Saskia squealed into his hand as he walked the child around the corner to the cupboard under the stairs. He opened the sideways sloping door that followed the ascent of the stairs, shoved her inside, and slammed the door shut behind her, sliding the bolt across.
Saskia screamed and Claire winced as the child banged her fists against the door.
“She’ll quieten down in a minute,” he said, walking towards her with the knife outstretched.
Do something, for fuck’s sake, a voice screamed in her head.
But what? He was blocking her way to the rest of the house and behind her, the front-door was locked.
She backed away from him.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Saskia’s screams rang in her ears – the poor girl must’ve been terrified in that pitch-black cupboard.
“Keep away from me,” she said, with far more bravado than she felt.
“Well, that’s a fine way to talk to your brother.”
For a second, everything seemed to stand still. Her breath hitched in her throat and her legs wouldn’t obey her brain’s command to get the fuck away from him.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said slowly. “I’m your brother. Twenty-five years ago, your daddy was a very naughty boy.”
All she could do was stare dumbly at him. “You’re lying,” was all she could eventually think to say.
She stopped edging backwards. What was the point? The front-door was locked, and as he was blocking her way to any other escape route, that left only the stairs.
Saskia’s screams, which grew more and more subdued with every passing second, spurred her on.
I have to protect her. I have to get him away from her.
She lunged for the stairs, taking them two at a time, the adrenalin that coursed through her making her legs feel like rubber.
“You wanna play kiss chase?” he shouted after her. “Come on, then!”
She reached the bend in the curved staircase, almost tripping over her own feet. Over her own, laboured breathing, she was aware of him hot on her heels, mere inches behind her.
The bathroom was at the end of the hallway and she ran for it, her heart smashing against her ribcage.
She made it, slamming the door shut behind herself and bolting it. Less than two seconds later, there was an almighty thump against the door that made it rattle against its hinges.
She let out a short, sharp cry and staggered backwards, hitting the base of her spine against the edge of the sink and crying out once more.
“Let me in, little piggy,” said the hateful voice from the other side of the door. “Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and you’ll blow your house in.”
“Leave us alone!” she cried, casting her gaze wildly around the bathroom for something to protect herself with.
A man’s razor rested on the rim of the sink and she scooped it up, staring at it stupidly. It was so light, the head floppy and the row of thin blades embedded deep within it.
Fucking useless, she thought in despair.
“I hate to break this to you, Claire, but I do have a gun.”
Icy fear settled over her, starting at the base of her neck and seeping down her entire body. With trembling hands, she opened the long, mirrored cabinet above the sink. A mix of bottles adorned the shelves and her gaze settled on a rectangular, glass perfume bottle filled with amber liquid. She picked up the Chanel No 5, turning it over in her hand. Maybe she could bash him over the head with it; if she did so hard enough to shatter the glass, it could cause a lot of damage.
“What are you doing in there, Claire? If I have to come in and get you, I’m not going to be very happy.”
In one hand she clutched the razor, in the other the perfume. Maybe she would be better off with a can of hairspray to spray in his eyes….
Oh God, this is hopeless.
“Claire?”
She screamed when the door shuddered against its hinges again, twisting her head round to look at the frosted-glass window above the toilet – there was no way she could squeeze through that, especially as only the top half of it opened. Even if she did smash it she was still so high up; she would surely break her neck if she jumped from this height.
“Open the fucking door! I’m losing my patience here…”
The door shuddered again in the doorframe and she stared at it wild-eyed, not knowing what the hell to do. Then the blows rained down on the door in rapid succession and the bolt jumped and jerked.
It ain’t gonna hold.
The realisation made her cry out in terror, and she took a step towards the door.
This is fucking suicide, she thought as she flattened her body against the wall next to the hinges of the vibrating door. He has a gun for fuck’s sake…
But she hadn’t seen the gun, so maybe he was lying. And she had to do something, even if that something was completely fucking stupid because there was no way she had the upper hand here. As if he wouldn’t pre-empt this move…
The door suddenly gave way, busting inwards and smashing into her upraised arms. She refused to scream and steadied herself, poised to slam the perfume bottle into his face as soon as he appeared…
Nothing happened. Her breath came in ragged little gasps and her heart thumped so hard she thought it might burst right out of her chest.
“Come out with your hands raised and please put down any object you had intended to smash into my skull.”
Shit.
Instinctively, she shoved the razor into the back pocket of her jeans and set the perfume bottle down on the side of the bath. Despair washed over her. She was all out of options; there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Tears blurred her vision as she stepped round the door, her hands raised.
The man
her brother, oh my God, did he really say he was my brother
stood a little way down the corridor.
And he did, indeed, have a gun which was pointing right at her.
“That’s better. I’ve had enough of chasing now. It’s time for some kissing.”
Inside, she shrank in fear. The vision of him blurred, thanks to the tears running down her cheeks, dripping onto the high neck of her pullover.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she said, hating the whining quality to her voice. “Or Saskia. Please…”
“You know this house better than me. Where’s the master bedroom? I bet the rich bitch that lives here has got some really kinky toys in her drawers. That’s if her choice of décor is anything to go by. I mean, fuck me, what kind of arsehole has zebra-print rugs?”
Claire just stood there, her breath hitching in her throat, the tears rolling freely.
“Will you stop with the crying? Crying makes you all puffy and ugly. Come on, bedroom, now. Or I’ll go downstairs and put a bullet between the little brat’s eyes.”
That spurred her into action. When she had nosed around the house earlier, she had discovered that the bedroom was on the third and final floor – the next floor up from Saskia‘s bedroom.
“Good girl,” Paul said from behind her.
Panic made her head spin and her legs turn to rubber. She was painfully aware of him be
hind her; she didn’t have to turn her head to know where the gun would be pointing. As if in a nightmare, she ascended the second staircase, conscious of him just a few steps behind.
The master bedroom loomed ahead and her stomach twisted into a tight knot of fear.
Oh God, this can’t be happening...
“In,” he said, shoving her in the small of her back when she paused in numbed terror in the doorway.
She lurched inside the room on jellied legs, only just managing not to trip. Covering her face with her hands, she steadfastly refused to turn around.
“Now, dear sister, I think it is time we got better acquainted. I want you to turn around and face me and take off all your clothes.”
He’s going to rape me, and then he’s going to kill me.
The thought was shocking, if not surprising. From the second the bastard had erupted into the house and into her life, she knew that it had been on the cards.
“No dawdling now,’ he said to her unmoving back. “Or the little bitch gets it.”
Claire thought of the little girl locked in the cupboard under the stars. For a fleeting second, she panicked that she might suffocate in that confined space.
No. Don’t be stupid, it isn’t hermetically sealed…
And then all thoughts of Saskia were well and truly forgotten when the hot rush of his breath hit the back of her neck.
“Don’t push my patience,” he said, his voice loud in her ear.
The bedroom took on an almost unreal clarity with her heightened senses. Opposite her, the mirrors of the built-in wardrobe that ran the length of the wall glinted with a glacial purity, like the surface of the stillest lake in the Scottish Highlands. To her left, the King-sized bed with its faux, leopard-print bedspread seemed outrageously vivid, hurting her eyes and making her head swim. Over on the decidedly naff, white, fairy-tale style dresser, a wide, silver-backed hairbrush caught her attention, the strands of blonde hair tangling around the bristles glinting in the harsh, overhead light.
She closed her eyes to dispel the images, to try to remove herself from the reality of her situation.
“Do it, Claire, get naked.”
Her violently trembling fingers gripped the bottom of her white pullover, ready to pull it over her head…