‘I won’t hurt her. I don’t care about kids.’
‘All right, what do you want? I’ll do it any way you like.’ She began unbuttoning her blouse, her fingers clumsy like thumbs. She could see he had a hard-on but that wasn’t his problem, was it? It was later.
‘You’ve been a bad girl, Sharon, they tell me.’
‘Who tells you? I don’t know what you mean.’ She dropped her blouse on the floor and began unfastening her bra, the knife still pointing at her throat.
‘Our friend Gary tells me.’
‘Gary?’ She took off the bra and stood there, trembling. Somehow, she must gain control of this situation. ‘What’s he said about me?’
‘You’ve been talking about him to the Press. Go on. Don’t stop.’ She stepped out of her skirt. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘He wants you to sign this.’
She took it and read, in Gary’s big, clumsy handwriting: I want everyone to know, in the Press and TV, that when I say Gary raped me it isn’t true. I always knew it wasn’t him but I was just getting my own back. I lied about it all.
Astonishment overcame her fear. ‘He really wants me to sign this?’
‘He does so.’ A faint, ironic grin appeared on Sean’s face. ‘Will you do it?’
‘Is that what you’re here for?’
‘That’s what Gary thinks I’m here for.’
‘But you want something else?’
‘Yes.’ He waved the knife at her tights and panties. ‘Them too.’ When she stood before him naked he said, ‘What I want is a lock of your hair.’
‘My hair?’ Somehow this frightened her more than anything else. The strange smile reappeared, as if he thought the demand might amuse her; but it didn’t. It scared her witless. ‘What do you want that for?’
‘To add to my collection. Cut some off for me, will you?’
There were scissors on her dressing table, with her brushes and make-up. She sat down automatically in front of the mirror, as she did every day. But not like this, not naked with a knife at her back. She lifted the scissors to cut some hair.
‘A good long bit, now. You’ve plenty to spare, after all.’
Suddenly it came to her. ‘You’re the one they want, aren’t you? The one who killed that woman, a year ago. Maria something — Clayton.’
His voice lost its playful tone. ‘How in hell do you know that?’
‘Because they’re on to you. The police have got photos of you, and I … saw them.’
Scared as she was, she realized too late what she’d said. But she’d said it because she needed something — words, objects, anything at all — to throw at him and protect herself. She got up, scissors in one hand, a lock of hair in the other, and backed away. Towards the bed, towards the telephone. If she could ring 999, perhaps …
‘The police have shown you photographs of me?’
‘Yes. They asked if I recognized you. Here.’ She handed him the lock of hair. Anything to gain a little time, live a little longer. ‘Did you kill her, really?’ She made her voice sound as if it was some heroic, wonderful feat. The phone was only a foot away now.
He sniffed the hair, then slipped it into his pocket. ‘Clever girl. But that’s not all I did.’
‘Not all?’
‘No. Don’t forget the others.’
‘What others? Who do you mean?’ Only a foot to the phone now, on the bedside table behind her. She could reach it easily. The problem was how to distract him long enough to dial. And then what?
‘For example this girl they’re having the trial about now. Jasmine Hurst.’
‘You killed Jasmine Hurst?’
‘With this very knife. Look at it, Sharon, I brought it specially for you. Sharp, isn’t it?’’
As she moved backwards, he stepped towards her, round the side of the bed. The knife was only an arm’s length from her throat. If she picked up the phone, she’d be dead before she could dial. But if she didn’t dial, she’d die anyway.
‘I can see you trembling, Sharon. I like that.’
Her mind was racing so fast she was aware of everything, every tiny movement of his face and hands, even while she was thinking what to do. Everyone said you should humour people like this, make a relationship with them if you could. As long as he still wanted to talk to her she would stay alive.
‘The papers call me the Hooded Rapist, you know. But you can see my face.’
‘The Hooded Rapist? But he attacked other people, didn’t he?’
‘A few, so far. That girl Whitaker who had such a lucky escape. And you, the first time.’
‘Me?’ The phone was directly behind her now. She could feel it against her thigh. Very carefully, with her left hand, she began to shift the receiver off its cradle. Thank God the buttons were on the base of the phone, not the handset. If she was lucky she might manage to press 9 three times without him noticing. If only she could keep him talking.
‘What do you mean, me, the first time?’
‘You may as well sign the paper for Gary, you know. After all, it’s true what it says. About him not raping you.’
‘What?’
Yes, the handset was off now. He was mad, but she didn’t care what he said, so long as he said something, to mask the dialling tone. Her fingers fumbled behind her. Where was 9? Bottom right, wasn’t it? Or was that those star and hash things?
‘Yes, it was me that raped you that night, Sharon. Not our friend Gary, as you thought. The joke was on him, don’t you think?’
‘You? But it wasn’t you, I recognized him!’
‘By his voice, right?’ He laughed, and held his left arm in front of his mouth, so that the sleeve muffled his voice. To her astonishment he said, in a Yorkshire accent, very like Gary’s: ‘Wayne, go away.’
The memory of that night flooded back — this man after all, not Gary. He hadn’t ejaculated then, either, had he? He just pulled out and hit me in the face.
More keenly she remembered the way her little son had fought back. A desperate surge of adrenalin rushed through her. Thank God Wayne was at school; but Katie was downstairs, and she was all they had, both of them.
‘Oh God, help me.’ She slumped down on the bed, making it look like a faint, though it wasn’t really, not yet. Her hair fell forwards over her face and she glanced quickly under it at the phone. Nine wasn’t at the bottom right, but the next one up. She leaned sideways and dropped her hand over the phone, as though accidentally, fumbling for balance.
‘But why?’ Her finger pressed 9 three times. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘For fun, that’s all. For a bet, Sharon, because Gary was pissed with you, and didn’t have the guts to do it himself. Just like now. Only now, you know all about me, don’t you, Sharon? So you could tell everyone.’
He moved closer, the tip of the long, serrated knife flicking her left nipple. She clutched the scissors and stared at him, trying to think of something to say. Anything at all, to save her life.
‘Emergency services. Do you need fire, police or ambulance?’ the telephone asked.
Terry and Harry were stuck in slow-moving traffic. Terry edged the car to the middle of the road, to see if he could overtake. But there was a traffic island just ahead, and a steady stream of cars coming the other way. Frustrated, he drummed his fingers on the wheel.
‘Ask Tracy what’s happening now,’ he said. ‘Is Sean still inside the house?’
Harry dialled the number. The response stumped him.
‘No signal, sir. Either that or she’s got it switched off.’
‘Hell’s teeth! What the bloody hell would she do that for?’
‘No idea, sir, I’m afraid.’
Sarah found it hard to listen to the judge’s summing up. She had made such a mess of things, she had let Simon down. It had all been going so well, too — she had overcome her nerves, controlled her voice, had the jury’s attention focussed on her. She had made all the points she wanted to, and then …
She couldn’t understand what had happened. She had choked, like an athlete in sight of the winning tape. She had forgotten her conclusion, lost all energy and conviction at that vital moment. She had never even meant to mention David Brodie and when Turner had interrupted her, she’d had no response. Simon would go to prison because she had let him down.