She flapped a hand at the wall, and steadied herself, then held her head as high as she could. “I’m up.”
“Strip.”
“Fuck off.” Her tongue was not working the way it should, but it felt good cursing.
He leaned to the side, opened a holdall that she had not noticed, reached inside, and removed a handful of crumpled clothes. He dropped them to the floor.
“Now take off your fucking clothes and get into these.”
“In case it’s escaped your attention,” she said, “I’m covered in shit.”
He backed up to the door and stepped outside, then reappeared in the doorway with a garden hose in his hands. “We can do this in there or out here. I don’t give a fuck.”
Maureen blinked, fighting back tears of hope. Was she being set free? It seemed impossible. But he was giving her clean clothes, offering her a wash.
“Outside,” she whispered.
“Strip first,” he ordered.
Sweet fresh air wafted into the hut on a chilling breeze. If she did as she was told, she could be washed and wearing clean clothes and underwear in a few minutes. That thought alone was almost enough to make her move. She caught the sound of traffic somewhere off in the distance, the scent of cooked meat on the wind, and felt her stomach knot with hunger. When had she last eaten? Three days ago? She was weak, did not have the strength to fight back or make a sustained run for it.
Even if she knew where to run to.
She made her decision.
She crossed her arms, flinched with the pain of flexing stiffened muscles, grimaced at the sight of bloodied and bruised wrists, and tugged her top up and over and dropped it to the floor. Undid her zip at the side, and let her skirt fall off. She choked at the sight of her inner thighs, coated with faeces and glistening damp from fresh urine. She had become inured to the stench, but against the fresh air the rancid guff hit her with renewed strength.
Hands behind her back, off with her bra.
Oh, God. Just do it.
Thumbs hooked in her knickers, dropped to the floor.
She fought back a choke of disgust and staggered outside into the night air.
Cold water hit her with a shock that trapped her breath. She gasped, turned, felt the jet hit her backside, and she faced him again, to hide her mess from him. Her hands slid over her body, her thighs, her behind, her filth washing through her fingers like wet mud.
“Don’t you have any soap?”
“Think you’re at the fucking Hilton? Get on with it before I switch it off.”
She swept her hands over her skin, rubbing and brushing.
The jet stopped.
“I’m not clean,” she pleaded, then shielded her face as a blast hit her again.
“Fucking hurry up then.”
When she pushed her hands through her hair the jet stopped.
She stood shivering from the cold, watching his dark eyes study her nakedness.
“Get the clothes.”
Back inside the hut, the fetid air almost choked her. She pressed her hand to her nose, amazed that she had breathed in that vile stench for so long. She picked up the bundle and rushed outside.
He stood on a slabbed path that slipped between bushes at the side of a bungalow that looked vaguely familiar. She assumed that had to be the way out, but in the darkness could not be sure. And she could not stop a tremor that now gripped her limbs. Running was out of the question.
She tugged at the clothing. “Do you have a towel?”
“Get the fuck dressed before I change my mind.”
She separated the bundle to find it consisted of only a skirt and a sweater.
“There’s no underwear,” she said.
He looked away, gobbed off to the side.
She turned her back to him and slipped on the skirt. It felt tight, too tight to fasten at the waist. But it was long and black and woollen soft. She pulled on the top, a black woollen sweater, thin at the elbows, with cuffs frayed and stained with paint. It felt tight around her boobs, but she felt warmth seep through her system, despite being wet.
Then a hand gripped her hair, twisted her head, and she gasped as the cold steel of a blade pressed to her throat. “One squeak and I’ll slit you from ear to fucking ear.” Breath as stale as cigarette ash warmed her face. “Now start walking.”
She was prodded along a slabbed pathway, between bushes to the dark hulk of a car she recognised as a BMW. The boot was already open.
“Get in.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“Get the fuck in.”
At least he was not going to gag her, or tie her hands and feet. She lifted one leg over the rim, then the other, and ducked just in time as the boot lid slammed shut. She listened to the sound of footsteps fading, and imagined him returning to the shed to put out the light and lock the door. Cover their tracks? Why would he do that if she was being set free? And if she was being freed, why would he lock her in the boot of his car?
Oh, God, I’m wrong, I’m wrong. He’s going to kill me.
But her rationale insisted he would not have had her clean herself if he was going to kill her. Confused, she lay on her back, pleased to feel her thighs clear of the tackiness of the last few days. But the cold shower had not rid her skin of the smell of defecation that clung to her like smoke to clothing. She fumbled around, but the darkness was total and the boot-space solid. She lay still. Where had he gone? Was she to be freed? Dear God, tell me he’s going to let me go. Tell me he’s not going to do any more of that to me…
But the truth sank inside her like an anchor into dark waters, pulling hope down with it. She had seen his face and knew he would not let witnesses to his sadistic crimes roam the streets. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to take me away somewhere and slit my throat. Her eyes strained into the darkness. She had never been scared of the dark before, but as she lay there in the black silence she felt the warm sting of tears in her eyes-
Footsteps.
She held her breath as they stopped at the back of the BMW. The lock popped, and she shielded her face as the boot lid opened.
It was him again. Smiling. Something in his hand.
He leaned into the boot, placed it by her face.
“Look after this,” he said.
She stared at it.
Horror seared her throat in a voiceless scream.
She scrambled away from it, pushed herself back, felt her head hit metal, her legs kick like a trapped swimmer, her arms flail the air for some way out.
The boot lid slammed with a thud.
She screamed then. A primal scream that reflected the terror she had seen in Chloe’s sightless eyes.
GILCHRIST WAKENED WITH a start.
He had been dreaming, more nightmare than dream.
Maureen had been speaking to him in a language he knew but could not place. Then he realised she was speaking the language of the dead. He had reached for her then, but with every step she seemed to fade away, so that when he grabbed her she was nothing more than a shadow dancing in the mirror of his imagination, weak and faint as the vaguest remnants of his oldest dream.
That was when he came to.
His T-shirt clung to his skin like damp cloth. He struggled to still the jackhammer pounding in his chest. He glanced at his radio clock-3:33.
He breathed in, almost sobbed. Dear God, tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me that if I had never joined the force Maureen’s life would not now be in danger. His head slumped into his hands and he choked back a sob. He clenched his jaw and looked up. He had to get a grip. He had to get on with it. Moping around wasn’t going to solve a damn thing. But how was he supposed to think, when his daughter was next in line to be served up to him in bits?
He staggered into the shower, scrubbed himself with soap as if he wanted to rip his skin from his bones. An early morning shower often brought his thoughts into focus, but ten minutes later he stepped from the cubicle none the wiser.