If When

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Sofia,” she said in answer to his question.

  “Your real name,” he insisted.

  After a pause, she said reluctantly, “Susan Smith.”

  He said, “Humph, O.K. Off we go then. Get in the car.”

  The police had never spoken of their half determined knowledge regarding the suspect’s acromegaly, nor his hair loss. They could not yet be sure of these facts and did not want innocent sufferers attacked in the street or crackers put through the letter boxes of those already ill. Neither had there ever been disclosure in the newspapers. The journalists knew nothing of the principal suspect’s medical condition, nor his appearance in any way. Indeed, their original finger pointing to Tony Allen had never actually been denied. Susan Smith therefore climbed in the car without hesitation, and began to chat. “It’s a cold evening, ain’t it. Hope you got a good fire.”

  “It’ll be warm.” He sniggered. “Reckon you’ll be surprised.”

  He had locked the car doors from the inside, but she had not noticed. “And a nice warm bed?” she asked with a giggle. Only a grunt. He didn’t want to talk. “I charge thirty quid,” Susan continued, “and the agency charges ten. Reckon you knows that already. ‘Course, if you wants anyfing special, the price goes up.” This amused him, but he had no intention of answering. However it was as he headed out into the countryside that she turned to him with a slight frown. “Where does you live, then? Out in the farms or sommint?”

  Nodding, he took a side lane and the road became darker, leading through the thick tree shadows and into the distant valley.

  “Hang on,” she said. “I don’t like this. Where’s we going?”

  “My place.”

  She didn’t relax. “Look, friend, I reckon this is too far. Isolated, is it? No, sorry, but I reckon we needs to go back to my place. No extra charge, and it’s comfy, I promise. Clean too. I always makes sure of it. I ain’t got no pimp to come rushing in to rob you or nuffing like that. So sorry, but let’s turn around.” He ignored her. The shadows loomed down onto the car, its headlights lit only a small portion of the surrounding forest, and a sudden movement of deer or badger made Susan jump. “No. Sorry mate. I want out.”

  The man shook his head, the girl stared up at him, disliking the large heavy features, the strong jutting jaw and the prominent bony nose. His hands on the driving wheel seemed gigantic and unnatural. His voice was gruff. “Nearly there. Reckon five minutes more.”

  “But I said no.” She glared. “You turn around now, mate, or you’ll get nuffing from me.”

  “Oh,” grunted the man, “I think I will. Bloody sure I will.”

  Immediately she rummaged in her handbag for her phone but got no signal. Clicking and persisting, she started to send a text. The man grabbed the phone from her fingers, chucked it on the floor at his feet beside the brake pedal, and stamped. The phone was crushed, he was grinning, and she had begun to fight. Pulling at his arm and jacket, she was simply thrust off, so she reached up to his face, her nails ready to scratch. One finger caught the tip of his nose. He laughed, a sort of guttural chortle, seemingly unconcerned by the scratch, but stopped the car in the middle of the road and put one hand around her neck. He squeezed. Her mouth popped open in a desperate gasp for breath and her face went red.

  Releasing her suddenly, he started the engine again, and drove further up the narrow lane into the darkness. Her voice after some moments was a strangled squeak. “I’ll pay you well. Take everyfing I got. Let us go. Please. Please.”

  The faint yelp amused him. He knocked her back with his elbow in her face. “Quiet, whore,” he told her, “Or I’ll get annoyed.” It was after another few minutes driving that he asked, “How old are you?”

  She would normally have lied but this time she didn’t dare. Silently and for the first time in many, many years, she had been praying that this man was not the Welsh Ripper, but merely an unpleasant thug who might beat her, steal her money, and let her go after a long rape. She could cope with that. It had happened once before.

  She said, “Twenty-eight.

  “How long have you been on the game”?”

  “Fourteen years,” she said in a whisper.

  “Well used then.” he answered her. “So it’s time it stopped, then.”

  He watched her in the mirror. She was terrified, muttering silent words, and clutching her handbag. Smiling, he felt pleased enough. In spite of her being too old and not pretty enough, she suited his needs. A bit of courage, but more fear than fire. He kept an eye on her as he drove down the pathway to the parking spot behind the shed.

  Unlocking the doors of the car, he grabbed the back of the girl’s coat and hauled her out, her feet scraping along the frozen soil and dead grass, she tried to grab his arm, but he was too quick. The shed in front of them was threatening, large and unlit. There was a new moon that night, so no silver moonlight hovered. Instead, there was the stink of rancid meat, rotten remains of many kinds, and excrement.

  As he dragged her, she started to cry, blubbering and begging. Pleased, he unlocked the shed door. It took some time as there were four locks including two padlocks, but then the door swung open. The man pushed her inside, turned the switch on for the generator, and then the one small lamp.

  Susan smith staggered to her knees and then to her feet, looked around and screamed.

  Fletcher awoke the following afternoon feeling less vague, knew who he was, and could see the white hygiene surrounding him, the hint of bleach, the faint buzz of machines and monitors, tried to move but couldn’t, realised he was heavily bandaged, and sighed. Since he could breathe without particular difficulty, and could also see, at least with one eye, he was optimistic. He was therefore delighted when the sound of his hospital door opening alerted him to a visitor, and within the limited field of his vision, he saw a tall man in a white mouth mask leaning over him.

  “How do you feel, Mr. Rankling?”

  He had very little trouble answering. “Not too bad,” he said eventually. “Been burned? I was caught in the furnace in market this morning. I expect you heard, there was a massive fire.”

  “Indeed,” said the doctor. “But not this morning, as it happens. That was a few days ago. You’ve been here receiving treatment, and I’m delighted to hear you don’t feel too bad. Your father has been visiting every single day, and I expect his return within the hour.”

  “Dad?” Fletcher frowned, which immediately hurt him. “We’re in Wales then?”

  “No, Mr. Rankling. This is Warwick,” said the doctor. “Your father came as soon as he heard of your accident. But all the wounds are healing nicely. We don’t expect further complications.”

  “It still hurts,” Fletcher said, closing his eyes again. “I suppose that’s inevitable. Every bit hurts either a lot or more. Some more than others.”

  “Perhaps you could give me a clearer idea, Mr. Rankling,” suggested the doctor. “For instance, out of a maximum of ten, how much does your head and face hurt?”

  “Out of ten?” Fletcher thought a moment. “I don’t want to sound like a whimp. so I suppose seven.”

  The doctor seemed pleased. “Arms and hands?”

  “Eight,” said Fletcher.

  “And the torso?”

  “Six with patches of seven and spots of eight.” He tried to smile but couldn’t. “It’s my legs that really hurt the worst. Incredibly painful. A full ten.”

  With a slight sigh of sympathy, the doctor sat down on the edge of the small bedside chair. “Unfortunately, Mr. Rankling, that’s what you might call one of the early complications. Your legs were both extremely badly burned. I’m afraid we couldn’t save them.”

  He didn’t understand. “But I’m alive. You saved me. It isn’t heaven or something, is it?”

  “No, no,” said the doctor. “But your legs, Mr. Rankling, were completely ravaged. I’m afraid we had to amputate them. One slightly above the knee, and the other mid-thigh. The pain you feel is the so-called phantom-limb syndrome.
It’s quite natural, I’m afraid, but we can certainly prescribe morphine derivatives and general pain-killers. But this sort of pain does fade with time.”

  Fletcher stared. “I’ve got no legs?”

  “Amputation was unavoidable, I’m afraid, Mr. Rankling. You suffered very severe burning.”

  Inside his head, echoing in his brain, Fletcher started screaming.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” insisted Sylvia. “Boring, of course. I do wish I could come home. Everyone here is positively delightful but I miss home. I miss you all so very much. I miss Francesco’s wonderful meals. I miss my own bed.”

  “I’ve brought a couple more books,” said Harry, piling three on the bedside table.

  “And I brought magazines,” said Ruby. “Six of them. I pinched two from downstairs in the waiting room.”

  “The Fisherman’s Guide?”

  “There’s some beautiful swordfish inside, and a lovely looking tuna.”

  “That’ll cheer me up no end.”

  “How much longer, then?” asked Harry, tipping out the chocolate bars, the marzipan fruit, and the ginger biscuits.

  “They say three days.”

  “That’s not too bad,” Ruby insisted.

  “But it’s been a century already,” said Sylvia, reaching for Harry’s hand. “Doesn’t everyone miss me? Isn’t the world bored without me?”

  “My dear Silver Queen,” Ruby told her, “we are distraught but have no alternative. Rod was always away on the tracks, doing the world tour. I got used to being alone. And anyway, now you’ve married this handsome young man here, I can’t come in and share your bed during storms, or rush in to jump on you when you wake up late in the mornings. So I miss you less than I might.” She grinned. “After all, now you’re really just the old woman next door.”

  “You divorced Rodney. You’d better not divorce me.”

  “But honestly, I miss you madly, insanely and frantically, Mrs. Joyce. We shall expect you in three days,” Harry assured her, “and I shall plan a feast, and welcome you home with another visit to the ballet.”

  “The weather might even improve,” said Ruby.

  Sylvia looked suddenly at Harry. “Don’t do anything while I’m away, will you my sweet? No shed-searching without me.”

  “As if I’d dare,” Harry smiled. “Besides, I can’t remember where we’ve been already. No, no, don’t worry. I’ll be good. Besides, I don’t have a car any longer.”

  “You said you hired one. And I’ll buy us one as soon as I get out of prison.” She chuckled. “What sort of car do you want, my love?”

  “Four wheels,” said Harry, “and four doors. No wizards hanging in front of the windscreen. Grey or blue or black. Not red.”

  “How about a bright yellow Lamborghini?”

  “Or a gold-plated Rolls Royce? Maybe not. I might start looking at second hand Fiesta. I like the Range Rover but my knees crack just trying to climb up into it. And you might never get in at all.”

  “But not a second-hand Fiesta, please. At least a first hand.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Having played with delight and enthusiasm for two days, he wondered how he should kill his captive. She was badly injured and had little time to live, but he wanted to make the final thrust himself and not have her die from her own choice the way the last one had. He regarded Susan, considering the various methods which he enjoyed.

  She lay naked and blood stained at his feet. He was also naked, and he was also blood stained, but the blood was hers. Time was not a problem now that the blessed shed gave him privacy, so he liked just to look. He watched the slow passage of the blood, the expression on her face as she approached death, and the angles of her broken body. This was a peaceful pleasure.

  The whore had fought back at first, and he’d encouraged that. She had scratched, cursed him, kicked him in the knees, the balls and the belly. He’d laughed at all of that. She’d even pulled out a knife she evidently kept in her skirt pocket at all times in case of violent customers. She’d known how to use it too. Both his lower legs were now cut, and the knife point, aimed at his eyes, had pierced his cheek. He’d liked her for that, jumped on top of her, and given her a good traditional and eager shagging.

  But after two days the whore was fading. He had always liked to slit their throats, and then decapitate them, but he had wondered last time if a more imaginative way might be better fun. Finally he decided that strangulation could be the best way. After all, he’d been born with hands the size of a gorilla’s, so he might as well use them to advantage. So he strangled Susan Smith slowly and methodically while relating what he intended doing to her after she had departed.

  “Well, little slut, you know I’m not an ordinary john by now. And it’s not that I want to save you pain and such,” he explained. “But there’s stuff that’s hard when some bitch is still alive. Cutting up the bits and so forth, that’d kill you off anyway, so I do the decent thing and cuts out all the moaning and groaning and boring wheezing and screaming. Now off you go, little whore, and I’ll be free to do what I like. I haven’t done too many trollops as it happens. But no matter, you ain’t going to hell because there ain’t one. It’s here. I know that. And this is hell, which is what you’re finding out right now. Being a tart, I reckon it’s been a tough life for you too. You can thank me for finishing it off.”

  Susan died quite quickly as those great wide fingers squeezed around her neck.

  Sylvia came home. There was a welcome home feast arranged, and she managed to sit through it, but then went to her bed and collapsed.

  “I’m staying in bed, Harry darling,” she insisted the next day. “I know, after all this time in the hospital bed, I should want to dance and sing. But I ache like an arthritic gymnast. Tomorrow we’ll go and buy a car. Today I just want to rest, at least for the morning. Give me another few hours and then hopefully I’ll wake up feeling young again.”

  “Having you back, my love, is all I need. “I’ll trot downstairs and make the tea.”

  She reached out and kissed his cheek. “Give me a few hours alone, my dearest. I need to close my eyes and think of nothing. I promise to be more interesting by this afternoon.”

  Harry padded out to his hired Range Rover. Without Sylvia to talk with or cuddle, and without the shed-search to keep him occupied, having nothing whatsoever to say to Morrison and no desire whatsoever to go to the pub, he drove off to visit Tony.

  But Tony was out. Probably at the pub or the cemetery, Harry thought, but had no intention of searching for him either nor plodding around a damp and depressing cemetery.

  Harry knew his other friends would be at work, and if he sat in the living room at the manor, he’d be stuck with Ruby for hours. She’d tell him all about her ex-husband who was long dead anyway.

  So he went for a drive. This wasn’t a shed-search, he reminded the driving wheel in front of him, since he wasn’t looking for anything in particular, nor was he at all likely to find it. Out here he had a very minimal sense of direction, nor any idea of where he was going. Indeed, he was looking forward to playing with the Satnav. He’d never owned one before, but a long-gone past career in early technology now tempted him to play with gadgets of all kinds, and a GPS was the ideal investigation for a dreary day alone.

  The most beautiful scenery lay past the forested areas where the hills opened to rolling valleys, copses and huge stretches of countryside, so that is where he headed. Enjoying the dry gusty wind but no gales, with even a pale streak of sunshine sneaking between the clouds, Harry decided a decent drive would keep his mind off other things.

  It was a long, long time since he’d had a new car, and it hadn’t ever been new anyway. He’d always bought second-hand and was excited about buying his first spanking shiny new toy, although knew he was just behaving like a baby with a new rattle. The eventual acquisition wouldn’t be a Range Rover of course, so while he had it, he intended enjoying it. And the Satnav too, but he couldn’t remember the names of th
e local villages anyway and had nothing to enter as an end result. He could have more fun with that on the way home. In the meantime, he loved the Range Rover and appreciated the scenery from his perch higher up. Following the unnamed road, he headed south-east into Wiltshire.

  There was a slight warmth in the air, with the end of February creeping towards early March. He remembered a café out on the Wiltshire border somewhere and decided, if he could find it, to get himself some tea and fruit toast and then return home with a couple of cakes for Sylvia and Ruby. The perfect way to pass a dreary morning alone.

  Thyme for Tea was pretty, perched beneath a bare-branched oak tree, not so small, had nasty plastic chairs but nice looking squashy cakes, and served an excellent cup of tea. Harry relaxed. He dreamed of his new wife and his new car, both imminent, and banished thoughts of the Ripper. He was certainly still keeping his promise and not looking for the torture-hideaway. Indeed, it was the last thing he wanted right then. While enjoying two cups of tea, he ate a round of fruit toast, and then bought several cream and custard slices to take home with him.

  Back in the car, he plonked the box of cakes on the passenger seat, and drove off in the direction he had come. Although not really remembering the way, going around in a few circles didn’t bother him as he had a couple of hours to fill in.

  Purposefully avoiding anywhere near the place where the tree had fallen on his old car, he headed further south. Crows were gathering, twenty or more in one tree, and since there was no traffic, Harry stopped to watch. They fussed and squabbled and their loud echoing calls seemed to shatter the clouds. He didn’t know if they were complaining or courting. Bored after a time, he headed off once more. Having already decided this was a good moment for driving home, he began to look for familiarity but did not immediately see any and wondered if he had turned too soon. Eventually, feeling that the aimless wandering was pointless, he parked just off the road, and played with the GPS, typing in Rochester Manor and pulling out his extremely ancient phone in an attempt to co-ordinate.