He still has his back to me as he starts to unlock the door to a house that I don’t believe is his, yet he has all the access he needs and enough confidence to know where he is going.
I move a little, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man’s face, but I’m not careful enough and I tread on a fallen branch. It easily snaps under my weight and the noise is enough to make him turn around.
I quickly crouch down, as low as I can go, hoping I’m shielded enough for him not to see me, or that he is in enough of a hurry that he will not want to investigate further, and will just assume it’s the noise of some animal. I look through the thinnest part of the bush, through a small space in the leaves, just enough to notice the gun that’s pinned to his belt and the police badge that sits on the other side. He looks around for a moment, saying nothing as he scans every part of the garden for any threat that might linger.
The sirens in the distance suddenly go off again and it’s enough to bring his focus back to the door, and just as he turns I see that it’s Detective Marius. He doesn’t turn around again; instead, he goes inside and closes the door. I run closer, suddenly finding courage, knowing this might be the only chance I get. I’m soon at the wall of the house and my heart is beating faster than I ever thought possible.
I’m about to push open the door, to storm in and try to catch him off-guard, when I realise that I have left the gun behind the bush. I curse myself, knowing I’ve blown my only chance, but as I consider my limited options I realise that I haven’t heard any locks turn.
I quickly run through the garden, snaking my way around the edges, trying to be invisible, just in case he has found a gap through one of those windows.
Before I know it, I am back and standing opposite the door, my weapon held up to the moonlight so I can check the safety. I’m still not totally sure but I convince myself that it is loaded and ready to fire. I realise that I’m finding any reason I can not to go in, not to face whatever horror is awaiting me. Only the thought of Lucy pushes me forward. I put my hand on the handle and I think of her now, alone and desperate, and somehow it gives me the strength to do what I must. I push down on the cold metal, take a deep breath, and slowly creep into the unknown.
‘You’re sure it was him?’ one of the men asks from somewhere outside her room. Lucy can make out each of the voices, although she only recognises one of them. Her man – her regular tormentor – says very little but she knows it’s him. Each and every time she awakes from that forced sleep, her body aching and her head spinning out of control, it is his voice she hears. And every time she wakes up, she knows that he has already started. He seems to get a kick out of realising she has woken up, his cock getting obviously firmer as she realises what is happening to her, and only then does she remember the horrors he has already inflicted and is about to repeat.
She knows that he always grinds slowly at first, almost tenderly, as he lets her ligaments adapt to the restraints and he kisses her face. The infra-red goggles almost always bang against her temple as he slobbers all over her – it would almost be laughable if she didn’t know what was coming next. The last time is the one that she remembers the clearest: he was preparing for his final onslaught when he leaned in closer to tell her she would never leave him, and that she was, and forever will be, his secret slice of life. He promised that what had happened to the other women wouldn’t happen to her. She was safe but his always.
Lucy knows he is coming now but she also knows something is different this time. She has never heard any of her jailors speak before, but now they are freely talking to each other outside her prison cell. She should be fast asleep right now, the shower and the pill doing their usual thing. But not this time, not with that hero inside her gathering all those small victories and putting them together into a plan. Lucy’s mind is working overtime now – from her chemistry degree she knows that alcohol destroys most of the potency of the sedative, especially when held in her mouth for a minute or two. He was careless this time, not following his usual routine, not checking her mouth properly, something making him rush.
She’s awake when she should be asleep, able to hear every word from outside. ‘He was in the garden, I’m sure of it,’ the unknown man says.
She wonders if they are talking about Harvey – she hopes with every ounce of her remaining self that it is him. She knows there are others here; she knows it could be another saviour for another prisoner. She wastes no more time thinking of men as her thoughts turn to the other captive women, and how she will be the one to make this right.
‘I knew he would show up again,’ her man says. Her man? She curses herself for having such thoughts, for allowing herself to think of him as more than a rotten piece of meat. She vows to show him what he is to her when he comes in. He will mount her and she will take her time as much as he takes his, waiting for the moment, knowing this will be his last ever defiling of all that she is.
She tells herself to be quiet, wondering if she is speaking out loud. She sits up, just about to undo her last restraint, still eternally blessed that the left one just a little too loose; something in the knot, never quite doing its job. When she hears them still talking she finishes her work, gets down from the table and starts feeling her way around. Even the blackness cannot hold her back now and she moves around with relative ease. She hasn’t spent the last few days being idle, however many of them there have been; she is a long way from being that girl who cried in the corner. She has observed, planned and above all got to know her way around this room. In some ways it now feels like her home; in fact, it’s more hers than his and she knows every groove and crevice. It’s her biggest asset and she plans to use every bit of it.
‘You know that we don’t have any more time. I say we leave him and let the monsters have their feast. It’s the perfect distraction. We have enough of them left to trade, so now we just have to sit back and let this storm pass.’
She listens to them talking, the other one clearly convincing her man of whatever this plan is. She pictures him nodding and knows that she doesn’t have long. She finds what she is looking for and checks it will still do its job, before making her way back to the table.
She is about to jump back onto it and do up her ankle restraints when she catches her foot on something. She stumbles and wants to scream but quickly puts a hand over her mouth, trying to steer her thoughts away from this new pain. What was it? A nail or something? She sits on the table, her fingers finding the moist patch on the sole of her foot. She rubs it, feeling what is flowing out of this new wound. She licks her finger, the taste telling her what she already knew. She senses dripping onto the floor, can tell it’s bleeding more than she had hoped.
She suddenly looks up, hearing the conversation as it seems to come to an end: ‘Come help me seal up the door and let’s have a drink to celebrate all that we have achieved.’
No, she thinks, not now. She is torn: she wants to have time to fix her wound but doesn’t feel able to endure another hour in this silent hell. She lies herself back on the table, unsure how bad it is but knowing she must ignore the pain. She needs it to happen now; he must come in and finish what he started. He knows the drug will wear off soon and she knows it must happen now, before she is trapped in whatever tomb these monsters have created.
‘You go seal it and I’ll finish up here.’
‘Can’t you leave her just the once? You know we have more important things to do.’