His Kidnapper's Shoes (7 page)

‘I saw the two of you.’ He edged closer. ‘One evening. Going into Burger King. Holding hands. I thought to myself, Laura, she’s bagged herself a boyfriend. Not surprising. Pretty girl like you.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ I had no idea why I told him that. ‘We broke up.’

‘You don’t say.’ He wetted his lips, his eyes nailing themselves to my breasts. ‘You shouldn’t be too upset. Like I said, a pretty girl like you…you could have your pick.’

Oh God. I swear my flesh tried to crawl off my bones. I couldn't bear him being in my room, with both of us sat on my bed.

I twisted my legs onto the floor, made as if to stand up. His hand clamped around my arm, his grip crushing.

‘No you don’t. You’re not running out on me. I want some of what you’ve been giving that boyfriend of yours.’ He brought his face closer to mine and revulsion hit me as I saw the open pores on his nose and the veins in the whites of his eyes. His breath, reeking of beer and bad hygiene, hit me sourly in the face. I tried to wrench free from his grasp on my arm, but he tightened it even further.

I tried to fight back, Gran, but I couldn’t. He had me cornered and there was no escape. I barely topped five feet two and weighed seven and a half stones. He measured six feet and weighed sixteen stones at least. I never stood a chance.

So I lay there, and the thing I thought couldn’t be happening was, and I turned my head away and tried to pretend it wasn’t. I was sobbing and thinking, no, he can't be doing this, he can't. There’s a baby inside me and I have to take care of it and not let this happen. All the while, the man charged with giving me a safe and secure home lay on top of me, pinning me down with his weight while he rolled on a condom. The thought registered in my brain that he’d planned this; he’d come into my room prepared. Then he thrust into me, sudden and rough, and it hurt. He was heavy and slick with sweat, flabby belly pressing tight against me, musty breath hot against my ear. I was bone-dry and getting sore and it seemed to go on forever.

Eventually he rolled off.

‘It’ll be your word against mine,’ he said.

When I didn’t respond, he stood up and left.

I lay there and I felt soiled, Gran, as if something vile and slimy had smeared itself all over me and I’d never be clean again. I wanted to turn up the shower as hot as it would go and scrub away the filth he’d put on me and not come out until I’d scoured every trace of him off my body. I didn’t, because part of me was able to think clearly, you see, Gran, even if the other part of me was screaming inside and wanting to pound my fists into the bed. I thought there might be some evidence to take to the police, like one of his pubic hairs or something.

His parting words came back to me, though. It would be his word against mine. I didn’t have any fight left, Gran. Years of looking after Mum, finding out about my pregnancy, the betrayal by Matthew Hancock – and now this. I imagined stern police officers, looking at me, judging me, asking me if I was making it all up, had I consented to sex, after all I wasn’t a virgin, was I? I thought of him telling a male officer how he’d tried to do his best for me, provided me with a home when I needed one, and the two of them nodding, agreeing that girls made things up, didn’t they, to get attention. I thought of having to open my legs and some hard-faced female doctor swabbing me for evidence. I thought of standing up in court whilst some stone-hearted lawyer tore me to shreds.

No. I couldn't do it. Far better to be a coward and run away.

I listened. I knew he was downstairs and I thought perhaps if I stayed very quiet, I’d be all right. He’d had what he wanted and I reckoned I was safe for now.

A while later I heard the woman arrive back and the sounds of voices came from below, although I couldn’t distinguish the words. They seemed to go on forever. Eventually both of them came up the stairs and went into their bedroom, down the hall from mine, and then into the bathroom. Someone flushed the toilet. The bedroom door clicked shut.

At last, there was silence.

I waited for at least an hour. Then I got off the bed, moving as quietly as possible. I took the largest bag I owned and filled it with what few possessions I had. I grabbed my coat and hoisted the bag over my shoulder. I came out of my room, walked down the stairs and carefully unlatched the front door. Then I stepped outside into the frigid night air, the door shut behind me, my rapist sleeping, unaware of my flight. I would never set foot in that house again and my only thought was to get to you, Gran.

My bag weighed too much and the walk seemed to take forever, the cold slicing through me with every step, but eventually I arrived at your house. I took the key from its hiding place under the stone in the front garden, and I let myself in, desperately calling out for you.

You came down the stairs and I ran to you, dropping the bag, needing you to take away the pain and misery soaked through me. You asked me repeatedly what had happened, but I couldn't find the words to tell you. I felt guilty for putting you through this but I had no choice. You were my only refuge – where else would I go?

Eventually I broke away from you and rushed up the stairs into the bathroom, where I took the longest, hottest shower of my life. I grabbed a sponge and the soap and I washed myself all over, particularly between my legs, rubbing fiercely, scrubbing away the vestiges of the repulsive flabby man with the musty breath and sweaty body, making myself even sorer but I didn’t care. I could hear you outside, Gran, pounding on the door.

At last, I turned off the shower and opened the door and stood in front of you, still dripping, a towel wrapped around my body. You looked into my face and you understood, without me telling you, what had happened. You pulled me to you and walked me into your bedroom, sitting me down on the bed.

It all came pouring out then, Gran, and I told you about him, about the vile man who had seized his chance with a vulnerable girl half his size. I told you how disgusting he had been, how he’d hurt me. How I thought you’d make me go to the police and that was why I’d taken the shower, to wash away any evidence, because no matter how hard you tried to make me, I would never press charges against my rapist. He’d have to go unpunished because however cowardly it might be, I didn’t have the strength to go to the police, even with you at my side.

I've never been sure you really understood how I felt about that. You were reliving the horror you had gone through when my mother came to you bruised, bloody and battered after the gang rape. You were furious, mad at the man who had taken your precious granddaughter and treated her like shit stuck to his shoe. You stroked your fingers over the bruises on my wrists and you swore; something you never did normally. You told me he shouldn’t get away with it but I think you knew you were fighting a losing battle. The shower had swilled down the plughole any pubic hairs or anything else that could place my rapist, panting and sweating like the vile pig he was, on top of me. Without evidence, it really did come down to his word against mine.

I woke up the next morning and knew I’d have to tell you about my pregnancy.

We sat in the window seat after breakfast, clutching steaming mugs of coffee, and I told you about Matt, how I’d thought I’d loved him. Unable to look you in the eyes, I told you about the baby. How Matt had wanted me to get rid of it, but how I couldn’t contemplate abortion as an option. Not for a second. You didn’t let me down. No judgement; no lecture about how I should have been more careful. You put down your coffee mug, pulling me to you, whispering into my hair how everything would be all right. You said I could come and live with you and you’d help me with the baby. Then you didn’t say anything for a long while, just held me tight and I knew I’d found what I’d come for.

8

FIRST MEMORIES

Sex ended up coming first, before the full English breakfast. Daniel woke up with his usual morning wood, and Katie was horny too, but that was typical of her. She was nothing like the bimbos he'd dated before, who wouldn’t contemplate sex unless perfectly groomed and made-up. Katie was ready for it any time of day. She’d never turned him down yet. Daniel recognised it was more than the fact he was easy on the eye and good in the sack. Katie was a sexual being, through and through, like him. She needed sex - hot, dirty and frequent - the same way she needed food and air.

The sex that morning certainly turned out hot and dirty. Katie kept her word, springing a new sexual stunt on him even he, with his extensive experience between the sheets, hadn’t tried before. It was mid-morning before they emerged from her bedroom, hair messed up and bodies sweaty, but too hungry to head for the shower.

Katie got going on breakfast. He watched her as she moved around the kitchen. So much for saying she’d never do that sort of thing.

Sometimes he thought Katie had the power to read his mind. ‘Look what you’ve done to me, Dan. I’ve turned into your mother already. Not sure how or when that happened.’

Daniel snorted. ‘Trust me, Katie, you are nothing like her.’

She handed him his breakfast. ‘About your mother…’

Shit. He should have realised Katie would never let this go.

‘You said she was a smother mother. OK, I can see why that would irritate you. But -’ Daniel heard puzzlement in her voice. ‘Plenty of mothers are a bit protective. Yes, it must be annoying for their kids, but they still want to spend time with their mums. Are her mental health issues a problem for you?’

‘No. Not at all.’ Daniel meant that. Over the years, he’d become accustomed to his mother’s odd spells, as he called them. He hadn’t been the only one at school with a mother who needed pills from time to time to keep her out of Flake Town either. He’d learned to ride things through until she came out of whatever dark world into which she’d retreated.

‘Plenty of people don’t deal well with mental health problems in others, Dan. Especially when a family member’s involved.’

‘It’s not that.’ Christ, he didn't like the way this was going. He’d be telling her to shut the hell up if she’d been anyone other than Katie.

‘What then? Dan, if we’re going to make a go of this, you and me, I want to discover every dark secret you’re hiding. Besides, I can’t help it. I’m nosey.’ She flashed him a smile potent enough to reduce any straight man with a pulse to his knees. ‘Come on. Tell Katie everything.’

Daniel looked at her, this classy, sassy woman who had the power to make him stop screwing every willing body he came across and make him question what the hell that was all about anyway. He wondered how she’d react if he talked more openly about his relationship with his mother. Would he be able to get across to her the beyond weird thoughts he’d had in his head? Since…well, since like forever. Right now, he had no idea how to tell her without sounding completely screwed-up.

He’d never spoken of his memories before with anyone, except with his mother, a long time ago, and every time he had, she had brushed his questions aside with a laugh. Told him he was imagining the whole thing, although he'd never been able to believe her. He wasn’t a small boy anymore though; time to step up and be a man. Katie wanted to know why he’d never been able to warm to his mother. Fine, he’d do his best to explain, as weird and as screwed-up as the whole thing might sound. He knew - however much he might want to deny it - that he shouldn't shut Katie out on this. What the hell, he'd already told her more about his family life than he’d ever told anyone before. A little extra wouldn’t hurt.

He wouldn’t tell her everything, though. Some things – he couldn’t put a voice to them.

‘Talk to me, Daniel.’

‘It’s complicated. It’ll sound weird, too.’

‘So? Tell me anyway.’

‘OK.’ He sucked air deep into his lungs. ‘Did you ever feel…like you didn’t belong in your family? Like… you'd been adopted, or there was a mix-up at the hospital and they gave you to the wrong parents or something?’ Holy shit. He already sounded screwed-up, and he'd only just got started.

She shook her head. ‘No, not really, Dan. I’ve told you how much it meant to Mum and Dad when I came along, how I’ve always been close to them. So no, I’ve never felt I didn’t belong with them.’

Yeah. That figured. Sour jealousy squeezed his chest again.

‘But I remember other kids at school…they sometimes talked about believing they’d been adopted because they didn’t think they fitted in with their family. Isn’t that quite common, though, Dan? You do something out of line, your parents clamp down on you, and suddenly you’re misunderstood and hard done by and life’s terribly unfair. So you try to make sense of things by thinking you must have been adopted.’

‘Perhaps. But that’s not it.’

‘What, then?’

‘What are your earliest memories, Katie?’

She paused. ‘I remember…let me think…the rag doll I had as a young child. The pink flowered wallpaper in my bedroom. Being told bedtime stories by my dad.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Jeez, I’m not sure. I guess I can remember back as far as…three? Four? Hard to say.’

‘You want me to tell you what my first memories are?’

‘Well, yes, if this is all part of telling me what the issue is between you and your mother.’

‘I remember being somewhere else.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s all quite vague, Katie. These are my earliest memories, as I told you. They’re real, though. They might be indistinct, but they’re genuine all right. I remember…’ He shut his eyes, willing his mind back twenty-two years. ‘Someone else, other than my mum, taking care of me. A teenager, I think. She used to toss me a ball to catch. She had dark hair. Definitely not Mum. She’s blonde, as I told you. There was another woman too. Older. I don’t really remember much about her. I can see her, beside my bed at night. She’d sit there after tucking me in. Maybe she was telling me bedtime stories. I don’t recall.’