by T. M. Logan
What the hell? What are they doing here?
The patrol car continued its slow progress up the road, two uniformed officers sitting in the front. Were they looking at houses? The one in the passenger seat seemed to be, his head swivelling left and right. Sarah looked down at her phone’s dark screen again, feeling utterly conspicuous. She slid a little further down in her seat again, desperate to avoid eye contact with either of the policemen.
She sensed the car slowing as it approached. It was almost on her. Was it going to stop? What if they were here when the mystery visitor arrived? Would they think she had called 999? She stared at her lap, willing the patrol car to keep going and carry on up the road. Then it was past her. She kept an eye on it in the wing mirror as it receded towards the junction, indicated, and turned onto Abbey Drive.
Sarah let out a huge sigh of relief and leaned back against the headrest, closing her eyes for a second.
Calm down. You’ve already spoken to the police, and you got through it just fine. There is nothing to connect you to this act, no evidence that the mystery caller could possibly know about. You just need to see who it is first, then you can make a judgement about what to do next.
If they ever show up.
She jumped at a sharp knocking on the glass, opening her eyes to see a face looming beside her. It took her a second of pure incredulity, a hammer blow of shock, to realise who she was looking at.
Alan Lovelock.
PART III
54
Lovelock followed her into the house, putting the chain on the front door and turning the key in the lock. He went after her into the lounge, ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head on the door frame, and pulled the curtains in the bay window.
The room was plunged into shadow and Sarah instinctively turned the light on.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Leave it off. Sit on the sofa.’
‘It’s so wonderful that you’re safe, Alan,’ she said, with as much conviction as she could muster. ‘We were all really worried about you.’
He dismissed her remark with the wave of a hand and sat down opposite her in Nick’s favourite armchair, long legs crossed, long-fingered hands splayed over the armrests. Even in the darkness, his eyes were unnaturally bright. They looked different, somehow, shining with something Sarah had never seen there before.
‘You know what I loathe most in the world, Sarah?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Stupidity,’ he said slowly. ‘Especially from a woman. And do you know the one thing I value above all else?’
‘Recognition?’
‘Information. With the right information you can do almost anything. You can make other people do almost anything. Say, for the sake of argument, I knew you were involved in my kidnapping and false imprisonment.’
Sarah felt as if she had plunged into ice-cold water. She suppressed a shiver.
‘That’s not true.’
‘That you were not only aware of it, but had somehow made it happen.’
‘No! You’re wrong.’
Lovelock laughed, a harsh barking sound in the gloom of the dark sitting room.
‘You know what you have failed to ask me, since I sent you those text messages?’
She shook her head.
He took his phone out, unlocked it and scrolled up a list of messages.
‘This nice new phone was provided by the police chaps while I got myself on my feet again. Seeing as my own phone is lost and they wanted to be able to reach me quickly. Aren’t they thoughtful? I used it to tell you that I knew what you had done. You replied to ask who I was – twice – but you didn’t ask what any other person would have asked. You didn’t ask what my message actually meant. You didn’t ask what it was that you were supposed to have done. And why was that? Because you already knew.’
‘Alan, I know you must have had a really difficult –’
‘And then when I saw the look on your face out on the street just now, I knew. Everyone else who’s seen me since yesterday morning has been smiling, laughing, delighted, relieved. My poor wife burst into tears when they told her I had been found. But your reaction was utterly unique – you didn’t do any of those things: you looked like you’d seen a ghost, like Macbeth staring at Duncan’s headless corpse in the banqueting hall. As if you’d seen a revenant spirit returning from the dead. Because, as far as you were concerned, I was dead.’
Sarah shook her head, trying to think of something to say to contradict him.
‘No, that’s not –’
‘No one else actually thought the worst, you know. Mostly they assumed I’d gone off with some young postgraduate for a few days of boozing and shagging. A few thought I’d had some sort of breakdown. But none of them thought I was actually dead. Except you.’
‘I didn’t think you were dead.’
Lovelock stood up slowly, until he towered over her in the centre of the shadowy living room. He took off his dark tweed jacket, dropped it on the floor and unbuttoned his shirt cuffs.
‘Of course you did. And I thought, why would my little Sarah be looking at me like a man returning from beyond the grave? Why would that be? Unless she knew something that all the others didn’t. Unless she knew something that even the police didn’t know.’ He sat down on the sofa next to her, his hand resting casually on her knee. ‘Unless she had something to do with the scarred man.’
She flinched at his mention of Volkov’s henchman.
‘I don’t know who that is.’
‘Don’t bother with a denial – it’s written all over your face. Honestly, I think I know you better than you know yourself.’ He reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear before she could flinch away. ‘By the way, you’re a terrible liar. I don’t know how you persuaded this tattooed Russian to do it, what you did for him, but I know you were involved. Where did you meet him? In a bar? Was he offering his services on the Internet?’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
‘How much did you pay him? Or are you fucking him, is that it?’
‘I’ve never –’
‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’re fucking this man with the scar across his head. You know, when he kidnapped me, he said something which didn’t make sense at the time. After they’d bound and gagged me, just as he was closing the boot of his car. He looked down at me and said something in Russian. I can only assume he thought I wouldn’t understand.’
Lovelock moved closer to her along the sofa.
‘Unfortunately for you – and him – I spent a year at Moscow State University in my younger days and I still have a basic grasp of the language. Don’t you want to know what he said?’
‘What?’
‘Milaya molodaya vrach zhelaet Vam vsego nailuchshego. Which means: “The pretty little doctor sends you her very best wishes”.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘So who do you think he might have meant? The pretty little doctor?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Her heart was thudding so hard in her chest that it was painful. ‘It could be anyone, any number of people.’
He shook his head, slowly.
‘I don’t think so. Not when I thought about the timing of all this, and your reaction to my text messages and then to my miraculous return from the grave. And now you’re completely and utterly unable to give anything even close to a convincing denial. That just about clinches it.’
‘So – so what are you going to do?’
‘Well, the police caught this Russian thug with me in the boot of his car, so one assumes that there is no danger from him anymore. Caught red-handed, you could say. He will have a trial, and he will go to jail – perhaps he’ll give them your name, perhaps not. But I do know one thing: I’ve spent a lot of time talking to the police in the last thirty-six hours. And you know what?’ He held his thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart. ‘They are this close to arresting you, Sarah.’
55
Her fear was razor sharp, like a splinter of ice in her spine.
‘The only reason they haven’t is because I’ve not told them about the Russian’s remark yet. I haven’t told them about the “pretty little doctor” he mentioned as his parting shot. But I will tell the police – unless you start to play fair with me.’
Play fair. She had always been fascinated by the euphemisms people used to disguise their behaviour. She let her eyes wander to the top of the bookcase, where the black-handled carving knife lay just out of sight. Two steps across the room and she could reach up and grab it, and before he knew what was going on she could bury it in his chest up to the hilt, slide it in between his ribs, she could claim self-defence and –
No. That was madness. She had wished him dead once already and that had landed her here, catapulting her from one impossible situation to another.
‘It’s not true,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘If you think I’m bluffing, how about I just tell the police what I know?’
She couldn’t look at him.
‘Why would you do that?’
‘It’s just like whist, my dear. You played your king, and now I’m playing my ace. You lose.’
She fought to keep the fear out of her voice. Don’t let him hear that. But it was impossible.
‘I’m sorry for what happened to you but I have no idea what –’
‘Enough! We’re going to have a new relationship, you and me. A relationship where you stop saying no and start saying yes.’ He leaned closer, grabbing her arm.
She flinched away but his other hand gripped her shoulder hard, keeping her frozen in place.
Stay calm, just stay calm, don’t let this happen, don’t let him do this –
‘Alan, you’re hurting me. Please.’
His breathing was heavy, his neck flushed red.
She almost cried out as he gripped her breast, pinching the nipple hard between his thumb and forefinger. Abruptly he released his grip and grabbed her hand, putting her palm on the crotch of his trousers. Holding it there, pushing it against the hardness of his erection.
‘You like that?’ he said, his voice thick. ‘Good. Very good.’
Her voice was small and breathless and she hated the sound of it in her own ears.
‘Please – please don’t hurt me.’
Dad, I need you. Nick. Laura. Someone, anyone.
Please help me.
Please.
Lovelock leaned forward until his mouth was inches from her ear, his breath hot and damp against the side of her face. The sour stench of whisky.
‘You made this personal. You did that. You upped the stakes. So even when you beg me to stop, I’m not going to.’
And then he was kissing her roughly, his stubble scratching against her cheek, pushing her back into the sofa, his thin lips slavering against her neck and ear as she turned away. His hand on her breast again, clutching, pinching painfully at the skin beneath her blouse. The sharp tang of his sweat was almost overpowering. She felt his bulk pressing in on her and tried to squirm away from him, fearing her heart would burst it was pounding so hard. The fear had turned from a distant abstract worry about the police to a bright blinding terror of what was about to happen.
So this is it. This is the destination. He’s going to rape me in my own home, right here on my sofa.
She tried to remember what you were supposed to do to survive a situation like this. Comply. Don’t antagonise. Stay calm. Don’t fight.
‘Alan, not here, not –’
‘Shut up. Shut up. You don’t talk anymore. I do the talking. I’m going to tell you how things are going to work between us from now on. Starting today, you are going to do what you are told, when you are told.’
He kissed her again, stubble rasping her neck, his big hands pushing her back into the sofa. His hands on her, all over her, grabbing and squeezing, pushing her legs apart and gripping her thighs so hard she knew she would find bruises later. Sarah felt the world slowing down around her, everything zeroing into this one point of focus. She was frozen to the spot, her limbs heavy and her heart slamming against her ribcage. Shutting her eyes, she turned away from him, desperate to avoid the incipient violence she could feel heavy in his hands.
Stay calm. Don’t antagonise. His rage is one spark away from an explosion.
She became aware, suddenly, of a skittering noise on the wooden parquet floor. And that he had stopped kissing her.
She opened her eyes.
Jonesy, her ginger tomcat, was crouched in the corner, growling. For a moment she thought he was growling at them, but then he turned and she saw he had something large and grey in his mouth. A fat-breasted pigeon hung limp in his jaws, one wing splayed at an unnatural angle. Jonesy continued to growl, lowering his head to the floor. Blood dripped from the bird’s feathers.
Lovelock released his grip on her and Sarah quickly moved away from him down the sofa.
Jonesy dropped the injured bird to the floor.
Immediately, the pigeon burst back into life and launched itself towards the curtained window in a mad frenzy of flapping, wingbeats slashing at the furniture, grey feathers flying everywhere. Lovelock cried out in alarm and threw his hands up to protect his face as the pigeon hit the curtain, wings flapping furiously, then came away again before settling on the curtain pole at the top of the window.
Jonesy went to the foot of the curtain, his growl deep in his chest.
Thank you, you big daft cat, Sarah thought. Thank you, Jonesy. Now please let this be an end to this situation. Please let it break the spell.
Lovelock moved to the door as if he was going to leave. Sarah was about to say a silent prayer of thanks when he grabbed her roughly by the wrist.
‘Upstairs,’ he hissed. ‘Where’s the master bedroom?’
Hopes dashed, she felt her knees buckle, the weakness returning as she desperately tried to think of a way of diverting him, distracting him, to stop this. She had to delay him, put him off. She had to come up with something, anything, to avoid what was about to happen.
‘Bedroom,’ he said again, only this time it wasn’t a question but an order. He began dragging her towards the stairs.
Think.
‘Not now,’ Sarah said, her voice cracking. She was a heartbeat away from collapsing in tears.
‘What?’
‘The kids are going to be home with my dad any minute.’
He snorted.
‘Well then, my dear, we’d better be quick.’
He reached the first step, dragging her behind him.
‘Please, Alan, I’m begging you. Not here, not in my house where my children might walk in at any moment.’
‘What?’
‘Just not in my house, please. Let’s go somewhere we won’t be disturbed. Let’s go to your house, I’ll come with you.’
He stopped on the second step, looking at his watch.
‘Caroline’s at home this afternoon.’
Say something, anything, to stop this going further.
‘I mean, not today but how about an evening? At your house.’
He considered this for a moment.
‘Caroline’s going to see her mother this weekend. We’d have the house all to ourselves.’
‘Saturday, then?’
He smiled, slowly, a wolfish grin revealing his teeth. Nodded to himself.
‘Yes. A weekly arrangement, with an inaugural event on Saturday evening. Then once a week, every week, you’ll come to my office. We’ll lock the door, I’ll sit back and you’ll get down on your knees and go to work.’ He leaned forward so his face was inches from hers, his reeking breath in her nostrils. ‘Or on your back. Perhaps on your front. Perhaps all three. Every week, until I get bored of you.’
There was a tremendous crash and caterwauling from the lounge and a moment later Jonesy reappeared, the flapping pigeon clamped firmly in his mouth again. Lovelock aimed a vicious kick at him but the tomcat was too quick, running in
between them and up the stairs, leaving a trail of dark blood drops on the beige carpet.
‘Saturday evening,’ Lovelock said finally, releasing her from his grip.
He slammed the door on his way out.
56
Sarah wasn’t sure how long she stayed behind the locked bathroom door. She washed and washed her face again and again, trying to get his smell off her, to get his stink out of her nostrils. Her head was pounding and her throat painful from held-back sobs – but she knew that if she started crying, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
She stripped off her cardigan and blouse, throwing them in the washing basket, before finally unlocking the bathroom door and heading to her bedroom to find something clean to wear. It was only then she saw the mess that Jonesy had left on the landing. The remains of the pigeon – most of the wings, head and feathers, with dark trails of blood and God knew what else – were scattered across the faded carpet.
‘Shit!’ she shouted to the empty house. ‘Shit! Shit!’
She found a plastic bag, put her hand inside it and gathered up the parts of the bird that her tomcat had not eaten, before turning the bag inside out and tying it closed. Then she filled a bucket with water and detergent and knelt on her hands and knees on the landing, scrubbing and scrubbing at the mess with a sponge, trying to get rid of the blood and guts and only succeeding in soaking the worn beige stair carpet a deep brown. Still she continued scrubbing and wringing out and soaking and scrubbing because it gave her hands something to do.
She knew, at the back of her mind, that she was doing what she always tried to do when troubles threatened to overcome her: stay busy, keep her mind occupied so that it wouldn’t dwell on the worst of it. Find a distraction and push everything else away.
But today it wasn’t working.
Because she could still smell his acrid sweat in the hall and in the lounge and on the stairs.
She could still feel the scratch of his stubble on her cheeks and neck.
And she had the same thought going round and around inside her head, the same image burned onto her retinas: Lovelock leaning towards her, with his bloodshot eyes and broken-vein cheeks, holding his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart.