The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Stupidity, yes, but never stupid enough to accept a lift. She must have refused. She must have turned away. But she remembered nothing else until she opened her eyes, looking up at a bare light bulb and a ceiling painted a sultry copper brown. The paint flaked. Then a light finger touch patted her upper arm, and a tentative whisper asked, “Is you mine, miss?”

  Neither gagged nor any longer doped, Eve shouted, “What? No. I’m not anybody’s.”

  The little voice said. “Sorry, miss. I thought you was my new one.”

  She tried to sit up but couldn’t, roll over, she couldn’t do that either. She was roped to a bed by her wrists, ankles, waist and neck. Eve couldn’t move and started to cry. Heaving lumps of panic and misery choked her, she cried for hours. No one touched her, and the shy voice went away.

  Although the passing of time was unknowable and no window or clock existed in the room, Eve thought it might be the next day when she smelled toast. Footsteps pattered, and the timid voice whispered again. “They says you is my new one. All mine, they says. So I bring brekky. You likes toast? I put jam on too. You got a name, miss?”

  She desperately wanted the toast, so she croaked, “Eve. But I can’t even move.”

  “I like Eve,” said the voice, a little louder. “It’s a nice name. And now I got a new friend, I’s proper happy. I’ll find them old scissors. Then you can share me toast.”

  “Perhaps we can be useful again,” said Sylvia with an unblinking gaze. “You have to admit, we helped last time. This time we actually know the young couple who bought that house. The boy’s parents live at the manor. And I can’t help reminding you of the agreement.”

  The tall man seemed more haggard than usual but smiled. “I remember. I’m happy to keep to it, but this is an unpleasant case.”

  “Whereas,” asked Harry, “Most murders are cheerfully pleasant affairs?”

  “You can help,” laughed D.I. Morrison. “I’ve no objections, depending on how you intend to be involved. I can’t include you officially. You know I can’t and won’t. And besides, at present, I haven’t anything useful to tell you.”

  Sylvia sat rather heavily on the chair by the large paper-strewn desk. “The previous owner of the house?”

  “The local branch of The National Trust.” Morrison stretched his legs and yawned. “I’ve been up all night so,” he waved one hand, “come around later and talk to Peggy. She’s always glad to see you both. Come for dinner. I’ll probably be in bed though.”

  “Does Peggy know the facts?” asked Sylvia with suspicion. “She doesn’t, does she? So why did the National Trust sell off that property? I thought they never got rid of anything.”

  “It was donated by a previous owner back in the post-war years, but the Trust experts quickly realised it was simply a copy of medieval opulence. Actually built during the late thirties. Not a particularly accurate copy either, it seems. A poor architectural fraud. The house was left to fall down. But before it crumbled, they sold cheap to a couple who fell in love with it when passing by. The most recent buyers have been somewhat unfortunate.”

  “Yes, Debbie and Brian Anderson. So do those bodies actually date back to post-war, for goodness sake?”

  “No, Harry. They’re recent,” sighed Morrison. “One body not yet in decomposition. Someone has clearly been living in the house without permission, and without being discovered.”

  “How many bodies so far?” wondered Sylvia.

  “Four up the chimney. The ashes have gone to forensics. Now we’ve started digging up the garden.” The detective sat forward once again, fiddled with something in the top drawer of the desk, discovered his throat sweets, unwrapped one but then forgot to take it. Instead, he sighed. “Once we start into the forensics, I won’t be gossiping about every detail, you know. See if you can glean anything from Ostopolis. He’s doing the p.m. But we’re talking to no press, no T.V. and no Mr and Mrs Joyce.”

  “So what time this evening?”

  “Come at around seven. I might even get up.”

  “We’ll bring some wine,” said Sylvia.

  The friendship had blossomed like daffodils in spring, and now Sylvia bought birthday presents for the five children. But that didn’t always mean discovering the secrets they should know nothing about.

  He had cut the ropes binding her to the bed, and now she could sit up and see him. She ate quickly, cramming the cheap sliced toast into her mouth as she watched him. But one restraint remained. Her left ankle was chained to a metal ring on the floor. This was long enough for her to lie on the bed, to use the cheap bucket against one wall, to walk from one wall to the others yet she could not quite reach the door, which was the only door, and clearly locked. There was no window.

  He was an odd little man with tiny twisted legs, a dollop of a snub nose, and small squinting eyes. An accident of some kind, Eve supposed, had squashed his face and amputated both legs, leaving only abnormal stumps. Although now almost paralysed with fear and confusion, now she began to sympathise, he had been born that way. His voice was shy, even apologetic. Eve finished every crumb of toast. “What’s your name? And – I mean – why am I here? Can I leave? I have to leave. People will be searching for me. The police too.”

  “I’m Master.” He had a gentle smile. “They all calls me that. Tis easier. And you’s here to look after me. I likes that. And ‘course you can leave later. Not too quick. Some o’ them goes quick, but I reckon that’s a real shame. Stay a bit, please?”

  It was a confusing request. “So I get a choice? About leaving or staying?”

  The small man nodded vigorously. “Yes. ‘Corse. But I likes the look o’ you, so I reckon tis best if you stay. Don’t go dying yet,” he said. “T’wouldn’t be fair.”

  Then Eve understood.

  Football with a balloon which wouldn’t break anything was still a rowdy affair, and Theo led the attack with Primrose acting goalkeeper and the open door playing goal. Dempsey kicked a goal and Primrose was sulking.

  “Come into the kitchen,” said Peggy, “It’ll be quieter in there.”

  “Won’t the kids wake Darcey?”

  “Eventually. That’s the idea.”

  Darcey Morrison wandered into the kitchen half an hour later, threadbare dressing gown over bright yellow pyjamas with smurfs on, and a blue message saying, “I’ve been a good boy” on the top. The trousers were considerably too short for him. Everyone squashed around the kitchen table looked up. Five voices muttered, “Hello Dad,” and returned to their plates of hamburger and chips. Peggy, mouth full, pointed to the one empty chair, and Morrison sat.

  Swallowing quickly, Harry said, “Hope we didn’t wake you up.”

  “But we were hoping to discuss the case,” said Sylvia. “Later, of course.” She eyed the children, who were taking no notice.

  “Seven so far,” Morrison said. “But Ostopolis isn’t talking yet. Cause of death doesn’t seem at all obvious. So we’ll enjoy your wine tonight without any repayment.” He poured himself a glass from the open bottle on the table. “But I’ll let you know some of the details once the case develops. In the meantime,” he raised his glass, “keep away from that damned house.”

  Peggy reappeared after tucking the smaller children into bed and permitting the eldest to glue himself to his tablet and the games he adored. “But Darcey, the house is closed and guarded and everything anyway. No one gets in. And you’ve got a new team, haven’t you?”

  Morrison’s sublime disregard for his collapsing clothes was uncompromising. He stretched out two bare feet beneath hairy ankles and left the dressing gown hanging open. Smurfs danced up each leg. “Whitehead, Crabb and Walsh. Tammy’s coming on board as soon as he’s back off leave next week. Latymer leads officially. But I’m in charge for what it’s worth. Then, if we still need them, there’s a small group coming over from the Met next week. Hopefully Knuple. I’ve worked with him before.” With one long thumb, he scratched the remnants of sleep from the corners of his eyes. “You’ll no
t be part of the team, I’m afraid Harry. Nor you, Sylvia, my dear. But if I can find a few details to keep you involved, I’ll let you know.”

  “Well, we’d appreciate that,” Harry said.

  “We’ve had plenty to enjoy these past two years,” nodded Sylvia. “But something’s missing.”

  Harry gave her an anxious glance. With steaming cups of dark coffee, they finished the evening. Peggy poked her nose into the steam. “Have I made it too strong? It smells like gravy.”

  “Perfect espresso. And,” asked Harry, “can we visit the house anyway?”

  Morrison shook his head. “Under no circumstances. This is a case and has barely started.”

  “But it’s a cold case, isn’t it?”

  Which is when the eldest son Dempsey poked his nose around the kitchen door, saying, “Hey Dad, it’s on the TV. There’s a girl gone missing down in Little Mornington. Only seventeen. The news guy says it’s the Fiend of the Ashes.”

  “Shit,” said Morrison, sitting up with a sigh.

  “Not a cold case then,” suggested Sylvia.

  32

  She lay curled on the bed, and he crouched on the floor at the side. The floor was dirty, and the place smelled. A poorly washed bucket in one corner stank. The bed was also unclean, but the mess of grubby sheets, quilt and blankets suggested a possible level of warmth and comfort. A buzz from a radiator next to the bed promised some form of heating, but it wasn’t more than a faint tingle.

  “Is you warm enough,” the man asked, “to take yer clothes off?”

  Eve stared at him. She wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong with him. After an hour of trembling and sobbing when he had eventually gone away, Eve pinched herself and wondered if she could be clever, since the man who called himself Master obviously wasn’t clever at all.

  He was mentally simple, she decided, and unable to understand anything except the obvious. But he had kidnapped her at random, or so it seemed, and therefore had some level of determination. Yet he was also timid, even sweet natured in a ludicrous and absurd way. Someone must surely be looking after him since he was badly crippled, and the far door presumably led to his own home.

  But now, instead of being the politely shy creature she had first met, he wanted her naked. She whispered back, “No, I’m sorry. I can’t do that. I never – undress – in front of anyone else. I hope you don’t mind..” She had first practised the words in her head, speaking in the same simplistic timidity he used himself.

  He gazed at her, mouth open, blinking and confused. “But I’m the master. You gotta do what I says. Reckon that’s the way it works.” His mumbled words echoed in the empty room.

  She pulled the spangled lycra skirt down as far as it would stretch. “Honestly, it doesn’t work that way. Yes, you’re the master. A very nice master too. But girls don’t like getting undressed, especially when I still don’t know you properly. Let’s go for a walk together instead.”

  Master looked at her. For a moment he was expressionless, as though unable to fully understand what she meant. Quite slowly, something more coherent entered his eyes. They turned dark and cold. Mouth open wide, he stared at Eve. Then he began to roar, jumped to his feet, and started to run. Running in decreasing circles, he kicked out at walls and the bed, the one old chair in the corner, the locked door and the cement floor. His hands, fingers curled, were like small claws and with these, he grabbed the bedclothes and ripped them from the bed, Eve tumbled to the floor. The small man jumped over her, kicking and spitting. Phlegm spattered across her face, stinging her eyes.

  The noise bounced from walls and ceiling, more like a lion than a man, and finally he rushed at Eve, dragged her back to the bed, flung her there on her back, and ripped her clothes from her body. The little lycra skirt opened down one seam and fell apart. Master left it on the ground. He grabbed the flimsy elastic of her pink frilly knickers and split them. Her chenille jumper refused to budge, so he tugged it up and over her head. Claws beneath both cups, he pulled her bra up around her neck. Eve was screaming, crying and gulping for breath, felt his fingernails in her flesh, felt his hands between her legs, cringed back against the wall, and begged, between sobs, for mercy.

  “You don’t cross me,” Master said, spitting and clawing. “I says it. You does it.” Rolling her over onto her stomach, he began to slap her bare buttocks. Eve continued to cry. His slaps were hard, as though his hands were stone. His nails scratched. He didn’t stop.

  When he did stop, it was sudden. Then he scraped up the fallen clothes from the ground, pulled the bra still around her neck, unlooping the straps, and left the room with a slam of the door and the grating of the key from outside. Eve wrapped herself in sheets, closed her eyes and tried to ignore the pain. She hadn’t prayed to anyone about anything since her tenth birthday, but now she prayed over and over and over until she fell asleep. It was not a natural sleep and felt more like a death from exhaustion, but when Eve woke, although she had no idea of time, she had a better idea of what was going to happen to her. Kept on her side, this simpleton might treat her kindly. If she upset him, he would rave like the madman he surely was. But although how she might ever escape seemed at present impossible to imagine, she was sure her own intelligence was far superior, and eventually, she’d outwit him. Two days, maybe three. She could probably manage a week if she kept the creature sweet. She’d try not to think of it as rape as long as it didn’t hurt too much.

  Lying on his back on the lower bunk, the large man was snoring. On the high bunk, the older man wondered if he could get hold of some sort of voodoo doll. Direct violence would surely risk his own death rather than the other man’s.

  Fast asleep and comparatively comfortable, Lionel Sullivan dreamed of death and torture. He had been sentenced to eight consecutive life sentences without parole but having escaped his wife, his boring job as a coach driver, and his dismal searches for suitable females, he thought he could live on sweet memories for a year or so. Then he would escape.

  Gradually over the weeks, his patience waned. The dream of escape in two years crept into immediate contempt and instead he felt an instant determination. He wanted out. And the escape would not be at the end of two miserable and unacceptable years. He would wait no more than a month.

  Upstairs Ike on the top bunk was due to leave on parole in three weeks. So there was business to be arranged first.

  The cell was cramped, but Ike had photos of his son, daughter in law and their baby plastered across every wall, a rug that pretended to be Persian, and his own supply of extra soft loo paper, sent in regularly by his wife. But he had no photos of his wife since he didn’t want the creepy killer to see her. It was Lionel’s own wife that was more frequently discussed.

  “Don’t take your time. Don’t enjoy it. Just thump the woman. Split her head open. Use a hammer.”

  “I know. You dun told me so many bloody times I’m sick of it. And I’ve got your address. But wot if she dun moved?”

  Lionel closed his eyes. “Then find the old bitch. You’ve traced others. Now trace this one for me.”

  Ike sat cross-legged on his bunk. He was skinny and now in his sixties, the muscles of old had turned scrawny, even haggard. “Just because I was a bloody successful assassin, it don’t mean I traced people. I killed the ones living right next door. On the next corner. In me own basement. Part of the same gangs. They didn’t need no tracing. Your wife might have flown north. Abroad. Whatever.”

  “You’ll do it, arse-fucker, or you’ll be dead yourself before the month’s over.”

  Above, Ike leaned back against the pillows. “I told you I’ll do it. But don’t threaten wot you can’t do. Who’s gonna jump me if I don’t do your dirty work? You don’t have any bugger out there, or you’d be getting him to clobber your wife ‘stead o’ me.”

  Without bothering to look up, and without bothering to move anything except wave one hand, Lionel yawned and said, “You know the size of my hands, old fellow. Don’t think you can fuck with me. I’
d find you. And within the next few weeks, I’ll be out of here. You know I’ll do it. I already got my plan and tis a bloody good plan.”

  “Then you can clobber your own wife when you get’s out. “ Ike had no great desire to do this sick brute a favour, and then land back in prison himself. He had once been an assassin of class, as he told others, only found guilty of one instead of all eight. Now that – he grinned frequently - is good stuff.

  The small high-security prison was overcrowded. The rural surroundings were pretty enough, but completely unseen from within the walls. Lionel was sure he’d be moved soon. His trial wasn’t long finished, and the verdict had never been in doubt, so this place was the obvious dump to chuck him into for the first dunking into the system. But he’d soon be moved. He knew that. He was a Lifer, and they’d want higher security, and they’d want him in solitary for intermittent periods. The first escape attempt needed to make use of these small and overcrowded limitations. If it didn’t work, well, what the hell. He’d try again once the actual move was taking place. He had hands readily designed for strangulation. Hands the size of gas ovens were his first source of confidence. But there was more. There was a guard who could fix up the driver when he was bussed out. And that guard was already his, lock, stock and bloody barrel.

  “I’ll do it. I told you.”

  “Just making sure,” said Lionel. “I got a plan for when they move me. There’s no space for solitary here, and they like to keep their Lifers in top nick. But I want that miserable cow gone before I get out. I tried to do it myself before now, and she’ll run like a bloody fox on heat if she sees me. So you do it.”

  Ike sighed. “Shut up, fer mercy’s sake,” he groaned. “You goes over and over and over. I ain’t gonna forget.” But he also knew he wasn’t going to do it.