The house hunt, p.11
The House Hunt, page 11
A cold shudder rippled through me.
‘Breathe,’ Donovan said. ‘Do not freak out.’
He ducked abruptly from the waist, setting the ice pack aside and slipping his hands under Bethany’s armpits.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked him.
He manhandled Bethany into a seated position, grunting and gasping as he slid her body back inside the cupboard. I could see her handbag in there. Her phone had been in it. I realized too late that I should have tried for the hammer when I’d had my chance.
‘Stop this.’
He ignored me, folding her legs in after her, swinging the cupboard door shut against her feet, forcing it closed.
He’d put both his gloves back on, I noticed, and I had an awful feeling about it. Gloves meant no fingerprints, no forensic evidence.
I was still reckoning with the implications as he straightened into an upright position, towering over me.
Too big. Too close.
I didn’t look up past his shoes and legs. I shrank back further.
Was anyone outside on the street, I wondered? Had they heard my scream?
I didn’t know, but I did know that the houses on either side of me were currently empty. The Taylor family was on holiday. I’d seen John walking away down the street.
And I was in the attic at the back of the house. We were in the attic. Where sound might not travel very far. Where my scream had probably been contained and trapped.
Like me.
I shuddered, looking down at my arm again, at the spot of blood on the inside of my elbow.
Had he injected me with the same drug as Bethany or something different? Perhaps he’d given me a smaller dose and that was why I was still conscious.
‘Here.’ He dropped into a squat in front of me, reaching for the ice pack and tossing it onto the floor between us. ‘For your head.’
The pack landed with a wet crump, the ice inside crackling.
Like the thump I’d heard from downstairs, I thought.
Did that mean Bethany had collapsed immediately or had she tried to fight back?
‘She’ll be fine in a few hours. Provided you cooperate. I don’t want to have to hurt either of you.’
As if he had no control over that. As if hurting us would somehow be my fault.
Somewhere inside my mind I could hear the distant rush and gurgle of water. I could feel fast hands grappling with my throat, pushing me down.
It’s happening again.
It’s happening now.
‘Lucy?’
I shrank back even more, feeling a bloom of heat from the scar running along my arm, worrying what the needle mark might mean, what was going to happen next.
I kept looking at the cupboard door, thinking of Bethany on the other side of it, wondering if I’d be like her before long, if either of us would get out of this alive.
‘Stay with me.’
But it was a struggle to marshal my thoughts. They were tumbling into one another. Hazy memories and the present moment were overlapping, duplicating, getting scrambled, mixed up.
I almost choked on the slick of warm blood spilling from my lip.
‘Why?’ I whispered.
‘We’ll get to that. I’m going to explain everything to you.’
Everything.
As if there was more to this than what he’d done to Bethany and my own terror and confusion.
‘Try the ice pack,’ he said again. ‘I need you thinking straight. It’ll help.’
With what, I wondered?
Not with whatever this was, or whoever he was, or with anything that was happening right now.
And anyway, the pain in my head was one thing. A diminished thing. Whereas Bethany and her well-being were everything.
‘She could choke,’ I said. ‘She could get sick or stop breathing or—’
‘She won’t.’
He sounded so controlled. So certain.
‘You can’t just leave her shut in there. You have to let me help her. You have to—’
‘Why don’t you stop worrying about Bethany and start focusing on yourself?’
Oh God.
‘You’re going to have questions,’ he said. ‘I understand that. And that’s OK because I have questions too. There’s a lot we need to discuss.’
46
Sam
The Librarian squeezed his eyes shut, hissed air through his teeth and then, very gently, placed the scissors in Sam’s palm.
Sam’s heart flipped over. His hand felt strangely inert, the scissors oddly heavy.
He didn’t move as the Librarian cracked his eyes open and stared down in shock and awe, then spat out a mouthful of air and withdrew his hand fast, cradling it to his chest.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ the Boxer muttered.
‘It’s OK,’ Sam told the Librarian, patting his arm. ‘You did really well.’
The Librarian’s mouth moved soundlessly. He nodded several times. Then his face collapsed and he bowed his head and he started to sob, big wracking cries that rocked his spindly shoulders and chest.
‘It’s all right,’ Sam told him, reaching down to place the scissors safely on the floor behind his seat, then crouching forwards and resting a hand on the Librarian’s upper back. ‘Take your time. It’s OK.’
He rubbed the area between the Librarian’s prominent shoulder blades and looked at the others in the room.
They all seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Some of them shook their heads. Others just blinked.
The Artist had extended a hand towards the Athlete, Sam noticed, bracing it against his upper arm. The Boxer was scrubbing a palm across his bald head. The Lost Girl gnawed her thumbnail.
‘How about the rest of you step outside and give us a few minutes?’ Sam suggested.
The Artist squirmed. ‘We could just go?’
‘No,’ Sam told her. ‘Please don’t do that. There’s a final exercise I want us to run through before next time. But if one of you could go to my backpack on the desk over there and unzip the top pocket, you’ll find some tokens for the vending machine down the hall. Help yourselves to drinks, then come back, OK?’
When nobody moved, Sam rubbed the Librarian’s back again and asked, ‘Would some water help?’
‘I . . . Yes, I think so?’ He glanced cautiously at the others in the room. ‘Please?’
The Artist pushed her mouth to one side, glancing at the others before shrugging. ‘Fine, I guess.’
‘I’ll get the tokens,’ the Athlete offered.
He crossed the room, keeping his attention on the Librarian, then picked up Sam’s backpack and reached for the zipped pouch on the front before stopping.
‘It’s already open.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your backpack. But . . .’ He scooped his hand into the pocket and removed a handful of plastic tokens. ‘It’s OK, I found them. Are you sure you don’t want one of us to stay with you?’
‘No,’ Sam told him, meanwhile thinking with some puzzlement about his backpack. He couldn’t remember unzipping the compartment himself, but then again, he hadn’t checked it since he’d stashed it in his locker before his lecture. Had he secured the lock on his locker? He couldn’t remember. ‘There’s really no need. It would be better if you could give us a few minutes to talk.’
47
My blood ran cold.
A lot we need to discuss.
As if he’d come here for a reason.
As if it’s all about me.
Again, I shook my head. A physical denial. An expression of dismay and disgust.
I told myself he was just messing with me, manipulating me, keeping me frightened and off balance.
Which was working, obviously, because I was beyond frightened now.
I was scared out of my mind.
He was watching me closely. Breathing steadily. Apparently unfazed by what was happening and what he’d done.
He’d surprised and overpowered Bethany. She was right there inside the cupboard next to me. But not only that, he’d done it quickly and efficiently. He’d been brutal and ruthless and eerily calm afterwards.
All I had heard was her fractured yelp and the two quick thumps that had followed and then nothing else. A woman had been attacked in my home, in the middle of my street in the middle of London, and the man in front of me had subdued her, bundled her inside a cupboard and made it back to my bedroom in less time than it had taken me to come upstairs to find him.
He didn’t appear shaken or unnerved. He wasn’t ashamed or troubled or squeamish. He hadn’t hesitated.
And something more. He’d obviously paid much closer attention when I’d given him the tour of my home than I’d suspected. I hadn’t pointed out the cupboard under the eaves to him but he’d clearly noticed it, logged it, returned to it at short notice.
What else had he seen?
That’s when a new horror crashed over me.
The basement.
Was that why he’d spent so long down there, why he hadn’t answered me when I’d called down to him? Had he been making some kind of . . . preparations?
No.
A deeper, more primal dread engulfed me.
I’d told him about my claustrophobia. I’d shared my most terrible fear.
I could feel the prospect of it crushing me now. Invisible walls closing in. As if I was trapped in a collapsing Perspex box with no way out, no air.
‘Lucy, I’m going to need you to be honest with me. That’s the most important thing now. Understand?’
Breath whistled in my lungs, as if I was inhaling through a straw.
Like you’ve been honest with me? I wanted to ask him. Or Bethany?
And then a new thought. A vague but tremulous flicker of hope.
How long would it be until Bethany would be missed, I wondered?
She’d said in her voicemail that her day was ‘crazy’, so perhaps this wasn’t even the last viewing she’d had set up. I knew for a fact that she’d shown our house to potential buyers in the evenings before now. So maybe she was expected elsewhere, or even back at her office. And if she didn’t show, then her clients or her colleagues might start to ask questions. They might try to contact her. They’d be concerned for her welfare, surely? The agency she worked for probably had protocols in place, especially when female agents were showing properties to single men.
They’d know she’d been scheduled to meet Donovan. They’d know she was meeting him here.
All of this rushed through my mind in a second.
I looked at the cupboard door again, thinking of her mobile phone inside her handbag, digging my nails into my thigh, trying to block out the fear and the confusion and think.
How long had Donovan been here? Forty-five minutes? Longer?
He’d told me he wanted to talk. And talking could take time. I could make it take time.
Maybe.
Depending on what he wanted to talk about.
Plus there was Sam to consider. His support groups usually lasted an hour, give or take. That wasn’t definite, things could change, and sometimes he stayed late afterwards – speaking with students, catching up with colleagues in his department, carrying out admin tasks – but if he stayed late, he usually texted me, and if he didn’t, he could be home within an hour.
An hour.
My eyes flitted to Donovan’s coat, searching for any bulges or bumps where my own phone might be hidden. If Sam texted me, I’d hear it. I hadn’t set my phone to silent, unless Donovan had.
Or maybe I can get to my phone or his phone or Bethany’s phone.
Maybe I can call for help.
I had to hang on.
As much as I wanted this over, more time was what I needed.
Keep him talking.
‘What did you inject me with?’ I asked.
48
Donovan looked at me as if I’d said something unhinged.
‘You injected me with something,’ I told him. ‘I felt you do it.’
‘I think you may be imagining things, Lucy. It’s probably the bang to your head.’
I thrust out my arm, showing him the puncture mark. ‘Look.’ I pointed. ‘What was it? A sedative?’
‘You think I drugged you? Why would I drug you?’
I didn’t know.
I didn’t want to know.
But I could feel something.
A corrosive heat fizzing under my skin. Contaminating my system. Percolating from cell to cell.
‘You drugged Bethany.’
‘That was a spur of the moment thing. She wasn’t supposed to be here. I’d arranged it so that she wouldn’t make it.’
A spur of the moment thing as opposed to what, exactly? And what else had he arranged?
I was so hot my eyeballs seemed to be sweating. My hair was damp and knotted in lank threads that hung before my eyes. My throat raged with thirst, my skin was itchy and blotchy.
Think.
He’d admitted that he’d drugged Bethany. He’d come to my home with the equipment to be able to do that. So perhaps he’d screwed up. Perhaps he’d used too much of the drug on Bethany that he’d planned to use on me.
‘Tell me,’ I muttered. ‘I want to know what you’ve done to me.’
‘I don’t understand. You want me to make something up, or . . .?’
‘I want to know what is happening!’
He pushed up to his feet, sweeping back the tails of his coat, plunging his hands into his trouser pockets. His expression was rueful, contemplative, but I could sense something darker lurking beneath it. A focused anger rumbling beneath the surface. I was horrified to think he was reining himself in.
‘We’ll get to that, but there’s something I want to show you first.’
As I watched, he removed his right hand from his pocket and held it before my face with his gloved fingers clenched into a fist, as if he was about to perform a close-up magic trick. He monitored me carefully, eyes ever watchful.
‘What is it?’
‘Added motivation.’
‘For what?’
‘For you to follow my instructions and to do exactly what I say when I tell you to do it. No screaming or shouting, remember?’
I waited.
Part of me wondered if he was holding nothing at all. If it was all just a bluff.
But then he opened the bottom half of his fist and – in a glimmer of reflected light – something dangled from his grasp, suspended between his thumb and forefinger.
A set of keys.
Two brass keys. One silver. One a dark, matt metal.
All of them hanging from a simple leather key fob.
One of the brass keys was dulled and oxidized, the other was shiny and new. The silver one gleamed. The dark metal one was thin and flimsy.
I looked closer and something burst inside me, as if a balloon filled with iced crystals had popped inside my stomach.
A tiny Lego figure was attached to the key fob. He was made up of little white and tan plastic components and a blue lightsaber, so that he resembled Luke Skywalker from the Star Wars movies.
Sam had a set of keys exactly like it. He’d been a Star Wars geek since he was a kid. I’d ordered the little Luke Skywalker figurine over the internet as a gift for him last year.
I backed up against the bed frame so hard that it knocked against the wall behind me.
‘That’s right. These are Sam’s keys. The doorbell before? That was a bike courier. For me. Express delivery.’
The floor dropped away from under me, as if I was trapped in a lift where the cables had failed. I looked again at the cupboard under the eaves, picturing Bethany inside, wondering how much worse this could get.
‘Have you done something to Sam? What have you done?’
‘Nothing. Yet.’ He lifted the keys to the light and studied them idly. ‘Sam doesn’t even know these are missing.’
He dropped them on the floor in front of me, near to the ice pack.
I reached out for them instinctively, drawing them inwards, cupping them in my palm as I raised them to my face.
I’m not sure what I was hoping for, exactly. I suppose I was seeking some proof that he was lying to me. But the moment I held them, my heart crumpled and turned to dust.
These were definitely Sam’s keys.
The flimsy metal key was for the padlock on Sam’s locker at work. The old brass key was a spare for John’s place next door. The new brass key fitted our front door downstairs. We’d had the lock renewed after I’d selected and installed new brass door furniture. The shiny silver key was for the doors that opened out from our kitchen into the back garden.
The metal of the silver key was untarnished because I didn’t think Sam had ever used it. It wasn’t as if there was a way into our garden from the rear of the house, so he’d never had any reason to come in that way.
I knew Sam had taken his keys with him this morning because I’d heard him lock the front door when he’d left. He would have zipped them into the front pocket on his backpack, the same way he always did.
‘How did you get these?’
‘Oh, I didn’t,’ he said, offhand. ‘They were taken earlier today by someone who is helping me. Someone who is with Sam right now. That’s the odd thing about his support group, don’t you think? He’ll let just anyone in.’
49
Sam
Sam was standing with the Librarian over by the windows overlooking the air shaft when the door to the seminar room opened and the rest of the group returned. He’d cracked the window to give the Librarian some air. Talked him down from his heightened state. Assured him it wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.
Even if that wasn’t strictly true.
Because if Sam was honest with himself, the scissors bothered him.
It had been a close call.
He knew that strictly speaking he should have ordered everyone out and asked them to contact security the moment the situation developed.
Which was probably something the others had discussed among themselves, judging by how they’d fallen into an immediate and awkward hush as they’d shuffled back inside, all of them looking a little shady, a little self-conscious, the Athlete and the Artist seeming to bump against each other because they were standing so close.
