“Come on,” he said, wrapping one of his arms around her while he pulled his jacket over his head with the other.
They dashed out into the next room and he picked her up so her feet didn’t burn on the area of flame at the foot of the stairs. He stopped as they got half way up the first flight and looked up at the ceiling as chunks were beginning to break away and fall. The thick smoke stung his eyes, filtering through the sleeve of his coat and choking his lungs and he knew he had to make a decision between the risk of the ceiling collapsing or being overcome by fumes.
“Come on, quick.”
Without wasting another second, he pulled her up the stairs, not stopping until they reached the top. Thoughts of Katherine and Molly spurred him forward as they hurried beneath the unsteady ceiling above, already consumed by the fire and about to give way.
“Where’s the door?” he spluttered, not able to see through the black billowing smoke as it rose from the basement.
He surged forward, using memory to guide his way and to his relief he felt the door he had first entered. He pressed on the emergency handle which ran along the centre and threw his weight against it, forcing it to fly open and release them into fresh air. They coughed and spluttered, gasping to fill their lungs with much needed oxygen.
“Keep going. There’s gas pipes in there so we need to get further away.”
Weakened from the blow to his head and lack of air, he summonsed up the last of his strength to lift her small light body over his shoulder and he staggered away from the building and put her down a safe distance away.
“Are you okay?”
Grace didn’t reply, just stared with a blank look in her eyes at the flames as they devoured the part of the building they had just come out from.
“I think you’re going into shock,” he said, and he took off his jacket, wrapped it around her and pulled her close to keep her warm while he called the emergency services.
“It’s over, Grace. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
Chapter Thirty Eight
The office appeared the same as any other day when he arrived back a week later and stepped out from the lift. Aware of the eyes watching over the tops of their partitions, he kept his head down as he walked through the pool of desks. A silence fell over the room. He was halfway across when he heard a slow clapping of hands, followed by another and another. Soon, everyone had stood from their chairs to give him a round of applause, cheering and whistling. He stopped and acknowledged their praise, smiling at the array of faces. The same faces who barely a week ago had looked at him with scorn, now beaming and cheering as if a celebrity or war hero had entered the room. He felt embarrassed and after giving them a quick courteous ‘thank you’ he continued over to his desk.
“Phil. Come inside for a minute, will you?”
Mick was stood at the door of his office, gesturing for him to come inside and Phil gasped when he noticed the Commissioner sat in his chair.
“Excellent work,” Mick said, beaming with pride as he shook Phil’s hand vigorously.
“Thank you, Sir,” he replied, taken aback by the scene.
“Yes, excellent policing,” the Commissioner added, stretching out his arm to shake his hand. “I wanted to pop by and thank you personally and to give you some good news.”
“What about Grace, Sir? How is she?” Phil asked.
“She’s going to be fine thanks to you. She’s been in hospital for observation and she’ll be starting with psychiatric support very soon.”
The Commissioner gestured for him to sit down.
“Anyway, about this news. You’ll be pleased to know a vacancy has come up for the role of Detective Sergeant and as of this day, it’s yours. Congratulations.”
The Commissioner’s words were concise as he sat in Mick’s chair calmly drinking his coffee. Phil was speechless. The news he had moved up to Detective Sergeant after missing the opportunity two years ago was like a dream come true.
“What about Jason, Sir?” he asked when he managed to gather his thoughts into some kind of order.
The smile dropped from Mick’s face and he shrank a little as the Commissioner took over the conversation.
“I’m afraid DS Cook is no longer with us. He met with a tragic accident while visiting friends in Oxford at the weekend. They found him drowned in one of the rivers close by to where he was staying. Forensics think he had too much to drink and went out on one of the boats, fell in and couldn’t get himself out. The cause of death has been recorded as death by misadventure resulting in hypothermia.”
The Commissioner stood up and straightened his jacket, tucking his hat beneath his arm in a military fashion and Phil instinctively stood from his chair, shocked and lost for words at the news.
“Well, I’m sorry but I have to dash,” he said shaking Phil’s hand for a second time. “I’ve got my wife, Christina waiting for me in the car. I’ve put the details of the job on your new desk. Welcome to the team.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
The Commissioner swept out of the room and everyone in the office stood up from their chairs as he passed through the pool of cubicles to leave. Phil wandered out of Mick’s office in a daze and sat down at Jason’s old desk. His pen holder, filing tray and computer had already been moved prior to his arrival and he opened the top drawer to check his rosary beads had not been forgotten. Memories of the last time he had opened the drawer when it had belonged to Jason shot into his mind and he sat back and swivelled from side to side in the chair for a moment.
“Dead?” he whispered to himself.
Maybe Jason had been telling the truth and was working undercover after all? A lump formed in his throat. Would Jason still be alive if he hadn’t blurted out his name and revealed his identity to Peter Montague?
“Drinks after work?” Alison asked, calling out from behind her cubicle in between manning her phone. “Think it calls for a celebration, don’t you?”
He nodded and smiled. No one had ever invited him to go for drinks after work and it marked a change in attitude towards him now he had risen in rank. The times he had wished they would include him in the past, yet now all he wanted to do was get home to his family. He imagined the look on his mother’s face. The longed for expression of pride and approval he had craved all his life finally making an appearance on her straight, expressionless face. At last, he would no longer be the black sheep.
A coffee appeared on his desk from a member of the team as they passed by. People nodded and acknowledged his existence, something which they had only ever done when he had entered into a fight with Jason but now their actions were positive. Mick was chatting on the phone and his body language oozed with pride at one of his team making the headlines and his hatred of the press and how they had torn him apart in the past, subsided. Everything about the Fletcher case had been forgotten, now they hailed him a hero. He sighed as he realised how fickle the press really were, one minute they hated you, the next they loved you but it no longer mattered.
He sipped on the cup of coffee and scanned the layout of his desk, making sure it was how he liked it to be and not quite knowing what he should do next. Deciding to sort out the files in his tray, he pulled them out and began allocating them to lower ranking officers, keeping the higher profile ones for himself and he noticed the letter from the Commissioner wedged between the tray and his computer. Without a second thought, he picked it up and opened it, eager to read the details of his new job especially the increase in his pay scale.
“Muswell Hill, here we come,” he muttered when he reached the section telling him the amount he was to be paid.
Only when his head cleared of all the things he planned to do with his increased wealth did he pay attention to the letter itself. Its crisp, high quality paper coloured in a subtle shade of ivory stopped him instantly. He lifted it to his nose as he had done with the letter he had found in the boxes Julie Dalton had given him. A dryness appeared in his mouth, one which the coffee failed to quench as
he held the letter up to the light on his desk.
“Oh no. Please no.”
There, glowing against the background light was the same familiar watermark as Grace’s ransom letter.
“Christina?” he muttered as he recalled the Commissioner mentioning his wife was waiting, and he dashed to the office window and looked down to see the car pulling slowly out of the car park.
The colour drained from his face and he returned to his seat, still holding the letter of promotion in his hand, and he noticed Mick watching him through the venetian blinds with a stern expression. They stared at each other for a moment and an unsaid understanding passed between them. Then, Mick closed the blinds.
*******
Nine years later...
Reality faded into the distance. Only a faint, barely audible voice held her just enough to stop her falling down into another world. A world of nightmares, shadows and never ending isolation devoid of love and normality. Her eyes scanned the small room. Dark plain brick walls, lit only by a low wattage camping lamp surrounded her, closing in until she felt suffocated. Standing up, the cold of the rough grey concrete floor penetrated the soles of her bare feet as she glanced down at the old thin mattress. Its blue striped ticking, now threadbare, stained and torn at the bottom left corner where a sharp metal spring had poked through. A pile of neatly folded dusters were stacked in the opposite corner beside two plain grey buckets, one filled with drinking water, the other disinfectant - the only makeshift sanitation available.
She wrapped the course grey blanket over her oversized shirt to stave off the never ending chill as she picked up the lamp. The glow casting shadows as it made its way around the room, revealing every crack, fissure and chip she had come to know so well. Walking around the perimeter of the small room, her slim cold hand touched the rough texture of the bricks, pushing occasionally for any signs of a weakness. She poked and scratched at the sandy mortar with worn down, jagged fingernails, blackened with dust and dried blood from hours of picking in the desperate hope of finding a chink of daylight – then, she came to the door.
She had given up knocking and banging months ago. Made of dark solid oak, it absorbed any sound her weak fists made resulting in nothing more than bruised, torn knuckles. No sound ever came from the other side. No light shone through around its edges. Latched and dead bolted from the outside its ominous carved panels didn’t even offer a handle or keyhole as a symbol of hope. She stood motionless and observed her surroundings. The strong odour of damp filled her nostrils carried on an icy chill and a paralysing panic gripped her tight. How long had she been there? Was it day or night? Were they still searching for her, or had they given up?
Suddenly, a faint noise broke her from her thoughts. The muffled sound of a door closing above her, not overhead but further over, past the confines of the room. Silence fell. Only the pounding of her heart, bursting into life beat loudly in her ears. She stood back from the door, frantically searching for something to aid her escape. The wait seemed an eternity until the click of an inner door, much nearer this time, triggered another burst in her stomach. She clenched her fists into tight balls, her fingernails gouging into her palms, not registering any pain.
Maybe this time.
The hollow sound of heavy booted feet descended the stairs. Their chunky soles echoing against the concrete until they stopped on the other side of the door. She shouldn’t be stood there. He was listening. Making sure she was kneeling on the mattress facing the wall, her eyes closed. She froze, rooted to the spot not daring to breathe. Her eyes flicked upwards towards the top of the door as if imagining the bolt sliding back, the same again at the bottom. The bolts were always first. Metallic jingling came next as he searched for the key and a sharp tug followed as the padlock opened. Desperate indecision crashed over her. Was it too late for her to reach the mattress and kneel?
Silence fell once more and she stared at the door. Lack of time forcing her into a decision she wasn’t sure of, or ready to make. Did he know she was there, waiting to charge? Was it another of his mind-twisting psychological games? She braced herself, placing her weight on her front leg as if about to run a race. Her eyes burned from lack of blinking as she focused on the first sign of the door opening. A shuffle and a muffled cough filtered through, an eerie confirmation her captor was merely inches away. Suddenly, the moment was upon her. The door jolted, the damp creating a momentary resistance as her captor pulled to free it from the swollen frame. She crouched as if going in to a scrum, every one of her senses alive and hypersensitive until it opened an inch and revealed a dim light.
Now.
Charging forward she threw all of her seven stone body at the door, forcing it outward and her tormentor, backward. Stumbling forward carried on a force of momentum she aimed for the stairs taking the first three in one swift leap. She scrabbled, her breathing erratic as her atrophied legs struggled to keep up, powered only by adrenaline and a desperate will to be free. The door at the top was ajar and she was nearly there. Hope, a long gone emotion, filled her chest as she neared the top with just a few steps further to go.
Her hands clawed at the last step as they tried to supplement the weakness in her legs. Legs which were being pulled back down into the darkness, gripped by strong, angry, vice-like hands enclosed around her ankles. Dragging and pulling, her stomach and legs scraped against the sharp edges of each step, tearing and scratching her young teenage skin. Looping an arm through one of the open steps she attempted to hold on, to resist, to delay the inevitable as a strength far more powerful clambered up her legs and its weight pressed against her body. Sheer nylon provided an extra layer to cover his eyes beneath the menacing black balaclava, hiding any identifiable signs but still revealing desperation and anger as his face came within inches of hers. His weight pinned her in place as he battled to separate her fingers, now firmly locked together, from around the handrail.
She kicked and writhed against him, trying to set him off balance and send him backwards, crashing down to the bottom. Their eyes met with equal determination and she screamed into his face in the hope someone might hear but it only served to heighten his aggression. Grabbing one of her wrists, he forced her wrist forward, opening her hand and releasing its grip from the other. His glove covered her screams as he continued to pull her lower and lower. Her head banging against each unforgiving step she fought in vain to release its grip and she turned her focus back to his face. Panicked by suffocation, she grabbed the mask and pulled as he forced her back through the door and into the room. Strong arms deflected each desperate attempt to unmask her captor. He stumbled forward, set off balance by her struggles as they tumbled back into the room. Back to the place she dreaded. Back to her prison. Hysteria swept over her as he threw her onto the mattress, so thin she felt the impact of the concrete beneath. She leapt back up, unable to accept her defeat and lunged forward reaching the door as it closed, sealing her back into hell.
“Grace….Grace.”
A distant voice penetrated the darkness as she banged and screamed at the now closed door.
“Snap out of it Grace, you’re back…you’re safe now.”
The voice repeated again, becoming clearer and louder. She became aware her fists were propelling into a nothingness instead of hard solid wood. Heat covered her body and a cool layer of sweat pulled her back into the present moment.
“You’re safe now, Grace. No one can hurt you,” the voice said firmly, now loud and close.
She gasped and struggled to find a grip, eventually finding the smooth leather arms of the reclining chair. Gentle but firm hands pushed on her shoulders, shaking them slightly to bring her back to consciousness until eventually Grace opened her eyes. Letting go of the armrests, she raised her hands and covered her eyes as tears streamed down her temples and into her dark shiny hair. She blew out a long breath filled with tension, fear and relief as the present moment flooded her senses, pushing its way back to the forefront of her mind.
“You’r
e okay now. You did really well.”
Grace dropped her hands and surveyed Karen Johnson’s consultation room and her comforting expression smiling down at her. She blew out another breath, shorter this time and filled with relief as she attempted to steady her breathing.
“You got closer this time. Did you see his face?”
Grace shook her head and gritted her teeth with frustration.
“Why can’t I see him? It always goes black just as his mask lifts.”
Karen gave her a reassuring touch on the top of her arm. She too felt the frustration, and finding the identity of Grace’s captor had become an obsession over the past four years. Many psychiatrists had tried and failed to unlock Grace’s mind but she had got closer than any of them.
“Maybe next time. I’m sorry I pushed you so hard.”
Grace sat up, her crisp white cotton blouse damp with sweat. She rubbed her hands together to clear away the clamminess, opening them up to see crescent shaped indentations in her palms made from her short trimmed nails. Karen passed her a drink of chilled water from the dispenser and she relished the cold stream as it flowed down to her stomach, calming her heartbeat. Sessions were becoming more and more exhausting as the visions got stronger with the trauma clearly showing on her face.
“Don’t quit on me now, Grace. I know it’s tough but you’ve survived the worst. It’s just that last piece of the jigsaw. Just one last piece.”
Grace nodded. The trauma of revisiting the last place on earth she ever wanted to see again was getting stronger as each vision got clearer.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” Grace said as her hand slid down the side of her waist for the comforting feel of the badge clipped to her trouser band.
Karen didn’t reply. She knew Grace would be back next week and trying to convince her would only trigger her oppositional nature. Grace knew it too. Despite the horror of returning to a room which had been her prison for a year, the desire to bring her captor to justice burned deep within. He knew her. He could be watching her and she wouldn’t know, standing behind her in a queue, sitting beside her in a café. Worse still, he could do it to another defenceless girl, if he hadn’t already.
The Death of Me Page 25