Shut Your Eyes (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 3)

by Lee, Mandy

  ‘Where are you going?’ she demands.

  ‘Home.’

  ‘But I can’t go yet. I promised I’d stay until the end.’

  ‘Then stay. It’s not a problem.’

  ‘Wait,’ Gordon calls, pushing through the door and joining us. ‘What’s going on?’

  I should tell him the truth, that I’m off to see Lily. Because I need to talk. I really, bloody need to talk. And right now, if she’s come to her senses, Lily’s about the only person I can confide in.

  ‘I want to go home. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Don’t blame you.’ He pulls out his mobile. ‘I’ll get my jacket.’

  ‘No. Stay for a while. You’re having fun.’

  ‘Evidently, too much fun. I’m coming back with you.’

  I hold up a hand.

  ‘I’ll be fine … on my own.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Gordon, I’ve been fine all week. You know I’ll be safe. I’ve got Carl. Please. I need some space and you need to butter up the clients. Just take me to the car, come back here and tell them I’m not well.’

  He thinks for a moment or two, glances back at the door to the pub, and finally nods.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘I need to see someone before I go home.’

  I look at the rear-view mirror, a lozenge of darkness against the kaleidoscope of Tottenham Court Road. Carl’s eyes flash back at me.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lily Babbage. A friend of Dan’s. She’s waiting for me at the Concordia … on the north bank.’

  Saying nothing, he focusses back on the road, and I begin to feel distinctly uneasy. Maybe he’s under orders to ignore my requests, or perhaps he just feels the need to check with his bosses. Whatever’s going on, I should explain a little more.

  ‘I didn’t tell Gordon. I’ll go back to Camden afterwards. It won’t take long, but I really need to see her. Please.’ Still no answer. ‘Perhaps you should radio in, let them know I’m taking a detour.’

  His eyes are back on me.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ he says crisply. ‘What’s the address for the Concordia?’

  I give him what he needs, watching as he enters the details into the Satnav. As soon as the car pulls up at a set of traffic lights, he takes his mobile from the dashboard, taps in a contact and begins to speak. ‘I have Miss Scotton with me. She’s making a brief stop off before she goes home. She needs to see a friend.’ He confirms he’ll stay with me for the duration before listening to a voice at the other end of the line. ‘I’d say half an hour.’ He hangs up.

  ‘Is that okay?’ I ask.

  He nods. His eyes flash again, this time catching the red glow of the traffic lights. As the colour changes to green, he looks away and we begin to move. Relieved to be getting what I want, I slump back into the leather seat and watch the ever-changing slideshow of Central London: pavements heaving with bodies, brightly-lit shops, pubs, theatres, restaurants, all busy. A hive of humanity on the other side of the glass, a world apart from mine.

  I can barely remember what it feels like to be normal. I can only hope that speaking to Lily will help bring me back to reality. Realising I’d better let her know I’m on my way, I riffle through my handbag, managing to locate my purse, a hair brush, the pregnancy test wrapped tightly in its plastic shroud … but no phone. In a fluster, I dig through the contents again. Finding nothing, I give up and stare out of the window.

  ‘I think my phone’s been nicked.’

  ‘When did you last have it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I might have left it at Slaters.’ I think again, shake my head. ‘No. I’m sure I brought it out with me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll contact Foultons.’

  ‘But Dan uses it. He tracks me. He’ll wonder where I am.’

  The answer’s terse.

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  We circle Trafalgar Square, the hubbub of Friday night giving way to a quieter, more sober environment: Whitehall, Westminster, the Houses of Parliament. Veering right at the Thames and staying on the north side, we head west, probing deeper into territory I’ve never explored before, cold Government buildings, bland office blocks, empty-windowed, abandoned for the night. At last the Bentley slows, pulling in to what looks like a building site. Surrounded by the beginnings of a driveway, a circular apartment block sits at the centre, a brooding megalith reaching up into the dark, lit only on the ground and top floors. It’s kept company by a single crane looming up behind the building, a red light winking intermittently at the top.

  ‘Well, this is it,’ Carl mutters.

  He gets out, opens the rear door, and helps me into the night air. Immediately, my heels sink into sludge, the cold envelops me and I’m beginning to wish I’d brought a coat.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask.

  ‘The Concordia.’

  He points at a sign beside the door.

  ‘But it’s not finished.’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Let’s go inside, see what’s going on.’

  Reluctantly, I follow him, stumbling through mud and cursing my choice of footwear. We’re greeted by a security guard. Installed behind a marble counter, he looks up from a crossword.

  ‘Maya Scotton,’ I announce. ‘To see Lily Babbage.’

  ‘Top floor. She’s still here.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Planning the décor, probably.’ The guard twiddles a pen in his fingers. ‘Or finding more problems. She comes over a lot. Regular visitor. Knows the boss. Gets away with murder.’

  I peer back out of the glass frontage at the wilderness of mud and concrete and iron spikes.

  ‘I know it doesn’t look much at the minute,’ the guard assures me. ‘They’re starting on the landscaping next week. It’s not so bad inside, perfectly safe. The lifts are in full working order.’ He points the pen at a metallic door. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘I’ll come up with you.’ Carl leads me to the lift and presses a button.

  About thirty seconds. That’s all it takes for us to reach the penthouse. And by the time we arrive, my skin’s prickling with anxiety. I edge my way out into a huge, gloomy space, taking in the fact that it’s lined with the obligatory wall-to-ceiling windows. I count four panels of glass; the fifth is missing, a sheet of plastic fluttering in its place. For a few seconds the clouds give way in the sky and a full moon appears, casting a watery light across the room, urging shapes out of the shadows and revealing a mess that’s anything but safe. Wires hang from walls. Buckets, tools and piles of plasterboard litter the place. Directly in front of me, on top of a workman’s bench, two mobiles sit next to a drill and a length of rope. I’m about to examine them in more detail when the moon disappears again, leaving obscurity in its wake. The only illumination now is from part way down a corridor leading off to the right, where a door’s been left open, allowing a shaft of light to cut across the floor.

  ‘Lily?’ I call. ‘Are you here?’

  No answer.

  I move toward the light, listening to the constant flapping of the plastic sheet. An icy gust of air lifts it momentarily, and I halt. We’re ten floors up and there’s no protection against the drop. It’s incredibly dangerous. Surely, Lily shouldn’t be up here alone.

  ‘Hello?’ I call, becoming more uncertain by the second. ‘Is anybody here?’

  I sense a movement, turn back to the corridor. There’s a figure silhouetted against the light.

  ‘Glad you could make it.’

  Immediately, I’m turned to stone, not thinking, not breathing. I’m not even sure my heart’s beating, because I know that voice, its familiar Scottish lilt. As he moves forward, my eyes adjust to the gloom and his features emerge, like something out of a nightmare: ebony eyes, glassy with drink, moist lips, parted in a strange, unnatural smile.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Boyd asks, amusement clear in his voice. ‘Confused?’

  He waits for a reply, but
my mouth won’t function.

  ‘Oh no.’ He clasps a hand to his chest. Doing his best to mimic a woman, his voice takes on a falsetto quality. ‘But Carl’s a goody. How come he brought me here? I don’t understand.’ The hand slaps against his forehead, palm outwards. And as quickly as it sprang into life, the pantomime ends. Lips crack into a snarl. The eyes glint. ‘Anyone can be bought for the right price, Maya. Or with the right threats.’

  He brushes past me, jolting my senses back to life. Shock gives way to panic. Adrenalin surges. My heart thunders, causing a rush of blood through my veins. Lungs draw in a quick succession of breaths. I manage to turn, watching through bleary vision as Boyd heads straight towards Carl, and pats him on the back.

  ‘Daniel’s little crew took one of ours, so I took one of theirs. Didn’t I, Carl?’ He ruffles his hair. ‘Just a little chat, that’s all we needed. Turns out Carl’s got things of his own he’d like to keep safe, pretty girlfriend, lovely mummy. He’s a good lad at heart, so don’t get annoyed with him, Maya. He didn’t have much choice.’

  Avoiding all eye contact, Carl stares at the floor. And suddenly it’s clear to me, why he’s been so uncomfortable all day.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ I tell him, my voice unsteady with nerves. ‘And you don’t want to do this. I can see that. Whatever threats he’s made,’ I raise a shaking hand at Boyd, ‘he won’t carry them out. He can’t. He’s got no one behind him, not any more.’

  Boyd laughs.

  ‘I take it you’re referring to Mr Dean’s agreement with Mr Finn?’

  I falter.

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘D’uh. Carl told me, of course. Good God, you’re slow.’ He leaves Carl with another pat and saunters back to me, eyebrows raised. ‘It’s a good job I never put all my trust in Richard Dean, kept my options open. I’ve got a few people of my own, Maya. Well, I call them people. They’re more like animals, really.’ He sniggers. ‘Animals, aren’t they, Carl?’ Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, he raises his voice. ‘They belong in a zoo. And Carl knows what they’ll do if he upsets me.’ He claps his hands. ‘So, there’s nobody to help you, Maya. Nobody to come to your rescue, because nobody knows you’re here.’

  I swallow hard, wondering if I should appeal to his better nature and tell him I’m pregnant. I open my mouth, stopping just in time, because there’s no point in trying that. Boyd’s got no better nature. If he finds out I’m carrying Dan’s baby, I dread to think what he might do. It’s best to stay silent.

  ‘We took your phone, lifted it at the party. You’re currently on your way to Camden, but you’re stuck in traffic. Carl’s looking after you. At least that’s what his employers think … and your Mr Foster.’ With a dismissive wave of a hand, he turns his back on me. ‘You’d better go and update Foultons. Let them know everything’s fine.’

  Without a word, Carl steps back into the lift.

  I watch the door close and begin to shake. I’m on the brink, staring into a chasm, and once I topple over the edge, there’ll be no escape. Tear ducts sting. My throat constricts. It’s the last thing I want to do, show him any sign of weakness, but my body’s got other ideas. The first tears well in my eyes.

  ‘Worth his weight in gold, that one,’ Boyd goes on breezily.

  He sidles over to me, standing so close I can smell his whisky breath.

  ‘Please,’ I manage to beg. ‘Please let me go.’

  He shakes his head, moves a strand of hair away from my face.

  ‘I can’t do that. If I do that, I’ll have no meaning. I was born to make you happy, born to take care of you.’

  The clouds part again. Moonlight floods the room, and I can see him clearly, the expression on his face that’s meant to be tenderness. But it’s all pretence, a brittle outer shell that’s easily cracked. I look into his eyes, at his pupils: two contracted dots, each one a full stop. This is the end.

  Lowering my head, I let the tears flow.

  ‘Oh no, don’t cry. There’s no need to cry. I’m going to whisk you away and make you the happiest woman in the world. I’m going to give you everything you want.’

  And control me with fear.

  ‘It’s been a good game. Such a shame it’s over.’ Placing a finger under my chin, he forces my head back up. I meet an unreadable face, shrouded in shadow now the moonlight’s gone again. ‘But now I have to act, because you’ve backed me into a corner. You need to understand that. It’s not my fault.’ He picks up the length of rope. ‘Turn around.’

  I stare at the rope.

  ‘I said turn.’

  ‘No.’

  He’s so quick, I don’t have time to react. He might be drunk, but he’s still too much for me. I’m grabbed, swung round, and clamped tight in his arms. I’d go for a knee in the balls again but he’s already pre-empted that, angling his body sideways against mine. I cry out, incoherently.

  ‘And what’s the point of that?’ he demands, slapping a hand over my mouth. ‘Who do you think’s going to hear you? Now be a good girl and stop struggling.’

  His grip tightens to the point of pain. Suddenly, the arms release me and he grabs my wrists, tugging them behind me with such force it takes the air clean out of my lungs. Before I can steady myself, he’s already binding my wrists. The rope’s coarse and hard against my skin, far too tight, threatening to cut off the blood flow, but Boyd doesn’t care. When he’s done, he pushes me away. I stagger toward a pile of plasterboard, and manage to straighten up.

  ‘Sit. On the floor.’

  Bewildered, I do as I’m told, sitting in the filth with my back against the boards. As the clouds part again and the darkness thins, I watch him reach into his pocket. He pulls out a rose, just the bud, the stem already torn off. He holds it out, bringing it right in front of my face, and I flinch.

  ‘They say romance is dead. And do you know what? I think they might be right.’ With a sneer, he crushes the rose in his fist. ‘At least yours is.’

  The crumpled petals drop to the floor. The clouds return. Shapes lose their form, disintegrating into the murk.

  I close my eyes, all too aware of the cold air, the rough surface of the concrete floor, the hard boards digging at my back.

  ‘I know the truth, Maya. I know he played songs for you in that bar. I know he didn’t mean a word of it when he knocked you back in the nightclub. I know you met in New York … and I know you’ve seen him since.’

  I open my eyes. Boyd takes a hip flask out of his jacket pocket.

  ‘Carl’s only confirmed what I already knew. You and Mr Foster were trying to pull the wool over my eyes.’

  ‘You didn’t know anything.’

  I have no idea why I’m arguing.

  ‘Oh, yes I did.’ He swigs from the flask. ‘Even before my little helper came along. But how? That’s the question.’ He screws the top back on the flask and places it on the workbench. ‘Phone tapping? Spies in the woodwork? Top of the range surveillance? No. None of the above. There’s no need for all that malarkey.’ He pauses, his lips rising into a smirk. ‘Not when you’ve got your very own Lily Babbage.’

  He watches me, satisfied with the shock that’s taking hold of my face.

  ‘Lily Babbage,’ he repeats, slowly this time, emphasising every consonant, every vowel. ‘Strange name that. Do you think she’s related to that guy who invented the computer? I never asked. Too busy banging her … for weeks on end … so I could have access to this.’

  With a flourish, he picks up one of the phones.

  ‘Oh no, wrong one.’ He squints at it. ‘That’s the one Carl called me on.’ He chucks it into the gloom. I hear it skid across the floor. ‘Don’t need that any more. No, no, no. This one.’ He picks up the second mobile. ‘The Babbage phone.’

  In disbelief, I stare at my undoing, raking back through every single thing Lily told me. She’d gone back to men. She’d met someone. Hot in bed. Don’t tell Dan. Shit. After the fiasco with Sara, I should have known Boyd was the myst
ery man, that there was never any high-tech magic at his fingertips. All the time, he was simply tapping Lily for information. And like a complete idiot, I gave him everything.

  ‘Where is she?’ I ask.

  ‘At her other place … asleep.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A few sleeping pills.’

  ‘Have you hurt her?’

  ‘No, no, no, no. Honestly, I’m not that bad.’

  Jesus. Not that bad?

  ‘You tried to kill Dan,’ I remind him.

  He pulls a face, as if I’m splitting hairs.

  ‘And you threatened everyone. Everyone I know.’

  ‘Aye, well. I never meant it. Well, I meant to have him killed. Obviously. The man’s a prat, swanning around like he’s God’s gift to the vagina. And okay, I poisoned his dog, but we’ve been over that. I don’t go around killing everybody. It’s not like I’m unreasonable. I didn’t kill the teenage pothead, did I?’ He straightens his suit. ‘Miss Babbage is perfectly fine, don’t you worry. She could do with a rest after all that sex. I tell you what, it’s nearly worn me out. She’s got a big appetite on her for a skinny madam.’ He tosses the phone back onto the workbench. ‘I don’t know how she does it. Barely eats a thing. Fucks like a randy demon. Anyhow, in between all that she fills me in on her life, her friends, their little problems … including your Mr Foster.’ He clutches both hands to his chest this time, acting out the scenes for me. ‘Oh no, he’s had an accident and he’s going to die. He’s in a coma. A coma, I tell you!’ He rubs his hands together gleefully, then shakes his head, pouting like a clown. ‘Oh, but thank God, he’s woken up. He’s going to live! He’s going to live! Oh, oh, he’s split up with his girlfriend. What am I to do?’ He changes to an overly deep voice. ‘Go and see her, Lily. Make sure she’s alright. Get them back together.’ And now he’s Lily again. ‘Oh, I’ve done it, and it didn’t work.’ He catches his breath, evidently done with the play-acting. ‘She wasn’t convinced, by the way. That meeting in the coffee shop.’ He waves a hand. ‘And neither was I. But when Mr Swanky Pants got his marbles back, he did a better job than you. He managed to convince Lily he’d had enough. And I almost believed it too … until Gordon the moron turned up. So I sent in that other one. What’s her name? Clarissa?’