by Tom Bale
and the make-up, and the way their uniforms had been tucked and
rolled and unbuttoned in the name of fashion.
Joe sighed. Looked away. But Cassie had spotted them too.
'Do they remind you of your girls?’
Joe shrugged. The truth was that he didn’t know. Amy would be
almost ten now, and Hannah was eight. A few years away from these
adolescent tricks, or perhaps not. Everyone seemed to agree that kids
grew up faster nowadays. Perhaps they had already changed beyond
recognition.
No. He had to cling to the belief that he would always know his
own daughters. To think otherwise was an invitation to give up hope.
He felt Cassie’s gaze still upon him.
'How long since you last saw them?’
'Come on, Cass.’ He had only reluctantly told her about them,
after succumbing to weeks of attrition. Cassie maintained that she’d
known at once, just from seeing how he was with Jaden and Sofia. A
natural father, she’d called him, unintentionally twisting the knife.
'I know you miss them,’ she said. 'How long has it been?’
'Nearly three years.’
'Oh God. I think I’d rather die than go without—’ She winced.
Patted his arm. 'I’m sorry. I didn’t mean
'It’s okay.’
The traffic in front started to move. Joe put the car in gear, wishing
he could stamp on the accelerator and roar away.
'It must be their choice. Their mother’s choice, anyway.’
'Why do you say that?’
'Because I don’t believe you’d want to shut them out of your life.
You couldn’t be that heartless. Not like a certain person we know.’
Cassie glanced over her shoulder, hoping Jaden wouldn’t pick up on
the reference to his own absent father. And I’m sure they’d want to
keep in touch if they could. Most little girls worship their dads.’ There
was a wobble in her voice that seemed to take her by surprise.
'Maybe it’s no one’s choice,’ Joe said. 'Maybe it’s just circumstances.’
'What kind of circumstances could be that bad?’
You don’t want to know.’ He said it gently, but with enough feeling
to end the conversation right there.
And, for a time, it did. But it was a pensive silence, in which he
could almost sense the gears whirring in Cassie’s head. He imagined
her phrasing and rejecting all kinds of questions. He wished there was
a way he could explain, but even Angela Weaver hadn’t been given
the full story. If he ever told Cassie, it would have to be on the day
he ceased working for her. The day he moved on.
The traffic in their lane slowed and stopped. Cassie cleared her
throat and said, very carefully: 'When me and Dean split up, it was
horrible. Really messy. I hope, if I ever got in that situation again, I’d
be able to handle it better. The children have to come first, don’t
they?’
Joe nodded, but said nothing. Spotting a gap in the outside lane,
he checked the mirror and darted into the space. Between focusing
on the traffic and his own miserable predicament, several more minutes
passed before he grasped exactly what Cassie had been telling him.
At the age of nine, Oliver Felton had sacked an entire workforce.
His father had still been new to the business at that stage, eager to
escape the influence of his own father and make his mark. He’d begun
by shutting down a factory in Sunderland that made shell casings.
After acquiring a rival firm in Spain, all that remained was to inform
the British employees – nearly two hundred of them – that their services
were no longer required.
Without notifying the other directors or the on-site personnel staff,
Robert Felton had arrived at the factory one morning with a briefcase
full of brown envelopes and with his young son in tow. In a separate
car came three large, sinister-looking men, whose purpose didn’t
become clear to Oliver until later.
His father had addressed the workers from a metal gantry overlooking
the factory floor, introducing himself while Oliver stood a
pace behind him, instinctively petrified, clutching the heavy briefcase
beneath his chin. He could still remember every word his father said.
'This is my boy, Oliver. He’s nine years old. As you may know, I’ve
taken over the reins of this company from my father, and one day
Oliver may well take the reins from me. What’s already clear is that
if I sent him down there right now to work on the production line,
he’d do a better job than the rest of you put together. Because you’re
lazy, and greedy, and useless. Even my boy can see that.’
He gestured, motioning him forward, but Oliver was frozen. Already
there were jeers from the crowd below. Robert Felton seemed not to
hear them. He grabbed Oliver by the shoulders and thrust him to the
front of the gantry.
'That’s why we’re shutting this place down. My little boy doesn’t
want a bunch of bolshie layabouts poisoning his future legacy. He’s
got your redundancy notices right here in this briefcase. Assuming it’s
not beyond your capabilities, I want you to line up in alphabetical
order. He’s going to give you your cards, and you’re going to thank
him, nice and politely.’
The three heavies had prevented an outright rebellion, but for weeks
afterwards Oliver still burned from the memory of the loathing those
men and women had directed at him as they’d filed past, humiliated
and seething with rage, snatching their envelopes from his trembling
hand. One of the men – a foreman with thirty years’ service – had
thanked him and then spat in his face. Later Oliver heard the man’s
screams from the car park. The thugs had broken both his arms, his
father admitted on the way home, pretending to sound as though he
disapproved.
Now, as he studied the neighbouring house through his telescope,
Oliver felt no qualms about his actions, nor indeed about the personality
his father had helped to mould. At school he had been lonely
and frightened and subjected to merciless abuse. If voyeurism had
become his preferred method of social interaction, it was because it
afforded him both distance and a measure of control. At any point he
could safely retreat.
But there would be no retreating today.
Today he had hit the jackpot.
He’d been keeping an eye on the house, but hadn’t seen anyone else
come or go. Then he scanned across the windows and hit on the classic
voyeur’s dream: a beautiful woman, fresh from the bath or shower,
walking naked across the bedroom. She was a young Asian woman with
unblemished light brown skin and superb muscle tone. If he had to
quibble, it was that her breasts were slightly too big for his liking.
Oliver drank in the contours of her body as she towelled herself
dry. She was so close that he could see the pores of her skin, still glistening
with steam. Close enough to smell, it seemed, and surely close
enough to touch. Unconsciously his free hand drifted towards the
window to do just that.
Slowly, lovingly, he move
d the scope up over her breasts and her
neck. Better even than the sight of her was the knowledge that she
was utterly unaware of his existence. He had long suspected that it
was this – the secret, stolen intimacy – that offered the greatest thrill.
But just as he gloried in the idea of gazing deep into her eyes, she
was gone. She darted out of view so rapidly that it startled him. Oliver
turned the scope away and dropped to the floor, uncertain and afraid
and excited all at once.
Had she seen him?
Thirteen
Dreamscape’s bedroom suites were every bit as luxurious as Priya had
anticipated. Although the house was unoccupied, great care had been
taken to furnish it. That meant a huge octagonal bed with a leather
trim, and a TV that rose out of the footboard cabinet. In the bathroom
there were Egyptian cotton towels and a selection of Harrods
toiletries, although Priya had brought her own.
Before showering, she stuffed everything she was wearing in one
of the garbage bags. Rinsed the knife under the tap, then placed it
on a shelf inside the shower cubicle. Her professional relationship
with Liam was less than forty-eight hours old: far too early to make a
full judgement. Her policy, born of hard experience, was to trust
nobody.
Priya had run away from home at the age of fourteen, after cracking
under the strain of her parents’ relentlessly high expectations. But
living rough in London had provided challenges of a very different
sort. The first time a man groped her in the street she’d naively
wondered if it would be impolite to push him away.
She was raped once, within the first three months, and afterwards
vowed never to be caught out again. From then on she always carried
at least one weapon, usually a knife. Wherever she was, she made sure
there were backups and escape routes to hand.
Her new-found caution quickly paid off. A six-foot-tall, eighteen-stone
taxi driver followed her back to her rented bedsit and jumped on her
as she let herself in. He threw her on the sofa, drooling as he described
what he intended to do with her. Priya let him get started, made him
think she was terrified and compliant, then reached for the claw
hammer that she kept hidden down the back of the sofa.
She hit him hard enough to crack his skull. It wasn’t fatal, but it
left him with permanent brain damage. A far more satisfying result,
in her view.
She wasn’t sure yet if Liam would be any different. He lusted after
her; that much she knew. She was somewhat encouraged when he
made no move to follow her upstairs, or sidle into the bedroom while
she was in the shower. Perhaps he possessed a little more self-control
than most of them, but she wouldn’t bet on it. By now she had a good
instinct for these things.
That was partly why she’d killed the estate agent. To demonstrate
her capabilities right from the start.
In Liam’s absence the man had quickly grown cocky. He’d taunted
Priya, told her he was going to get up and walk out and she couldn’t
do a thing to stop him. She’d intended to stab him just once, purely
to subdue him. But the red mist had descended, the way it sometimes
did, and the next thing she knew he was lying dead in a pool of blood,
and even once the rage subsided there was no remorse, no regret. He
had brought it on himself.
Drying off, she decided she could safely drop the towel and stand
naked. The room was warm and quite stuffy. She was debating
whether to risk opening a window when she felt the unmistakable
crawling sensation of a ravenous gaze. Goose bumps rose on her
skin and she knew she was being watched. Not just watched, but devoured.
She ducked out of sight, pulling the towel up and wrapping it tightly
around herself. Then, cautiously, she moved back to the window and
looked out.
The neighbouring property was at least forty or fifty feet away, another
big three-storey pile. There were several windows on the side, a couple
of them with frosted glass for privacy. All the windows were blank.
Dark. No one there.
Then she glanced up at the roof and noticed an odd little dormer,
almost concealed by the turret on the north-east corner of the house.
The dormer window was as blank as the others, and yet it went on
demanding her attention.
Priya stared at it and finally worked out what was wrong. She could
just make out a fat black tube, tilted at an angle to the frame, ending
in a glinting crescent of glass.
A telescope.
Liam looked up as Priya hurried into the kitchen. She’d changed into
a pair of grey tailored trousers and a black top, but she had bare feet
and her hair was damp and tousled. She looked shaken.
'I think someone’s watching us.’
'What?’
'Next door. The Feltons.’
Are you sure?’
'Come and see.’
Liam followed her back across the hall, his mind working on the
problem.
'It can’t be Robert,’ he said. 'He’s in France, and the daughter’s
definitely in the States. Unless there’s a house-sitter, or some kind of
security staff we don’t know about.’
Priya said nothing until they entered the bedroom. There was a
wet towel on the floor, and various items of clothing were strewn over
the bed. No sign of the knife she’d used to kill the estate agent. Liam
wondered where she’d put it.
'Look.’ Priya moved to one side of the window, while he went to
the other side. She directed his gaze to a tiny dormer on the house
opposite. 'It’s a telescope.’
And you saw someone looking through it?’
'Not directly. But I could feel it.’ There was an edge to her voice
that told him something else.
She’d been caught naked.
Liam sighed. 'I bet it’s Oliver Felton.’
'He’s meant to be away this weekend.’
Yeah, and he’s also meant to be a sandwich short of a picnic. So
maybe he didn’t go anywhere. Maybe he’s holed up on his own over
there.’
'What if he reports us?’
'He’s not likely to broadcast the fact that he’s a pervert.’
'He doesn’t have to. He might still call his father and tell him there’s
someone next door.’
'Then what do you suggest?’ Liam asked.
'Let me go and speak to him.’
And say what?’
A quick smile crossed Priya’s face. 'I’m sure I can think of something.’
Liam
pondered. This was another departure from the plan, but it
also felt like a tactical move on her part, a subtle challenge to his
authority. He was tempted to refuse, just to see how she reacted.
On the other hand, her proposal did have its merits. He drew out
the silence, watching as she shifted her weight onto her other hip,
preparing to hear out his objections.
'Okay,’ he said. 'Do it.’
She was coming to him.
Oliver knew it from the moment the woman stepped outside. He
didn’t even need the telesco
pe; he could see her perfectly well from
the window. He was pressed against the wall, contorting himself so as
to peer out at an angle which he hoped made him invisible to anyone
at Dreamscape.
A pretty pointless endeavour, really, because she already knew he
was there. He imagined her fury and revulsion. He imagined her voice
breaking as she described the sense of violation to the men in the
house with her.
He watched the woman walk across the driveway and turn in his
direction. She didn’t look particularly angry. He caught himself
wondering which one of the men she was screwing: the rough-looking
man or the estate agent. Maybe it was both of them.
Odd, then, that neither had come storming next door on her behalf,
ready to defend her honour with his fists.
Something not right about this, Oliver thought. Of course, he
shouldn’t forget that his father owned the house they were in. That
might influence their reaction.
It struck him that Robert Felton was possibly involved in some way.
Perhaps he’d arranged a party, or lent the house out to friends for the
weekend. It would be characteristic of him not to inform his son,
especially as Oliver was supposed to be in Oxford by now.
No. He preferred the first explanation. These people were friends
of the estate agent, using the place without permission. As such, they
were wary about attracting attention. They could hardly object to his
telescope if they had no right to be cavorting in the house in the first
place.
Then, as the woman strolled out of sight below the window, Oliver
made an important correction. The woman hadn’t been cavorting
with anyone.
She’d been alone in the bedroom.
He laughed: a brash, exuberant rattle of noise. Hurried over to the
hatch and climbed down the ladder, enjoying the stirring in his groin
as he pursued a far more enticing hypothesis to its logical conclusion.
She might not have mentioned the telescope to the two men. She
might be coming next door of her own volition. In which case, the
possibilities were endless, and delightful, and dangerous.
'She’s coming,’ Oliver whispered. His voice sounded thick and
clogged with saliva. 'She wants me.’
Fourteen
The Felton house had the same entry system as Dreamscape. The call
station was set into a plate of brushed stainless steel, mounted on the
high perimeter wall. There was a small grille for the microphone and