A Chance Encounter

by Rae Shaw

  ‘You are mine now,’ he said, in a voice as coarse as his fingertips.

  She tried to keep the terror at bay. Panic killed opportunities. Keep calm. A little bit of adrenaline was essential, but too much would overcome her. He exhaled into her grimacing face, using his personal stench to assault her further. The other man said something sharply. Stazki stepped back.

  Julianna gasped and brought up her arms to protect her chest.

  ‘I wait,’ he said, with mock nonchalance. ‘We go get your man. Then we leave England. You lucky that you are to stay fresh. Shame.’ He frowned and added a small shrug. From out of the carrier bag he retrieved a battered apple and a grey bread roll. He placed them with the bottle of water on the mattress.

  ‘See. We are nice. Sometimes. Be good.’ He thumped his companion’s back and they exited the room, laughing as they went. Their ugly duet of unintelligible banter continued outside the door. The bolt rattled, then slammed back in place. Footsteps faded until there was nothing save the distant call of birds.

  Julianna sat on the mattress and cautiously removed the tape covering her mouth. Smacking her sore lips, she twisted the bottle top off and gulped down several mouthfuls. Some of the water spilt on her chin; she abruptly stopped drinking and screwed the lid back on the bottle. She had no idea how long the litre of water had to last. The paltry food she ignored.

  There was some sunlight in the cellar compartment. The long summer days were beneficial; daylight was her only source of illumination. Night-time would be pitch black. The dank air was rife with the stench of mildew and cooling rapidly. She fingered the decayed sacking. For now, she would manage without the makeshift blanket.

  She examined the walls. There were no large cracks or peep holes. Above her head were the wooden boards of the ground floor. Shards of light drifted through the cracks, which meant there was no carpet or rugs up there. The house was unfurnished. The ring was attached to the wall via a concrete fixture rather than directly into the bricks. She tugged on the chain, drawing all her strength into her arms as she pulled. But it didn't budge. The metal shackles were already chaffing and could easily break her skin. The locks would be difficult to pick. She didn’t have a pin anyway. On the plus side, she was untouched and in reasonable shape. While she was capable of coherent thoughts, she needed to work out the possibilities. She had overcome Stazki before, but on that occasion she had caught him by surprise. He wouldn’t underestimate her a second time, and there were two of them. He had ensured his accomplice was not a weak-willed woman who ran off when things started to go wrong.

  The handbag was crucial; Julianna needed access to it.

  For a few minutes, she granted herself a little breakdown. She hugged her legs and shed a few tears. Then with a deep breath, she shook herself out of the malaise, wiped away her tears and inspected the wall again.

  She wasn’t the first prisoner. There were scratches on one of the bricks – thin lines in a row. Back at work she had a list of young women who had gone missing. How many had curled up on the useless mattress? Too many. The cellar was haunted by the ghosts of fear and despair.

  But the chains weren’t just for Julianna and her lost girls.

  Would they get Mark?

  Do not think of Mark. Thinking of him in any capacity was painful and brought her close to an irreversible state of desolation.

  If Mark was out of bounds, Alex wasn’t. Would he laugh at her adventurous spirit now? Somewhere in Oxfordshire, he was living with her best friend. Two ex-friends happily domesticated. She pictured the scene: suavely dressed Alex bringing home flowers and boxes of chocolates, things she had considered sweet but uninspired. She had not shown him much appreciation and occasionally she had spurned his traditional ways. How easy it was to belittle somebody and then allow that attitude to become the norm, letting it erode everything else with it. Alex hadn’t been entirely at fault for their failed marriage; she hadn’t opened up to him or made him part of her life. Locked in a cold cellar, an increasingly despondent Julianna reflected too deeply on past mistakes. She dragged her rambling thoughts to the present. Had she made another irreparable mistake when she shoved poor Sophia out of the car?

  Julianna prayed her actions hadn't inflicted serious injuries or, God forbid, killed her new friend. For some reason, the two men hadn't bothered to pick Sophia off the road. Hopefully, Sophia would be in a hospital in London and a feverish hunt instigated to find Julianna. Jackson wouldn't let her go without a fight.

  Jackson was her linchpin; the man held all the aspects of her life together. Through him, she had a chance to accomplish her ambitions, instead of living them out vicariously through other people like her military father or the other agents with whom she once worked in her previous job. Yet here she was, kidnapped in a pathetic trap and awaiting some gruesome fate because she had chosen to be one of Jackson’s crusaders. The very excitement she had once craved was now holding her captive. It seemed she couldn’t do it after all – be the kind of person who saved the day. Just thinking about Mark crippled her.

  If she slept a little, then her strength would return. Maybe then she could stomach eating an apple and a piece of dry bread. She lay down on the cardboard-thin mattress and closed her eyes. Between the walls, something dripped incessantly – a disused pipe? Mice scrambled along the board above her head in an endless race. The cellar reeked of stagnant air. Her palpitating heartbeats added to the chorus of distracting noises.

  The bolt was shot back across with a clang. Julianna jumped. She had been asleep; a lethargic slumber brought on by her battered head rather than the need for rest. The room was swathed in a sheet of blackness; she must have slept for some time. She sat and the sacking fell away. The cold penetrated deep into her flesh, mingling with the aches of uncomfortable muscles.

  In walked Stazki accompanied by another man. Unlike Stazki, this man’s face was hidden by a woollen balaclava. A squat person, his grim bearing was enhanced by dark jeans with a metal skull buckle on his belt, a shabby brown leather jacket, unzipped, and underneath, a white t-shirt that failed to flatter him; the newcomer carried before him a pot belly and lacked stature. However, when he bent his arm, the bicep bulged. In his grasp, held up high, was a gas lamp. The light flickered and macabre shadows danced along the imprisoning walls.

  Julianna tensed, feeling the rise of paralysing fear. She shuffled backwards into the corner.

  ‘Get up!’ Stazki shaped his hands into boxer’s fists.

  The masked man handed the lamp to Stazki. He strolled toward Julianna and stopped a metre short of her. By then adrenaline had awoken the stiff muscles in her legs and she stood. He said something to Stazki and the light was brought closer.

  ‘Julianna, a pretty name,’ the masked man said. He had a strong foreign accent, but his English flowed easily out of his mouth.

  Julianna said nothing.

  In the dim light his pupils looked entirely black against the bloodshot whites. Bushy black eyebrows peeked through the eyeholes. His breath was sweet and minty, not like his compatriot, who reeked of tobacco. Stazki moved closer.

  She needed every drop of willpower to fight the fear. The pit of it lay in her belly, while the edge of it, a bitter acidity, rested in the back of her throat waiting to spew out of her mouth. She held the nausea in check.

  ‘Your man is surrounded,’ the newcomer said. ‘We can’t get at him. As much as my friend here would like to have him, we’re not going to risk delaying any longer. You will do. Just you unfortunately. Lowers the price considerably. But you’re feisty. A fighter. There are men out there who like women who fight off men, and not just lie back and hope for the best. You will fight, Julianna. You are that kind, as my friend here knows. He’s secretly impressed. Well, no, perhaps not, but I am. Will you fight, Julianna?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can to survive,’ she said carefully.

  ‘Ah. The ambiguous answer. I like it.’ He leaned towards her. ‘I wanted her too. Ellen. But Haynes has hid her too well
. Poor girl never knew, did she? Once I found out she was the Clewer’s girl, I invested five people, five pretending to be me, keeping her happy. Demanding bitch. Then she let slip her brother ruined Henderson, and I had to move my plans up. Couldn’t wait any longer.’

  He had confirmed his identity – Zustaller. The elusive villain was right there in front of her. The admission boosted her confidence. ‘Five men to groom her.’ She sneered. ‘How inefficient of you.’

  He snorted. The shadow looming over her lengthened as he leaned forward, speaking right into her ear. ‘Four men and one woman. She called her sweetie. I watched. Added a little spark to the chat now and again. Kept things ticking over. I want her still. When I get her, I'll make her watch you.’

  ‘How gallant.’ Julianna risked much with her temerity, but the sarcasm was working. She snapped her shoulders back, presenting bravado instead of cowardice.

  The balaclava failed to hide the pursed lips of a frown. ‘Now do you need anything, besides your freedom? You will leave soon. Your travel arrangements are being finalised. It is not going to be very comfortable. I apologise in advance.’ His eyes glistened under the lamplight; amused, not sorry.

  The spike of confidence was counterproductive; she had to appear weak to actuate her plan. Drooping, she lost the boldness and hunched her shoulders. ‘I’m cramping.’ She laced misery into her voice. ‘I know it doesn’t bother you. But I’ve only the one pair of knickers and I don’t want to leave here bloody. I have what I need in my handbag.’ She pressed her palms together, mimicking prayer.

  The pathetic touch worked. ‘Get her handbag,’ Zustaller said to Stazki. ‘Not that blood would bother my buyer.’ He laughed and circled a spot on the floor while they waited.

  Stazki returned with the leather handbag, which had two compartments and a keyring sewn into the interior seam. Attached to the keyring was the moulded knob of plastic. Stazki held out the bag to Julianna, keeping his grasp on the lengthy strap. Julianna plunged her hands into the compartments; the heavy cuffs masked her actions. With one hand, she fished out a tampon and with the other she activated the silicone button secreted inside the plastic fob. No bleep or flash of light – the tracker was perfectly covert. She hoped the beacon was doing its job.

  She held up the tampon, and joyfully witnessed their discomfort; both of them glanced away at the display of femininity, the very thing they espoused as her frailty, and that was their failing: a belief in the weaker vessel. Now, her anger returned, but this time she wouldn’t direct the rage at Alex’s betrayal. Her resentment belonged entirely to these men and their kind.

  ‘We will leave you for little while, then we come back to get you. Try to eat.’ Zustaller pointed at the food. ‘It will rot if you don't and there is nothing else for you. My buyer isn't fussed about weight either.’

  The men retreated out of the door with her handbag. She fumbled in the darkness and found the apple. Now it was worth eating; she needed the strength.

  Another sliding bolt echoed somewhere in the cellar. There were shuffles of feet, a muted cry and a hard slap, then more cries and blows. She spat out the apple and covered her ears for the duration. It never crossed her mind there were others down in the cellar with her. One woman at least. The walls were thick enough to mask voices, but not cries. Her feeble protests eventually stopped. The bolt clanged again, signalling the end of the ordeal. A few minutes later a car engine roared outside, and wheels crunched on the gravel track.

  There was nothing else to do but corral her fear and anger into the energy of resistance; the one thing she possessed that couldn’t be broken. The opportunity to loosen it would come. She prayed it was when, and not if. In the empty silence, she waited.

  40

  Mark

  FRIDAY NIGHT

  Mark joined Jackson in his office a little after midnight.

  ‘If you can’t sleep at least have a shower and a change of clothes,’ Jackson said.

  The small en-suite bathroom was sufficient for refreshing aching joints. The sweatpants and matching t-shirt had arrived from somewhere, probably a nearby store and purchased by a member of the security team. Mark and Julianna's house was out of bounds in case it was being watched.

  Mark and Jackson sat in silence around the conference table, fingering the handles of their mugs – the coffee had long since gone cold. A packet of digestive biscuits had been opened. The crumbs came from a broken biscuit at the top of the packet, the rest were untouched. Waiting was torture for Mark and Jackson was similarly afflicted with agitated impatience. Occasionally Jackson glanced at the clock on the wall, but mostly he alternated between tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair or pacing the length of the room. He had engaged every organisation or authority with whom he had influence. Mark was powerless and impotent. He pressed his palms together and raised his eyes to the ceiling in pseudo-prayer. He didn’t believe in God, but this one day he wished he had some faith in divine intervention. Ellen was safe; if only it was true for Julianna.

  The call that came through not long after four o’clock generated a burst of feverish optimism – Jackson ordered fresh coffee and tastier biscuits. Chris had informed Jackson that the tracker was sending out a signal and he was on his way to meet the police. Mark paced the floor for a while before collapsing in a chair. Nothing was happening fast enough for him. Jackson preferred to stare out of the window, arms folded, and watch the sunrise. The lack of further information blunted the initial excitement. The call merely signalled another period of waiting. Silence suited the temperament of both men.

  At half past five in the morning the telephone in Jackson’s office rang. Jackson leaned over and pressed a button. Chris’s voice boomed out of the speaker.

  ‘Sir. We don’t have her.’

  ‘We’ meant the police. Chris Moran had relayed the location of the tracker's beacon to the local police in Kent, who had arrived ahead of him. Mark’s head slumped and he clenched his fists in angst. Julianna had disposed of the punchbag; he wanted it right in front of him.

  ‘What happened, Chris? You’re on speaker and Mark is here,’ Jackson said.

  ‘The place was deserted. A derelict farmhouse with minimal furnishings. There are signs that the bedrooms were occupied by gang members. The place is basic; no plumbing or electricity. Totally off the grid. No evidence of women being held there. The police think it’s a hideout and they left in a hurry. Personal items were abandoned.’

  ‘And they’re sure Julianna wasn’t there?’

  ‘Her handbag was found in the kitchen. The money had been pilfered, mobile gone but the tracker was still in place and transmitting. She could have been held there. The police have searched the place from top to bottom.’

  ‘So, they’ve moved her and left the handbag?’

  ‘That appears to be the case. There’s something else, sir. It's not good. Pretty horrendous.’ Chris spoke in smatterings, his words punctuated by rasps of breath.

  Mark lifted his head. Across the room, his grey reflection bounced off the windowpane: beneath his sleepless eyes, shadows drew his cheeks into a stony pallor.

  ‘Go on.’ Jackson’s body, like Mark's, was rigid and braced for bad news.

  ‘There's the body of a man. Not a pleasant sight. He's laid out on the kitchen table and has numerous injuries. Dead and very recently, as in less than an hour or so. Probably done in a hurry as they departed. He's been recognised, sir, by the police. It's the undercover officer.’

  Jackson lowered his head, hiding his face for a few seconds. A share of the burden of responsibility rested on his shoulders. He had encouraged the vice unit to utilise their officer to help trace Julianna. ‘Shot?’

  ‘Yes. The police are, well, upset about their colleague, especially the manner of his death. They’re calling in extra officers to comb the area for any signs of the gang. But they have to be cautious now that they know guns are involved.’

  ‘No Julianna?’ Jackson reiterated.

  ‘No,’ Chris s
aid. ‘I fear she's been moved and without the tracking device. They're probably taking her out of the country, and quickly. They know they’ve a traitor in their midst.’

  ‘Stay with the police. They’re going to focus on finding the killers of their police officer. Julianna’s predicament might lower in priority.’

  ‘I fear so.’

  Mark emitted a groan of pain. The hopelessness was profound and disabling.

  Jackson looked across at Mark. There was nothing he could say or do. Everything that had happened was a consequence of Ellen's foolhardy trip to Dublin, and before that, their father's criminal past. The aftershocks continued to ripple on. Jackson generously turned away as Mark battled to keep his composure.

  41

  Julianna

  SATURDAY 4 a.m.

  Disturbed by a muffled nose, Julianna stirred from her protective foetal position on the mattress. Given the awakening sunlight, it had to be dawn. Her teeth chattered; the cellar was icy even on a summer’s day. Lifting her head, she licked her cracked lips and listened.

  A bang. The solitary noise echoed somewhere above her head. An inexperienced person might assume it was a car backfiring or a door slamming, or maybe a champagne bottle losing its cork under pressure. It was none of those: it was a single gunshot.

  She waited, expecting more gunfire, but the only sounds were startled birds calling to each other. She hoped the noise signified the arrival of armed police in response to the tracker’s beacon. Maybe the police had let off a warning shot. It seemed a convincing idea. But she dared not risk calling out.