by Linda Coles
The train slowed to a complete standstill and people shuffled out, distracting him, making his thoughts scatter inside his head. When the carriage had almost emptied, he chanced a look back to see if she had left with everyone else, but she hadn’t. She was still sat there. Not knowing what else to do, he simply nodded in her direction, which she seemed to enjoy, and even though she turned her head away from him, he could see her smile had widened via the reflection in the window. Perhaps she was shy, embarrassed even? There wasn’t anything else he felt able to do. He wasn’t like other men in the confidence department. No, he’d see where she got off, he decided, and if it was before his stop that would be the end of it. He rested his head back and closed his eyes once more for the remainder of the journey, not daring to look her way again.
As he felt the train finally pull into his station, he gathered his belongings and edged his way to the door, keeping his eyes averted. But there are too many windows on a train not to see a reflection.
That was how he saw her getting off at the same stop as his.
Chapter Fourteen
Taylor finally stopped panicking and stood rigid in the centre of the room. Stolen her hair? How could that even be? And who would want it? And what did the card mean – ‘settled’? So many questions she hadn’t answers for fizzed in her head like freshly poured Fanta, though without the zing. Her hands tentatively touched her scalp again for confirmation of what she already knew, hoping she’d been wrong when she’d looked in the mirror. But mirrors never lie, and neither did her hands. The stump that was left was still secured neatly there. The rest of her hair was gone. She wiped away a tear, which was quickly followed by another. Transfixed, she watched them fall through the air and splash onto the thick carpet. Picking the notelet back up, feeling the cool, crisp card in her fingers, she re-read the message again out loud.
Your debt has been settled. I’d advise you to tell no one. It wouldn’t be wise.
“My debt?” Those damn questions with no answers.
She glanced at the curled-up sandwiches and the silver pot, which she assumed contained tea, although it was probably cold. While she had no intention of sampling anything, the silver pot reminded her of one thing – her tea appointment who had never shown up. Could he be linked to this, perhaps? Her mind conjured up possibilities that made no sense. Why would he be involved? She hadn’t seen him in person, but she had met his assistant. And there was yet another question – had the man indeed been his assistant? And the driver in the fancy Mercedes –had he been real too? What the hell was going on? Deflated, she sat down heavily on the sofa where she had woken up only minutes ago. The simple fact of the matter was that, while her hair had been stolen, she was otherwise unharmed. She picked up the empty cup and took it to the bathroom to fill with water. Her mouth was parched, and if she had been drugged at some point, she wasn’t about to risk what might be in the pot. The cold water felt refreshing as it slid down her throat, and she refilled the cup again, sipping it more slowly now that her initial thirst had been quenched, and returned to the sofa.
“Drugged? Me? But why?”
Daring herself, she ran her fingers through the little stump of hair, pulling the hair tie out as they forced their way through the clump that was left. The hair tie pinged off to the side and landed on the carpet. She stared at it. It was black and gold. Her little topknot fanned forward as she bent to look at the tie more closely. She didn’t recognize it as one of her own, which raised another question. Had it been bought solely for the purpose of restraining her hair before it had been cut? Had this all been planned, premeditated? Was she part of some sort of vile game, herself the victim? Definitely not the winner if she was.
She pulled the woollen blanket around her shoulders, suddenly feeling chilled, and wondered what to do. The card had said it wouldn’t be wise to tell anyone, but she needed to tell. How could she not? If she’d been taken against her will, drugged and robbed, the person or persons involved needed to be caught before they did it to someone else. But what would happen to her if she did tell and go the police? The card had been specific in it being ‘unwise.’ Was she prepared to find out? Resting her head on the sofa back, she closed her eyes and tried to make sense of what she should do. Stay and call her mother and the police, or go, forget all about it and not risk any possible repercussions? If it had been an elaborate set-up, preplanned, there would be no evidence of any wrongdoing in the room, she was sure. And that would make her look like a madwoman who had lost her hair, the victim of a prank and nothing more. And whoever was responsible clearly had had no intention of harming her physically or restraining her; the blanket and food along with the unlocked door told her so.
On steadier legs, she stood, put her feet in her shoes, grabbed her bag and let herself out of the hotel room.
Chapter Fifteen
The light outside was almost completely faded and a cool chill clung to her thin cardigan as she stood in the hotel doorway. She shivered involuntarily, not all together sure which direction to turn in. Back inside and report it? Or towards home and forget about it? A male voice at her side made her jump. Turning in the direction of the voice, she relaxed a little when she saw it was the doorman from earlier in the day.
“I’m sorry?”
“I asked if you were alright, Miss. You’re shivering.” His smile was warm, but not enough to warm her right through. And he was looking at her a little oddly, like he recognized her but something troubled him. She remembered her hair.
Pausing a moment before she spoke, she replied, “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” Should she ask him a question about earlier? Would he know anything? As she stood in the doorway, still undecided on her direction, she figured if the doorman had been a part of whatever it was she was involved in, he’d have been long gone by now. Maybe he’d remember something. Turning towards the older man again, she asked, “Do you remember me arriving earlier, by any chance?”
“Yes, Miss. I do. I let you out of the car.”
Right – that memory returned to her, at least. “Yes, you did. Thank you. Do you know the driver of that car? Have you ever seen it or him before?”
“No, Miss, can’t say that I do, but then we have a lot of black Mercedes dropping guests off. Is everything alright?” The corners of his eyes were crinkly with age, the irises a comforting hazel colour. She knew she could trust him.
“You didn’t happen to see a tall grey-haired man, probably in his seventies, come in here by chance, did you? Quite a distinguished-looking man, very stylish?”
The doorman thought for a moment and shook his head. “No, Miss, but he may have come while I was on my break. I’ve been back about an hour. Are you sure you’re all right? You seem a little nervous, upset even. Can I get you a taxi somewhere, perhaps?”
Ignoring his question and concern, she asked, “Is there another entrance to the hotel?”
“Not for guests. Only the rear entrance, but that’s mainly for staff. You know, for deliveries and the like. He wouldn’t have entered that way.” The doorman scratched his chin as he thought. “Though he could have if he’d wanted to, I suppose. Highly unusual, though. Why would anyone enter that way?”
Why indeed.
Taylor still had no answers to the fizzing questions, but as exhaustion settled into her bones, she knew what she was going to do next.
“I think I’d like that taxi home, please.”
“It will be my pleasure, Miss,” the doorman said, and she watched as the kindly man hailed her a cab.
When the taxi had pulled away from the curb, he stood and watched the vehicle disappear off into the distance, the taillights eventually fading to the size of red pinheads. The big question that hung on his heart surfaced again. What had happened to her beautiful hair? It had been the same woman for sure; he wasn’t such an old fool to have forgotten it so easily – the colour was glorious. But it was none of his business. Another car pulled up and he greeted its occupants in his usual way.
Back to work, and back to normal.
Chapter Sixteen
Steam from the bathtub filled her small bathroom and she added a dash of lavender bubble bath; the white bubbles foamed up on contact with the water gushing in. Somehow, she’d given the taxi driver her address and unlocked the door to her flat, though she didn’t remember any of it. Maybe her brain was still addled from whatever she’d been given earlier. She climbed into the tub and the warm water got to work on warming and soothing her aching limbs. Stress can do odd things to a person, show itself in odd ways, and Taylor started to shiver uncontrollably as she lowered herself further in. Slipping down so her shoulders were completely submerged, she let out a deep breath and closed her eyes. The lavender smelled good, the warm water felt good, but she didn’t feel good.
After a few minutes, the warmth began to soothe her, and she let her head slip down into the water. Her roughly cropped hair floated around the back of her head, no longer able to fan out around the front like it used to do. It felt so strange. What the hell was her mother going to say tomorrow when she saw it? Taylor knew she’d be horrified, upset, mad even, but hadn’t a clue how to tell her what had really happened.
It wouldn’t be wise to tell.
No, she’d have to make her excuses, which in itself didn’t sit well. Lying to her parents was something she had never done, even as a teenager growing up. Lies meant you didn’t respect that person, and respect was something she had in spades for both of them. Whatever she’d got up to through the years she’d lived at home growing up, she’d told the truth and suffered any consequences that had followed. Even though her close friends had encouraged deceitfulness, she’d never obliged them. Her mother had bored it into her: ‘With lies you may go ahead in the world, but you can never go back.’
Yet she couldn’t face telling them the whole truth.
Feeling terribly ashamed at having been taken in, she sank her whole head under the bubbles, screwing her face up completely so as not to inhale any water, and there she stayed until she could hold her breath no longer.
“Bwahhh!” she hollered as she broke the surface of the water in a rush. Water sloshed over the sides of the tub and soaked the floor. She gulped air in frantically, trying to refill her lungs with much-needed oxygen. Startling herself, she sat shaking. Involuntarily her face screwed up like a child’s, her mouth forced down at the corners, and wracking great sobs erupted from her chest. Tears mixed with lavender water on her face as she let it all out in the sanctuary of her warm bathroom. With no one to hear her cries, she sobbed until she had nothing left to give, and the water had cooled enough to add to her misery. When she was finally depleted, she opened the plug and stepped out of the tub and into her robe. Feeling as tired as she could ever remember, Taylor curled up on her bed. What was left of her hair soaked her pillow, but that was the least of her concerns as she finally drifted into a deep slumber.
Chapter Seventeen
When the notification had come that his transaction was ready to be finalized, Terrance poured himself a martini and took it downstairs with him. He never referred to the room as a cellar; that sounded dank and fusty. But like a cellar, the room was underneath the main kitchen of the house. Few people knew it existed; certainly, none of the current staff did, and years ago it hadn’t held the same things it did now. No, he’d kept his interests away from the house back then – that is, until he’d taken on the place as his own. Then he’d done with it what he liked. And the room had been fitted out. Working after hours, the builder, carpenter, electrician, glazier and others had been paid handsomely to never mention the room to anyone, and as far as Terrance knew, they hadn’t.
Leading off the main passageway towards the old coal cellar further along was a door that no passerby would notice; it had been built to match the walls completely. Terrance raised his hand to find the small lever hidden by a beam. The wall slid back and the faint glow behind it spilled out into the corridor. Terrance stood in the doorway a moment to admire his collection from a distance before entering the room fully and appreciating it in its entirety. The door slowly closed behind him as he ventured forward to his wing chair in the centre of the room. It was the only piece of furniture in there save for the purpose-built cabinets that spanned each of the four walls. The chair stood on a circular plinth that rotated 360 degrees, enabling the person seated there to view any wall they chose by pressing a button.
Built of a rich, dark oak, each cabinet was divided up into three separate display cases stood on top of each other; each stacked unit was wide enough to span the entire width of the wall against which it stood. Most of the display cases were filled, leaving only a handful still empty. The brass hinges and knobs of each case gleamed in the light that came from strategically placed wall lights, giving the room an almost golden glow. The temperature of the room was always perfect: never too warm and absolutely never too cold. Placing his martini on the little table that shared the plinth with the chair, he sat down to experience the room in its entirety. He sank back, let out a deep, low sigh and pressed the button, relishing the anticipation. Ever so slowly, the chair turned, giving him a full 360-degree view of all of the items that he had collected over the years, each one with a different story attached to it.
Of course, things had changed, and his collection had increased in recent years thanks to what he’d been able to find on the dark web. It really had been a revelation to find others with similar wants and needs, as well as a way to procure for his own private collection, and all from the comfort of his own home. He barely needed to be involved in anything else but the receiving of his purchases.
The chair continued to rotate and he smiled as the very first piece of his collection came in to view. It was old now, though still just as beautiful as the day he’d taken ownership of it, and it sat displayed in cabinet number 1. There was a small plaque just above the glass, though he didn’t need to read it; he knew exactly what it said.
Prudence.
She had been the first, the catalyst for his whim, and she’d been very giving of it.
Eventually.
He took a sip of the martini as the plinth turned slowly. It wouldn’t be long now until his new arrival would take one of those reserved places and he could sit and appreciate it from his sanctuary. The thought pleased him; he felt a smile creasing his lips, a familiar stirring in his groin. She had been so delightful, so pretty. But before a cabinet was allocated with the rest of his collection, he’d have the pleasure of her in the privacy of his bed tonight.
He wondered what she’d smell of.
Picking up the remainder of his drink, he stood from the chair and headed back towards the hidden doorway. Before the lights dimmed as he left, he turned and took one last glance into the room to admire his collection so far.
Shining back at him silently, the thirty perfectly displayed glorious ponytails faded slowly as the golden lights dipped. He put a finger to his lips as he bid them good night.
Chapter Eighteen
It was nearly 8 pm when a text alerted him to a delivery arriving within the hour. Always ambiguous, never with a singular meaning, the text disappeared within seconds of him reading it. No one could ever know about the service he sought for his fulfilment, and as always, he was appreciative of the tight security. Since he’d begun using the services of the group, he’d never known the identity of any of the other participants. Each of them had a username that probably made sense to them alone and no one else. Take his own, for example: “Quinine.” Nearly 200 years before, Joseph Dubonnet had invented his eponymous drink as a means to make quinine more palatable for soldiers battling malaria in North Africa. Quinine on its own is extremely bitter, though Terrance didn’t see himself that way – quite the opposite, in fact – but the link to Dubonnet, however circuitous, was why he’d chosen the name.
Leaving his phone on his bedside cabinet, he headed through to the full-size bathroom adjacent to his room and drew himself a bath. At any other time of the day or n
ight, he used the shower, the raindrop head allowing him the enjoyment of warm running water on his skin without the intrusion of invigorating jets. But on a night such as this, while he awaited his acquisition, he took sanctuary in the palatial room that the queen herself would have enjoyed bathing in. It had been planned out and designed meticulously, and nothing had been forgotten in the effort to make it a room of enjoyment. There was no toilet in this room, for obvious reasons; that was in a room of its own next door. Instead, a chaise longue sat proudly along the rear wall with soft, muted grey throw cushions neatly placed on top; a soft woollen blanket was folded and placed at the foot of it. The bath, with modern claw feet, sat in the centre of the room; cream shag pile carpet surrounded it. Brushed bronze tapware adorned the ceramic fittings, and bronze accessories adorned the room on shelves and small tables, along with a bronze bust of a woman watching over him from the left corner of the room. A picture of the same woman hung on the opposite wall, placed as though to allow the two to look at each other.
Terrance watched as steaming water filled the tub from a bronze horse-head spout, the waterfall cascading therapeutically and mixing with the infused oil he so enjoyed. Lime and basil filled his nostrils. He loved the simple smells rather than more elaborate manufactured perfumes, and that went for fragrances on women, too. He’d much rather catch a vanilla bean on the wind than the cloying odour of something from an expensive bottle; it had more substance. He had fond memories of simple smells from when he was a boy, like Pears shampoo. ‘Fruits from the orchard,’ she’d told him when he’d admired the smell many years ago.
He stepped into the warm bath and laid his head back on the soft-towelled headrest; it was heated, and the warmth it emitted helped to relax him further. Classic music, the tinkling of piano keys, could just be heard coming from the hidden speakers on each side of his head. The muted lighting, the feel of infused water and oil on his skin and the gentle piano playing in the background was the therapy he needed before he welcomed his new addition.