by Chris Ward
‘You can’t stop me.’
‘Yes, I can.’
She walked towards him, expecting him to move aside. As she got close to him, he reached out and took hold of her shoulder. ‘Damn, you turn me on when you’re angry,’ he said.
All the anger and resentment burst out of her in a rush. She raked her nails down his face, causing him to cry out. She pushed for the door only for something hard and warm to slam into the side of her face. She later realised he had slapped her, but while he had only used his open palm, Brian was in great physical shape, and the blow rattled the bones in her body. She sprawled forward on the landing outside their bedroom, too stunned to even cry out.
Hands gripped her ankles, pulling her back into the bedroom. Husband or not, it would still be rape if she didn’t want it, but Brian, bleeding from the cuts on his face, wore a lecherous, perverted grin.
He pulled her as far as the bed, then he let go and leaned down to lift her up.
A metal hand mirror that her mother had given her as a wedding present sat on a bedside table within reach. She looked at it every morning, and knew instinctively where it was without turning around.
She stuck out a hand, grabbed it and swung it with all her might into Brian’s face.
It didn’t break, but it landed like a hammer blow, the hard metal edge striking him in the temple. He grunted and let go, rolling to the floor, clutching his head in his hands.
Jennie didn’t wait. She scrambled to her feet and bolted for the door, not looking back as she turned on the landing and rushed down the stairs, taking them three at a time, almost tripping and falling with each step. She grabbed her car keys from her bag as she ran, and was out of the door and in her little car before she could stop to think.
Her phone started ringing a couple of minutes later, and a barrage of voicemails and angry text messages began. Once she was out into the traffic she knew he would never catch her, and she knew she would never go back. She began to make plans in her head to get out of the country, either go back to Japan or over to Europe where he would never find her. She’d done the hard part, the rest was easy.
She was halfway to the airport when she remembered she had forgotten the one thing from the house that she wished she had taken.
Her beautiful little dog.
Pogo.
12
Crina and Grigore reunited
Crina Dobel wished the police would stop calling her. She hadn’t heard from Grigore and she wasn’t likely to. Sure, they had an on-off relationship, but Grigore’s true partner was his work. While for the most part he worked within the law, there were times when his business dealings straddled the fine line between right and wrong, usually to nail some big money deal that his competitors were afraid to go for. Sometimes he would drop off the grid altogether, disappearing for a few days while he was holed up in secret business meetings or out of the country meeting clients.
Theirs was a personal relationship; it had nothing to do with business beyond their sharing a financial station in life. Grigore was a self-made billionaire, she was the daughter of one of Romania’s largest landowners. They enjoyed each other’s company, a situation no doubt made easier by the similarity of their expectations.
He had been missing for two weeks now. It was longer than usual, but she hadn’t yet started to worry, even though the media was in a frenzy. At least twice a day the police called her, asking the same questions over and over again. Have you heard from him? Have you remembered anything he said to you that could be a clue? Is there something you might have forgotten?
He’ll show up, she thought. He’ll just appear again one day as if nothing has happened and everyone will look foolish.
She had her own business to attend to, of course. As a lower member of the aristocracy she had an endless schedule of social engagements, everything from opening supermarkets to attending charity galas and sports events. While some of her peers hated such ceremonies, Crina thrived on them. She loved to be out in public, and while she didn’t share the same level of popularity of some of the country’s pop stars and TV icons, there were always plenty of newspaper column inches written about her and she had several burgeoning scrapbooks filled with all the cuttings she had collected.
Plus, there was always some fashion company willing to provide her with new outfits for each occasion. There were definitely perks to being a minor celebrity.
Today’s schedule involved lunch at a computer company in Bucharest which was launching a new software package, followed by a coffee afternoon with a group of senior businessmen who had just gone into partnership to buy a local football club, followed by a wedding reception for some Romanian pop star whom Crina had barely heard of. As an established socialite, Crina had received the usual blanket invitation sent out by the star’s publicist to everyone of borderline fame within traveling distance. She was, of course, delighted to attend.
The reception dinner was a stand up buffet affair where Crina found herself moving from one group of vaguely famous people to another, bouncing casual conversation off them, handing out private email addresses, and trying to recall names in case she ever needed a favour. A major European magazine had secured exclusive rights to photograph the event, so Crina found herself pushed into groups of strangers for posed photos, and occasionally pestered for comments on her opinion of the bride’s dress or the food.
As shamelessly self-centred as she considered herself, no one had really cared much about Grigore’s much publicised disappearance. A famous footballer had brought it up, but Crina had shrugged it off, and within a few minutes they’d been talking quietly behind their hands about the suitability of the bride and groom, and their chances of marital survival. The footballer claimed a maximum of five years, because he’d heard dressing room rumours that the bride had a promiscuous streak, while Crina, who believed in the great sanctity of marriage, had been generous and given them seven. They had shook hands over a five-euro bet, the handshake lingering a little too long to be innocent. They had exchanged email addresses, and Crina felt there might be the possibility of a little tryst after this business with Grigore had died down. After all, she was still only forty-one, and money could make anyone attractive.
She left the wedding party just after nine. Outside, a murky evening had descended over Bucharest, and she stood out of the rain while she waited for her chauffeur. Surprisingly, he was not waiting outside for her as instructed. Frustrated, she pulled her phone from her pocket to call him, just as it began to ring.
It was Grigore.
Crina stared at the phone for a moment before answering. He had never called her during one of his disappearances before. He only ever called her when he was in town and they were planning to see each other.
What if it wasn’t Grigore but someone using his phone? It was too intriguing to ignore.
‘Hello?’
‘Crina, it’s me.’
‘Grigore?’
It was him, there was no doubt. He sounded tired, and a little out of breath.
‘Crina, I need to see you.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’ve sent a car to pick you up. It should be there soon.’
‘How do you know where I am?’
‘I’ve been watching you.’
A little tickle, like the ruffle of feathers, ran down her spine. Crina looked up across the street, but the windows were dark. He probably didn’t mean in person, of course. He usually paid people for things like that.
‘Grigore, I’m not sure about this.’
‘I’ll explain when I see you. I’m sure you’ve heard about my disappearance by now?’
‘It’s all over the news—’
‘I’m in some trouble, Crina. Some people are after me. And that means that by association, you might be in trouble too.’
A car drew in to the curb behind her. The windows were blacked out. The engine hummed as a rear door swung open.
‘Grigore … I’m not sure about this. How ca
n I be sure that’s you?’
‘Test me. Ask me anything. You want me to tell you the colour of the first flowers I ever bought you? The dress you wore on our first date?’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Your bank account number?’
She smiled. Grigore’s life was ruled by money. It might sound like a joke, but he could probably list her last twenty transactions, even though that was private information. Grigore had access to resources few in the banking industry did.
‘Hurry, there’s not much time. I’m waiting for you.’
She looked back at the car, took one glance in through the door at the plush interior, then jumped in. The door immediately swung shut and a little click sealed her inside.
She looked up towards the driver, but a glass window partitioned off the front and back. Something shifted in the front seat and a cold sweat broke out down her back.
The thing that turned briefly in her direction, it’s silhouette caught against a backdrop of tinted streetlight, did not have the face of a man, but rather a pointed beak like a bird, which opened slightly as if to speak, then closed and turned back to face the road. The car slipped into gear and pulled out onto the quiet street, moving away slowly as if there was nothing at all amiss.
Crina began to scream, but it was a waste of energy. She could tell from only the barest hum of the engine that the car was soundproofed, and was sure now that it was one from Grigore’s collection. The doors were centrally locked, the partition to the front was probably bulletproof glass, and the windows were so tinted that no one would see her even if she pressed her face to the glass.
And slowly her folly came back to haunt her.
Of course, Grigore had never bought her any flowers. He wasn’t that kind of man.
Crina quickly tired of trying to get out of the car or attract attention whenever it stopped at traffic lights. No amount of screaming or pounding on the window made any difference, even when pedestrians were passing by no more than a few metres from the car.
Panic made her stupid for a while, but eventually she thought to use her phone to call for help, only to find there was some sort of signal blanket in the car and she couldn’t make a call or even connect to the Internet. She was trapped, at the mercy of whatever monstrosity was driving the car, and all she could do was sit back and wait, as first the lights of the areas of Bucharest which she knew faded behind her, and eventually the city itself.
They turned on to a highway heading north-west, and at every slip road her heart began to pound as she anticipated the approach of a violent, bloody death in the depths of some creepy forest. But the car continued on, until even the horror of the bird-thing at the wheel wasn’t enough to stop her slipping into an uneasy sleep.
She awoke as the car jolted through a pothole, and she looked up to see her worst nightmares looming in around her, thick forest on either side of a road so thin that the canopy made a tunnel down which the headlights shone. She began to scream again, beating her hands against the windows until her wrists ached, but nothing had changed. There was still no escape.
The road wound deeper into the forest and then slowly began to rise. A clock on the display on the dashboard beside the mysterious driver said 1.09 a.m., meaning they’d been travelling now for almost four hours. If they had continued in a north-west direction they would be—
Crina sat back in her seat. She knew where they were going now, but it only made her unease grow. Was this some sort of terrorist group that Grigore had got mixed up with? The rational part of her mind told her that the hideous silhouette she could see whenever the driver looked to the right had to be a mask, that it couldn’t belong to any kind of human. It was a disguise, that was all, but even that didn’t make her feel any better.
The road turned up a steep lane and suddenly the trees began to thin out. A starry, cloudless sky appeared above them and they emerged onto a wide plateau with the towers of Heigel Castle silhouetted against a backdrop of moon-bathed mountains, the scant lights of the town spread out across the valley below.
She had never liked the place, with its cold corridors and echoing rooms, and the doors that creaked whether they were being opened or not. She had only ever stayed here a couple of times, and after the first novelty of seeing it as a tourist had worn off, she had kept to the clutch of rooms on the lower level which had been modernised for comfortable living, leaving the rest to the history buffs who paid their entrance fee on the door each day.
Grigore had five other homes across Romania and a couple of others overseas, and she liked every one of them more. She had considered his purchase of Heigel Castle as a flexing of his financial muscles, because no one in their right mind would want to live in a cold, dead place perched on the edge of a cliff.
To be fair, Grigore was hardly ever here, but she wouldn’t bet against him being inside there now, and possibly against his will.
As they crossed the grey stone causeway to the castle gate, blackness closed in like a dark lake on either side. The gatehouse of the castle loomed up ahead of them, twin lights on either side of the portcullis blinking on. The car paused, the engine so quiet she could barely hear it, as the great metal latticework rose up into the walls above. Then they were heading inside, into a courtyard lit by several spotlights, the imposing grey walls of the castle with its galleries, walkways and towers looming up out of the shadows all around.
The car came to a stop near the wall of the main keep. The driver climbed out, immediately shuffling off into the shadows and through a doorway before Crina could get a clear look at him.
The lock clicked and the car door swung open. Crina stayed where she was for a moment as the blustery cold of the late night rushed in, cooling even the feverish skin of her bruised hands.
There was no point trying to run. The portcullis had already fallen, trapping her inside. She didn’t know the castle well, and even if she made a bolt for it and tried to find somewhere to hide, she would either starve to death or eventually be found.
She got out of the car, the door closing automatically behind her. The spotlights illuminated the square courtyard, but the high galleries and windows were dark. She turned on her heels, but the courtyard was empty.
‘Grigore?’ she shouted, alarmed at the tremble in her voice. ‘Grigore! Are you there?’
A door creaked from the shadows in front of her, and a cloaked figure stepped out into the light. Dressed in a cloak, it walked strangely rigidly, reminding her of the tin man from The Wizard of Oz. When it got to within a few feet, its arms lifted and its hood fell back.
‘Grigore? Oh my God … is that you?’
Wires strung across his faced creaked and pulled his lips back into a pained, twisted grimace. His eyes rolled in their sockets, then jerked forward with a hiss as if electrified.
‘Hello, my darling,’ he said, the words coughed out of his throat as if propelled by a surgical catapult. ‘It’s wonderful to see you again. I’m so glad you could come.’
She stared, her throat too dry for words. He jerked a few steps towards her and a hand reached out, the fingers straining against wires crisscrossing his skin. Crina fell to her knees, a wheezing scream popping from her mouth like an expelled lung.
When the hands grabbed her from behind and a bag fell over her face, it almost came as a relief.
13
Jennie gets lost
‘You can’t go back, Ken!’
Karin grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to turn him away from the window. ‘What about us? What about your daughter?’
‘Don’t you think I know that? Jun’s not just the singer in my band, Karin. I’ve known him for seven years. After everything that happened … I can’t just let him go in there alone. He’s not the only one who lost someone close that day.’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’ She wanted to slap him, but it was no use. She could tell from the look in his eyes that he’d already made up his mind. ‘That’s the reason why I don’t want you to go after him. Don’t you understand?
We got lucky. We could all have died that day. That we didn’t was sheer luck. And you want to go back there?’
‘I can reason with him. I can get him out.’
‘Jun’s not a hero, he’s a fool. He’s putting himself in danger and if you follow him you’ll be in danger too.’
‘I know that—’
‘Why not just call the police and tell them what you know?’
‘The police are already there. And they won’t believe me. That bastard Crow is too good at hiding his tracks.’
‘Ken, I don’t want you to do this. I don’t want you to get hurt.’
He pulled her close, hugging her face against his chest. Ten years ago he had hated her more than any woman in the world. She had been engaged to Plastic Black Butterfly’s late singer, O-Remo Takahashi, but jilted him at the altar after he was busted for drugs at Narita Airport. She had been trying to save her own career, but it had backfired, pushing her from the heights of pop stardom into the depths of the porn industry. Then, over a few blood-drenched days they had all come back together. Ken and Karin’s love had bloomed out of the heartbreak of their friends’ deaths, and now the thought of losing a woman he had once despised was the second worst thing in the world.
Only losing his child could possibly hurt more.
‘I’m sure nothing will happen,’ Ken said. ‘I’m sure it’s just some local crackpot that has got the news stirred up. Jun’s going to find nothing, and in a few days he’ll be pissed that he wasted his time. But … just in case, I want you to take Nozomi and fly back to Japan tomorrow morning.’
She looked up at him. ‘I love you, Ken. I’d tell you that if you loved me and your daughter you’d stay, but I know that you won’t. Will you?’
‘You and Nozomi are the two most important people to me in the world,’ he said. ‘But Jun is my closest friend. He’s like a younger brother. I don’t for one second want to leave you, but if he’s in danger … I have to go.’