Hooking her fingers through the noose around her neck, she lifts it free and then stares at her chained feet and the plastic ties on her wrists. She’s broken the skin. Blood weeps over the white strips.
I cup my hands and smash them together. The mock applause echoes like pistol shots in the quietness of the room. The girl screams and tries to run but the chains around her ankles send her sprawling to the floor.
I grab the back of her neck and pin her down under my weight, straddling her body, feeling the air being squeezed from her lungs. Grabbing her hair, I pull her head backward and whisper in her ear.
‘You’re a very clever girl, Snowflake. I’m going to have to do a better job this time.’
‘No! No! No! Please. Let me go.’
The first loop of masking tape covers her nose, sealing off the airway. The next loop covers her eyes. I do it roughly, dragging her hair. She thrashes her head as more tape loops around her forehead and her chin, encasing her in plastic. Soon only her mouth is exposed. When she opens it to scream, I slide the hose pipe between her lips and teeth, into the back of her throat. She gags. I pull it out a little. More tape loops around her head, screeching as I drag it from the spool.
Her world has become dark. I can hear her breath whistling through the hose.
I speak to her softly. ‘Listen to me, Snowflake. Don’t fight. The harder you struggle, the more difficult it is to breathe.’
She is still wrestling at my arms. I hold a finger over the end of the hose, blocking off her air supply. Her body stiffens in panic.
‘That’s how easy it is, Snowflake. I can stop you breathing with one finger. Nod, if you understand.’
She nods. I take my finger away. She sucks air through the hose.
‘Breathe normally,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a panic attack, nothing more.’
I lift her back onto the bed: she curls into a ball.
‘Do you remember the room?’ I ask.
She nods.
‘There’s a toilet about eight feet to your right, beside a sink. You can reach it. I’ll show you.’
Hauling her upright, I put her feet on the floor and count the steps as she hobbles forward to the sink. I put her hands on the edge of the basin. ‘The cold tap is on the right.’
Then I show her the toilet, making her sit.
‘I’m going to leave your hands in front of you but if you take off the mask, I will punish you. Do you understand?’
She doesn’t respond.
‘I will close off the hosepipe unless you acknowledge my question. Will you leave the mask alone?’
She nods.
I take her back to the bed and sit her upright. Her breathing is steadier. Her narrow chest rises and falls. Stepping backwards, I turn on her mobile phone and wait for the screen to light. Then I press the camera function and capture the image.
‘Be quiet now. I have to go out for a while. I’ll bring you back something to eat.’
She shakes her head, sobbing into the mask.
‘Don’t worry. I won’t be long.’
I walk out of the house and down the steps. There is a garage within a copse of trees. My van is parked inside, next to a Range Rover that belongs to the Arab. He very helpfully left the keys on a hook in the pantry, alongside a dozen others, neatly labelled for the electricity box and the mailbox. Strangely, I couldn’t find one for the shed. Not to worry.
‘We shall take the Range Rover today,’ I announce to myself.
‘Very good, sir.’
A Ferrari Spider one day, a Range Rover the next- life is good.
The garage door rises automatically. Gravel murmurs beneath the tyres.
When I reach Bridge Road I turn right and right again into Clifton Down Road, weaving through Victoria Square and along Queen’s Road. Shoppers are spilling onto the footpaths and Sunday afternoon traffic clogs the intersections. I turn into a multi-storey car park beside the Bristol Ice Rink and swing up the concrete ramps, looking for an open space.
The Range Rover locks with a reassuring clunk and a flash of lights. I walk down the stairs and out into the open, following Frogmore Street until I can mingle with the shoppers and tourists.
The curving facade of the Council House is ahead of me and beyond that the cathedral. Traffic lights change. Gears engage. An open-top bus trundles past spouting diesel fumes. I wait at the lights and turn on the mobile. The screen lights up with a singsong tune.
Menu. Options. Last number dialled.
She answers hopefully. ‘Charlie?’
‘Hello, Julianne, did you miss me?’
‘I want to speak to Charlie.’
‘I’m afraid she’s busy.’
‘I need to know she’s OK.’
‘Trust me.’
‘No. Let me hear her.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
I press the play button. The tape turns. Charlie’s screams are filling her ears, shredding her heart; opening the cracks a little wider in her mind.
I stop the tape. Julianne’s breath is vibrating.
‘Is your husband listening?’
‘No.’
‘What did he say about me?’
‘He says you won’t hurt Charlie. He says you don’t hurt children.’
‘And you believe him.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What else did he say about me?’
‘He says you want to punish women… to punish me. But I’ve done nothing to hurt you. Charlie has done nothing. Please, let me talk to her.’
Her whining voice is starting to annoy me.
‘Have you ever been unfaithful, Julianne?’
‘No.’
‘You’re lying to me. You’re just like all the others. You’re a conniving, two-faced, backstabbing slut with a pesthole between your legs and another on your face.’
A woman pedestrian has overheard me. Her eyes go wide. I lean closer and say, ‘Boo!’ She trips over herself trying to get away.
Crossing the road, I walk through the gardens in the cathedral plaza. Mothers push prams. Older couples sit on benches. Pigeons flutter in the eaves.
‘I’m going to ask you again, Julianne, have you ever been unfaithful.’
‘No,’ she sobs.
‘What about with your boss? You make all those phone calls to him. You stay with him in London.’
‘He’s a friend.’
‘I’ve heard you talking to him, Julianne. I heard what you said.’
‘No… no. I don’t want to talk about that.’
‘That’s because the police are listening to the call,’ I say. ‘You’re terrified your husband might learn the truth. Shall I tell him?’
‘He knows the truth.’
‘Shall I tell him you grew tired of lying in his bed, looking at his spotty back, and had an affair?’
‘Please don’t. I just want to talk to Charlie.’
I peer through the misty rain at the buildings on the far side of Park Street. Silhouetted on the roof of the Wine Museum is a phone tower. It’s probably the closest.
‘I know this call is being recorded, Julianne. It must be a real party line. And your job is to keep me on the phone for as long as possible so they can track the signal.’
She hesitates. ‘No.’
‘You’re not a very good liar. I’ve worked with some of the best liars, but they never lied to me for long.’
Crossing College Green in the shadow of the cathedral, I glance along Anchor Road. There must be fifteen phone towers within half a mile of here. How long will it take them to find me?
‘Charlie is very flexible, isn’t she? The way she can bend her body. She can put her knees behind her ears. She’s making me very happy.’
‘Please don’t touch her.’
‘It’s far too late for that. You should be hoping I don’t kill her.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Ask your husband.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Why’s that? Have you two had a fight? Did you kick him out? Do you blame him for this?’
‘What do you want from us?’
‘I want what he has.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I want what’s mine.’
‘Your wife and daughter are dead.’
‘Is that what he told you?’