The Liar's Promise

by Mark Tilbury

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘It’s bribery.’

  ‘What clothes are you wearing?’

  ‘Dungarees and a white tee-shirt.’

  ‘What colour are the dungarees?’

  ‘Red.’

  ‘That’s a nice bright colour. Do you like bright clothes.’

  She nodded. ‘Grey is for grannies.’

  ‘What colour is your hair?’

  Chloe picked up her hair and held it in front of her closed eyes. ‘Blonde.’

  ‘I like blonde hair.’

  ‘I prefer pink.’

  ‘That’s a strange colour.’

  ‘It’s not. I’ll dye it as soon as I get away from home.’

  ‘Why do you want to leave home?’

  ‘Because my parents don’t have a clue.’

  ‘They probably only want what’s best for you.’

  ‘That’s what my gran says. But it’s not true. They only want what’s best for them. So as they can show me off when their friends ask about me.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Amy.’

  ‘That’s a pretty name.’

  ‘It’s a granny name.’

  ‘You seem to dislike old people.’

  ‘Not really. I just don’t want to be one.’

  ‘What’s your surname?’

  ‘Constable.’

  ‘How old are you, Amy?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘Do you still go to school?’

  ‘Worse luck. But I’m leaving this summer.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go to art school.’

  ‘You like art, then?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Do you paint or draw?’

  ‘I sketch stuff and then paint it in after.’

  ‘You must be very talented.’

  ‘Deluded, more like. That’s what my parents reckon, anyway.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t understand.’

  ‘They want me to be a pharmacist.’

  ‘Sounds like a good job.’

  ‘More like a waste of life.’

  ‘Pharmacists are important.’

  ‘So are toilet cleaners, but I don’t want to be one.’

  ‘If you could have one wish, what would it be, Amy?’

  ‘To leave home.’

  ‘Can’t wait to be grown up, eh?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Where are you right now?’

  ‘In Keeble’s field.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘I’ve been drawing a horse.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I can see that now. It’s superb.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Whereabouts do you live, Amy?’

  ‘Woking.’

  ‘Do you like Woking?’

  ‘No. It’s boring. I want to go to London one day.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because… London is like Saturday night; Woking is like Monday morning.’

  ‘That’s a rather poetic way of describing it. Could you do me a favour, Amy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want you to imagine you’re a little older now.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘What’s the oldest you can imagine yourself being?’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘Why twenty-one?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Did something happen to you when you were that age?’

  A slight pause. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Did you get to leave home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I was sixteen. In the summer. I packed up my art stuff in my satchel, took my savings, and caught a train to London.’

  ‘That was a brave thing to do.’

  ‘Dumb, more like.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s where I met him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t know what his real name was, but he said it was Thomas Kowalski.’

  ‘That’s a strange name.’

  ‘Said he was Polish.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He had a beard and moustache. Tall. Pot belly. But it was all a disguise.’

  ‘Why would he be wearing a disguise?’

  ‘So no one would recognise him. There’s cameras everywhere these days.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he want anyone to recognise him?’

  ‘Because he lured me away to Oxford. Reckoned he had a sister in Oxford. Said she used to teach art and had connections to the Oxford Academy of Art. I couldn’t believe my luck.’

  ‘But he was lying?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. A lying piece of scum. But like a gullible fool, I trusted him. It was as if all my dreams had come true. I would finally get a break. Show my parents they were wrong. Get enrolled at this academy and my life would take off like a hot air balloon. Trouble is, that’s all it was: hot air.’

  ‘How does that make you feel now?’

  ‘Stupid. Cheated. Worthless.’

  ‘So, you went back to Oxford with this Thomas Kowalski?’

  ‘We caught the train.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘He had a car parked at the train station. We drove back to his house.’

  ‘Do you know where the house was?’

  ‘It was about half an hour away from the station. He said it was his sister’s house, but that was a lie.’

  ‘No sister?’

  ‘No. The house was all dark. He said she was visiting friends or something. But it just didn’t feel right.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I kept thinking about was how I would get to live my stupid dream. How I would make my parents eat their words when I returned home and told them about my enrolment at the art academy.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with having a dream.’

  ‘There is if you wind up dead.’

  ‘What happened after you got back to his house?’

  ‘He was being nice. The perfect gentleman. He allowed me to have a shower. Let me use his supposed sister’s bathrobe. Treated me like frigging royalty. But it was all an act.’

  ‘He sounds very devious.’

  Chloe laughed. A harsh sound that had no business in a four-year-old child’s throat. ‘That’s the understatement of the year. But how was I to know? He spun me a load of crap about his family being wiped out in the Second World War. How most of them got gassed in the concentration camps. Only him and his sister survived after getting smuggled out of Poland in a cattle truck. I doubt if he’s even been to Poland.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He didn’t even have an accent. Reckoned he was grateful to England for giving him the chance to live a free and fair life.’

  ‘I take it you never got to meet his sister?’

  ‘I told you, there wasn’t one. It was all just a part of his lies. He made me tea. Chicken salad with new potatoes. And then he offered me a glass of wine. Taking that glass of wine was the biggest mistake of my life.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was no longer in control. By the time I was halfway down the third glass, my head was spinning. At first, I felt great. Happy. About to do what I’d always wanted. I spilled some of the wine down my chin. When I tried to wipe it, I couldn’t coordinate my hands properly. He moved in and out of focus. One minute he was sitting opposite me, the next, he was on the far side of the room.’

  ‘How did that make you feel?’

  ‘Scared.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I must have passed out. Next thing I remember is waking up on a bed wearing a hideous purple tracksuit. My hands were cuffed to the headboard. I felt as sick as a dog. My head was thumping. My eyes were stinging. I’ve no idea what he put in the wine. Enough to knock me out.’

  ‘So much for dreams.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘What do you remember about the room?’

&nbs
p; ‘It was full of old stuff. Antique furniture. Dark blue curtains. An ornamental thing around the light. The carpet was dark blue like the curtains. The bed was soft. There was a picture on the wall. An oil painting of a woman.’

  ‘His sister, perhaps?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘I want you to rest for a while, Amy. Enjoy the sunshine. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Gavin Westwood turned away from Chloe and sat at the desk. He took a fresh pad out of the drawer and wrote, Jesus Christ, Peter, that’s your spare room she’s describing.

  King looked as if he’d just witnessed the Second Coming. He scribbled on his own pad and held it up. She can’t know this. It’s not possible.

  Westwood followed suit and held his pad up. Are you Thomas Kowalski?

  King didn’t respond..

  Are you?

  King nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

  What have you done to her?

  That’s my business.

  For goodness’ sake, Peter. Murder?

  Do I question your sordid activities?

  Westwood didn’t respond.

  Then kindly refrain from questioning mine.

  At least I’ve killed no one.

  No; you just molest them and film it for your perverted friends to drool over.

  It’s hardly the same.

  How can a kid barely out of nappies know all this?

  Because she’s lived it.

  King shook his head. But dead is dead. Kaput. Ashes to ashes.

  The Lord moves in mysterious ways.

  Don’t you dare bring religion to my door. God’s little more than a scare tactic dreamt up to keep the masses in line.

  Do you want me to stop?

  No.

  Westwood sighed and dropped his pad on the desk.

  28

  Chloe appeared to be asleep when King and Westwood finished their short notepad conversation. Her head had flopped to one side, and Ruby Rag Doll had fallen onto the floor. Mel stared, unblinking, at the blades of light slicing through the venetian blinds.

  King sat at the desk, pencil and pad at the ready, eyes fixed on Chloe.

  Westwood addressed the child. ‘Hello again, Amy.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Are you enjoying the sunshine?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You remember we were talking about the man who handcuffed you to the bed?’

  Chloe nodded and fidgeted in her mother’s lap.

  ‘Apart from telling you his name was Thomas Kowalski, did he mention any other names?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Clean shaven and thinner than when he picked me up at Paddington Station. Tall. Not much hair. Long face.’

  ‘Did he tell you why he’d tied you up on the bed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘He said, “Good morning, Purple-five. I trust you are well.” Then he left. I wanted a drink. My throat was parched. My whole body ached as if I had flu. Next time I saw him it was pitch-dark. He turned the bedroom light on and pointed a gun at me. He told me that if I so much as moved a muscle without his permission he would blow my head off.’

  ‘That must have been terrifying for you. What happened next?’

  ‘He released me and made me walk downstairs to the garage. He then forced me into the boot of his car.’

  ‘Was it the same car he brought you back from Oxford in?’

  ‘No. That was a small one. Maybe a Fiesta or a Nova. This one was a shiny dark blue BMW, I think. Posh-nob’s car. I remember the first part of the registration number. It was X13. Unlucky for some! I kept telling him I was claustrophobic and suffered from panic attacks, but he just laughed and told me he wouldn’t charge me for curing phobias.’

  ‘All heart!’

  ‘He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’s a selfish, evil piece of work. All I kept thinking about was how I’d ended up in the deepest shit possible because of my stupid dream to become an artist.’

  ‘It’s not stupid, Amy. It’s what you wanted to do.’

  ‘And look where it got me.’

  ‘You weren’t to know that.’

  ‘And that makes it all right?’

  ‘We all make mistakes.’

  ‘Not like this. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’

  ‘It’s all right. You’re safe now. I promise.’

  ‘Men always make promises they can’t keep.’

  ‘Not all men, Amy.’

  ‘I had a boyfriend once. Danny Clayton. He promised he would love me forever. Said I was beautiful.’

  ‘That’s a nice thing to say.’

  ‘Next thing, he’s going out with my best friend.’

  ‘People change, Amy. That’s just part of growing up.’

  ‘You can’t trust anyone.’

  ‘You can trust me.’

  ‘My parents only liked me when I was doing what they wanted me to do. Soon as I dared to want something for myself, they tried to bully me. Bribe me. Threaten me. But I didn’t want to be a bloody pharmacist. It’s what they wanted.’

  ‘I’m sure they only meant well.’

  ‘If they’d only supported me, encouraged me, I’d never have run away from home in the first place.’

  ‘Where did the man take you?’

  ‘Don’t know. It felt like forever locked in that boot. He made me get out at the back of a big building. Apart from a security light, it was pretty dark. He unlocked a small white door next to a fire exit and forced me inside. Then we walked down some stone steps to a large wooden door. He unlocked it and made me walk through this huge room with all these coloured squares painted on the floor. There was a large cage and some old-fashioned wooden stocks pushed against one wall. I kept begging him to let me go, but he ignored me. He unlocked another door at the far end of the room and told me to go inside.’

  After a long pause, Westwood asked what happened next.

  ‘I did as he asked. He had a fucking gun, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘What was in the room?’

  ‘Three other women. All asleep on bunk beds. He told me to take the vacant bottom bunk beneath Turquoise-three.’

  ‘Turquoise-three? What sort of name is that?’

  ‘Everyone had a colour and a number.’

  ‘But why three?’

  ‘Because the two previous ones were dead. Murdered.’

  ‘By this man?’

  ‘Him and his sick game.’

  ‘What game?’

  ‘One False Move. He plays it with another man. They sit at the side of the painted squares and roll dice. We were used as game pieces to move around the board to the value of the dice. Then they ask each other questions.’

  ‘What sort of questions?’

  ‘About Shakespeare. If they answered correctly, they were allowed to move to the value printed on the question card. The whole idea is to reach the centre of the stage in the middle of the squares. It’s like Trivial Pursuit, only, well… evil. To make it more… interesting, there are Death Squares and Punishment Squares, so God help you if you land on one of those.’

  ‘What happens if you do?’

  ‘The Death Square’s obvious, isn’t it? The Punishment Squares can mean anything from spending a day in the stocks, to being tied to the whipping post or tortured in the cage.’

  ‘Good God!’ Westwood said, his voice losing its smooth buttery texture.

  ‘They dress up like something out of a history book. They call each other Shakespeare and Marlowe, and keep scores on cards with quills dipped in blood. They’re fucking sick.’

  ‘That’s rich!’ King shouted.

  Chloe stiffened in her mother’s lap. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘No one,’ Westwood assured her.

  ‘He’s here.’

  ‘He’s not, Amy. It’s just your mind playing tricks.’

  ‘You promised me I was safe.
’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘You lied.’

  ‘I didn’t. You’re only hearing him because your memory is triggering the sound of his voice. He’s not here for real. He’s not allowed.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘God wouldn’t allow such a man to come to His special place.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Let’s have a break. Relax and enjoy the lovely sunshine for a while.’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘You will, Amy. I promise. Just as soon as we’ve finished.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’ve brought me here.’

  ‘It’s part of the healing process. It will help you to move on.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A better place.’

  ‘Am I dead?’

  ‘The spirit never dies. It just moves on. Let’s do some deep breathing to help you relax.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Slowly. Rhythmically. I’m going to count back from ten to one. When I get to one, you will be relaxed. With each exhalation, I want you to release all the tension and fear inside you. Cast it to the wind. Be rid of it forever.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Westwood counted back, watching Chloe relax in her mother’s lap. When he reached one, he told her to be still and breathe deeply. Let the sunshine pour into her, and the stress flow out of her. ‘Sunshine in, Stress out. Sunshine in, stress out.’

  After a few minutes, he walked back to his desk and sat down. He wrote on the pad: Do you want to jeopardise the whole thing?

  I won’t be insulted by the likes of her!

  If you want me to continue, you’d better leave the room.

  Why?

  Because we’re about to take this child back to the point of her death. Do you want to kill her?

  King didn’t reply. He put the notepad down, folded his arms across his chest, and dared Gavin Westwood, with a well-practised look of contempt and derision, to utter another word.

  29

  ‘Hi, Amy. It’s me again.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I only want what’s best for you. To help you to heal.’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘You can’t go home just yet.’

  ‘I want to see my mum.’

  ‘You’ll see her soon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When this is over.’