Hide and Seek (8 page)

CHAPTER 17

15:45pm

Peter ran past a man on his driveway washing his car, even though the rain was falling. Such a typical thing to do on a Sunday afternoon, he thought. He wished he was doing the same right now.

He used to go out and wash the car on a Sunday afternoon whilst Janine prepared the dinner. They would usually have Janine’s mother Ann over on
a Sunday and they’d stand in the kitchen gossiping. Janine would cook, as Ann played with George. He used to leave them to it and go out and wash the car as it gave him some peace and quiet and allowed him to think about the week that had passed and the one to come. He’d then go in for, what was by far, the best meal of the week. Usually at work he’d be lucky if he had time to cram a sandwich down his throat whilst sat at his desk.

After Sunday dinner he
’d take over responsibilities for entertaining George as Janine and her mother, who’d usually open a bottle of wine to accompany dinner, would continue drinking and chatting. Ann would stay long enough to see George bathed and put to bed around 8pm and she’d probably last another half an hour before she would start yawning. She would say the same thing every week, which was that she wasn’t sleeping well but the wine combined with the large meal, was making her sleepy now. Peter would take the hint and drive her home. The journey normally took fifteen minutes and he would help her into the house, usually carrying in the bags of leftovers that Janine had made up for her and popping them in the freezer. He always felt a little sorry leaving her there on her own. Her husband, Janine’s father John, had died five years ago from a stroke. They had been a jovial couple who clearly depended on each other; the kind who finished each other’s sentences, an understanding that had come from 45 years of marriage. As if the death of Janine’s father wasn’t enough, Ann herself had a stroke six months after John’s death. Fortunately it had only been a mild one but the left side of her body was partially paralysed and so she needed a walking stick to get around. They would exchange pleasantries and then part company. He would drive home, open a can of lager and cuddle up to Janine on the couch to watch the forgettable programmes that comprised Sunday evening television. Janine would be slightly drunk from the wine so she was often a little frisky and if George was good and stayed in his bed they would normally retire around 10pm to make love.

Peter smiled as he remembered that last weekend she had used sex as a bargaining tool. She had waited until he was horny and vulnerable and then made him promise to take the car to the garage on the Monday morning to have the tyres replaced. He
’d promised, and then clearly forgotten, hence why she’d mentioned it again in their phone call yesterday.

Peter wished that he could go back to last Sunday,
to mundane tasks like washing his car, before any of this had happened. But this was not a typical Sunday afternoon. He had been removed from his cosy life and forcefully shoved into this twisted game. A game with serious consequences, where people were dying, people he knew.

The happy memories of his lazy Sundays faded away, and the harsh reality of his current situation came sharply back into focus
. Running down the road, he could feel every jolt as his legs hit the uneven pavement.

Peter thought back to the contraption that Colin
had been rigged up to. It wasn’t something you could pick up from a hardware store; and so it must have been created by Celo for this lethal game. Did it give any clue as to who Celo was? He imagined a shady figure silhouetted in black in some basement working on the contraption, continuously testing it to make sure it would carry out its deathly function. Peter couldn’t recall any one of the Excellent Eight being particularly good at metalwork at school, and considering their chosen professions in adulthood nothing particularly stood out.

His mind fleeted back to the flats. He wished he’d had more time
. Wished he’d been able to ask someone about the apartment where he found Colin. Had any of the neighbours seen anyone going into the apartment? Had Celo rented it under his real name? Maybe the police would be looking into it? They could be looking for him right now. Peter wondered what that would mean, as far as the game was concerned, if the police were to find Celo. If he were caught would the remaining members of the Excellent Eight die? No, Celo wouldn’t be so stupid as to rent out an apartment in his own credentials. He’d use somebody else’s identification - stolen or fake ID. He wondered to himself whether it was actually possible to fake identification or whether he was simply thinking that because of all the movies he had seen. An immediate worry grew in Peter, Celo had
his
wallet. What if Celo had used his driving licence and credit cards to rent out the apartment? No, it was highly unlikely that Celo could rent it on a Sunday morning, pick up the keys
and
get Colin and that apparatus in. It must have been rented out earlier and Colin was taken there during the night whilst everyone else was sleeping peacefully in their beds unaware that a deranged killer was creeping around the corridors.

Peter ran directly past the road leading down to his old secondary school. As he passed he took a fleeting glance down the road and saw an eight foot high fence surrounding the field
, which sloped down to the school. It was another fence which hadn’t been there when he was a child. Through the gathering fog he could just make out the outlines of the roofs of the school buildings. Peter rounded the corner towards Low Grange shops, slowing his pace to a stop so he could take in his surroundings.

He
looked over to the four shops; the chip shop was still there, although it looked like it was under a different name. There was a charity shop and then a newsagent. All three shops were closed. Finally, what was formerly Michael Lawrence’s sweet shop was now a bakery. The four shops stood on an island of pavement in the sea of the residential estate. There was an alleyway at either end leading round the back to a row of garages belonging to some of the houses on the estate. And - at the side of the buildings - a flight of stairs led to a first floor balcony and the doors to the flats above the shops.

W
here was Cheryl? Actually in the shop? Or in the flat upstairs? Celo’s first clue hadn’t been completely specific. It had mentioned the incident with Colin falling down the stairs, but he wasn’t on the stairs … he was in one of the apartments on the top floor. However Celo had left him another clue on the keypad at the entrance to the flats, but what if Peter had missed that clue? He didn’t have time for this. He looked at his watch; 11 minutes to go.

Peter ran up to the shop entrance and tried the door
. Locked. He retrieved the keys from his jacket pocket and tried all of them, none worked. He cupped his hands to the window and peered in. It was shrouded in darkness, nothing moved, nothing looked out of place.

Peter ran up the stairs to the balcony at the back. He looked out over the garages opposite
- behind them was the cricket grounds and club where his father used to take him when he was younger.

Peter approached the door to the flat directly above the
bakery. He felt unsure of what to do so he knocked on the door and waited. There was no answer and no movement to suggest anyone was in. The curtains of the adjoining window were drawn so he couldn’t look in. Peter tried the door handle.  Locked again. He retrieved the keys from his jacket pocket and his trembling hands messily tried the keys once more. He was terrified as to what to expect this time. Would Cheryl be rigged to another contraption like Colin was? This flat wasn’t high enough to throw Cheryl out and kill her. Peter took a deep breath and turned the last key, the lock clicked and the door started to swing open of its own accord.

Peter timidly entered the flat. The light from the open doorway cast his silhouette across the entire room. He could see a light switch on the wall beside the door and he flicked it on. It was a small living room with nothing but a couch in the middle of the room. There were no pictures on the walls and no television; it looked like no one had lived here for a while. Peter closed the door behind him and crossed over to the first door and leant his head into the kitchen to look around. It was a very small kitchen with nothing of interest. Peter moved to the next door and opened it; it was a small bathroom with a shower over a bath, a toilet and sink. Peter moved to the next door and found the single bedroom, again with barely enough space to contain
the most meagre furnishings. Peter opened the last door to find stairs leading down. The stairwell was dark and he could hardly make out the door at the bottom. He flicked on the light switch and felt an immediate sense of dread upon seeing a message, scrawled in red paint on the door.

The message said, ‘Your dinner is in the oven darling.’

CHAPTER 18

15:52pm

Peter climbed down the stairs and tried the door. It was unlocked and opened outwards into the kitchen behind the counter. The shop was cast in an eerie light from the overcast daylight shining in through the large windows at the front of the shop. He could see an orange light reflecting across the black and white tiled floor coming from behind the door he had
just come through. He could also hear a humming noise and his nose picked up an unmistakeable burning smell. He turned round the corner to see that the orange light was emanating from the small window of a six foot high industrial oven nestled in the back corner of the shop. He recoiled in shock at the realisation that Cheryl could be in the oven. He ran over to the oven and looked through the small glass panel. His worst suspicions were confirmed. Through the glass viewer he could make out the shoulder of a woman lying on her side, seemingly unconscious, her whole body pressed against the oven door. He tried to open the door but it was jammed and only opened slightly at the top. He noticed a bulky chain was coiled around the handle and secured with a padlock to a metal loop ring on the top of the oven. The sudden movement of the door opening jolted Cheryl awake and she let out a throaty dehydrated cry.

‘Help!’

Peter tried to reassure her, ‘Cheryl, it’s Peter. I’m going to get you out of there.’

Cheryl started to scream, ‘Peter, help me,’ banging her fists against the inside of the oven door.

Peter could feel the extreme heat leaking out from the small crack at the top of the oven door. He looked around for the controls. He could see a shiny plate of black metal was screwed to the oven and realised it was covering them.

Cheryl shrieked ‘Get me out of here!’

He ran around to the side and looked down the small gap behind the oven for the plug. He tried to slide his hand down the back to pull it out but it was beyond his reach. He took a few steps back and ran shoulder first slamming his whole body weight into the oven to try and move it but it was far too heavy. His eyes darted around the shop desperately searching for something that could help him. He ran to the work surface of the counter and started frantically opening the cupboards below it. He found a shovel, used to slide trays onto the oven shelves. He ran back to the side and slid the shovel down the gap trying to negotiate it to hook around the plug cable.

‘Come on,’ he shouted as the plug teetered agonisingly just out of the socket.

With a final pull the plug came out and the orange light flickered and died out. A few seconds later the humming ceased. Cheryl was still screaming and bashing her fists against the oven door. He ran around to the front of the oven. Cheryl’s hand was scrambling out of the opening at the top of the door, pulling at the chain, and he grabbed her hand to try and reassure her. Her hand was swollen and covered in blood, cut open from punching and hitting the oven door from the inside. Cheryl’s screams slowly became whimpers. Although the oven was off, Peter could still feel the heat pouring out. With his free hand he yanked furiously at the handle of the oven, bucking back and forth to try and loosen it. His eyes started to well up with tears of frustration. He looked around the shop again and noticed the till register. He broke free of Cheryl’s grasp and she immediately cried out.

‘Don’t leave me.’

‘I’m not going to leave you Cheryl.’

He grabbed the till register and lifted it to chest height.

‘Cheryl, move away from the door. I’m going to smash it open.’

He didn’t wait for a reply
, the till was a lot heavier than he expected, and so he quickly strained and lifted it above his head. He ran forward to gain momentum and smashed it into the oven door. The violent contact sent a sickening shudder through his body, but the damage to the oven was minor. There was a small dent in the door, while the glass had cracked slightly in the corner and now looked like a spider’s web. The till looked like it had come off worse, but he picked it up again and crashed it down directly onto the handle. Again, he felt the shudder throughout his body. He tried the handle again, yanking it back and forth rapidly.

‘Come on you fucking bastard,’ he yelled in frustration.

The handle buckled and one side suddenly snapped away from the door, sending Peter sprawling backwards onto the floor. He looked up to see the handle hanging off the oven door and scrambled to his feet. He unravelled the chain and slid it down over the handle before throwing it up onto the roof of the oven.

The oven door opened and Peter was hit in the face by a
hot blast of air followed by the smell of charred flesh. It reminded him of being in a sauna when it hurt to breathe in the hot air. Peter grabbed Cheryl who recoiled in pain at the touch. She muttered incomprehensibly as he dragged her body from the oven to rest her on the floor. She was completely naked and her back was black and red, a horrific combination of burnt flesh and blood. The left side of her body, which had been laid on the metal shelf of the oven, was even worse. Large sections of her skin had peeled and torn off when he pulled her from the oven. Peter retched, his face contorted in a mixture of anger and distress.

‘Oh God,’ he wept.

Cheryl hunched up in the foetal position and sobbed uncontrollably as Peter pulled the mobile from his jacket pocket and dialled 999. A pre-recorded, female voice spoke.

‘Sorry, it has not been possible to connect your call.’

‘Shit,’ he shouted.

He looked at the display o
n the phone. The graphic showed he had sufficient reception. Peter wondered if Celo had blocked the phone somehow, but even if he had Peter thought you could always still ring the emergency services. He searched for a phone in the shop and found one hung on the wall and dialled again. A female voice answered.

‘Which service do you require?’

‘Ambulance.’

‘What is the address of the emergency?’

‘Low Grange, I’m at Low Grange in Bilton, in the bakery.’

The woman paused for a few moments.

‘Is that Low Grange Avenue?’

‘Yes,’ he said impatiently.

‘Can you verify the telephone number you’re calling from?’

Peter checked the wall unit and the phone itself but there was no number.

‘I don’t know what the number is.’

‘Okay. What is the problem? Tell me exactly what’s happened.’

Peter paused for a second trying to think how he was going to explain the situation.

‘My friend Cheryl was trapped in an oven. She’s got burns all over her body.’

The woman on the other end of the line paused for a few seconds. Peter had no doubt that an emergency call operator had heard all manner of stories over the years but the pause suggested to him that this was a new one for her.

‘Are you with Cheryl now?’

‘Yes.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Erm...33 or 34, I’m not sure.’

‘Is she conscious?’

He looked down at Cheryl who was still curled up in the foetal position sobbing.

‘Yes, she’s conscious.’

‘Is she breathing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is she away from the oven now?’

‘Yes, I got her out; she’s laid on the floor. What do I do?’ he whimpered in frustration.

‘What’s your name?’

He felt hesitant at first but answered.

‘It’s Peter.’

‘Okay Peter, is any item of clothing burning or smouldering?’

‘No, she’s not wearing any clothing.’

Again, the operator paused for a few seconds
. It seemed like an eternity to Peter.

‘Is she wearing any jewellery around the affected areas?’

Peter leant over Cheryl inspecting as best he could.

‘No, it doesn’t look like it.’

‘Okay, Peter an ambulance has been dispatched and will be there shortly.’

The operator
hung up. Peter was left holding the phone, amazed at how abruptly the call had ended.

He shouted out a few times, ‘Hello?’

The phone buzzed with the dialling tone. As soon as Peter hung the phone back on the wall unit his mobile phone started to ring. The caller ID displayed his name. He knew it was Celo calling again, his anger boiled up.

‘Is she done yet?’ Celo asked.

‘Fuck you. You sick bastard,’ Peter shouted.

‘Sorry, that was in bad taste. The best way to treat burns is to apply wet towels. I’ve left you some over by the sink. Soak them in water and apply them to the worst affected areas.’

‘Worst affected areas? She’s burnt all over her body for God’s sake.’

‘An ambulance is on the way. So do what you can for her quickly, to ease her suffering, and then get out of there because the police will probably arrive first.’

‘You called the police?’ Peter asked.

‘No, but you tripped a silent alarm when you opened the door to the shop.’

‘Listen, you sick fuck. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here with her.’

‘That wouldn’t be very wise. Come on Peter, you’re doing well. After the initial hiccup with Colin you’re starting to get into your stride. Sure, Cheryl won’t ever be so pretty again, but she
is
alive. You saved her. Now just think of the others you can save. Cas, Steve, Michelle, and of course, Laura. I reckon you have a couple of minutes before the police arrive to think about it.’

Celo hung up and Peter scrunched up his face in anger
, tempted to smash the mobile phone against the wall. The sound of Cheryl whimpering brought him back into the moment. He looked around the kitchen and saw the towels rolled up next to the sink. Peter grabbed them and threw them into the sink dowsing them in water from the tap. He scooped them from the sink and, crouching on one knee, started to delicately apply the towels to Cheryl’s burnt skin. Celo’s words were playing over in his mind. He felt terrible and extremely guilty at what he had thought earlier about Cheryl and her good looks, and cursed himself for thinking along the same lines as the psycho Celo. He wanted to stay here and make sure that Cheryl was alright especially because he feared that if he left her she could still die from shock. However, his mind pictured his remaining friends. He saw the grin of his best childhood friend Cas as they play fought each other. He remembered trading stickers in the playground with Steve who always managed to get the rare ones. He thought of Michelle sucking on her asthma inhaler after laughing too hard. He pictured the shy, beautiful smile of his childhood sweetheart Laura. Peter placed the last few remaining towels on Cheryl and looked at her apologetically.

‘I’m sorry Cheryl, I have to go.’

Cheryl’s eyes opened, she sat bolt upright and her hands grabbed Peter’s arm. He was startled and had to wrestle himself free as he stumbled back onto his rear and shimmied away. Cheryl’s outstretched arms grasped for him before returning to cuddling herself as she continued to sob. Peter stood up and turned towards the front of the shop looking out of the window.

‘The ambulance will be here soon Cheryl. You’re going to be alright.’

He was suddenly blinded by the flashing lights of a police car as it screeched to a halt in front of the shop.