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CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

Beeeep.
“Hi, it’s me. It’s Rachel. I, um... Ha ha. Okay, you caught me out. I was kind of hoping you’d be in and have something devastatingly important to tell me so I wouldn’t have to pretend to have a reason for calling. I’m not very good at talking to machines. Um... Well, okay, I probably have got a reason for calling but now that I’m under all this pressure to sound like I’m not completely out of my mind... Okay, now I feel silly. Is there a button here I can press and just delete this and start again? I guess if you’re hearing this, there isn’t. Um... Okay, you know what? Just delete this message. I’ll call later. This is...Dave, by the way. Wrong number. Bye.”

Beeeep.
“Hi there. Hi. It’s, um...it’s me. Rachel. Hope you don’t mind me ringing you out of the blue like this, totally unexpected and everything, and...never having rung you before. Look, I was thinking about going to see a band tonight—no one you’ll have heard of, just some friends of mine—and the thing is, I’ve got a spare seat in the car if you haven’t already made plans, so give me a ring if you fancy coming along. Thanks. Bye.”

Beeeep.
“Okay, stupid, stupid. What I meant was, I’d really like you to come with me. If you want to. And I haven’t actually got a car, but...well, I was going to get a taxi. Anyway, call me if you want to. Actually, call me, anyway. If I’m just being a sad moron, you can at least let me down gently. And why am I thanking you? God, I’m so...blonde. Okay, I’ll...talk to you later. Bye.”

Beeeep.
“Hi, Sal, it’s me. Guess you’re not in. I was just going to cry in your ear about being a socially stunted old spinst...er... Shit, I pressed Redial, didn’t I? You know, you should get a machine you can record a proper message on and then this wouldn’t have happened, and I wouldn’t look so dreadfully inept. Shame on you. Goodbye.”

* * *

“Hi, this is Rachel. I’m either not in or I’m screening my calls, in which case I’m ignoring you because you’re tedious. Just kidding. Not really. Leave a message, and I might call you back.”

“Hi, Rachel. You clearly
are
out of your mind, but no, I haven’t made other plans and yes, I’d love to come with you tonight. Let me know what time. Bye.”

I slotted the carving knife back into the block. The whir of the hairdryer wafted down from the upstairs landing; a relentless mechanical drone, yet somehow calming in its everyday femininity.

I turned the meat.

* * *

My mother left her mark. A single, lonely footprint; a parting comment in grass and mud. Size five. I preserved it diligently, the doormat wrapped in a clear plastic bag and rehomed on top of the fridge. Occasionally I’d take it out and study it, as though searching for clues to her direction of travel. It didn’t help.

The fridge was all but empty when she left. By the second day, I’d finished off the cheese and onion quiche. By the third, I was all out of roquette salad, and still hungry. The freezer gave up legs of lamb, backs of bacon, strings and strings of sausages, all of it useless in the absence of instruction. By the end of the fourth day, I was hungry enough to start learning.

Cordon Bleu cookbooks spread out across the kitchen table like the blueprints to a giant Airfix kit. My bedtime reading was the oven manual. Jars of herbs and spices lined up along the worktop, each one smelled and tasted, labels read aloud and committed to memory.

The sixth day was Christmas Day. On that day, I feasted on succulent roast turkey with chestnut and cranberry stuffing, steamed carrots and leeks and Brussels sprouts with mashed potato. I followed it with a traditional Christmas pudding soaked in brandy.

On the seventh day, I rested.

* * *

As you know, Bob, the psychopath doesn’t have access to the same set of emotions as the rest of us. Things that you or I might find horrific or obscene—murder, say, or rape, or mutilation—he responds to no differently than he might the birth of an infant or the changing of a tire. He has no conscience, no mercy, and no fear save for that of capture and incarceration, which he’ll go to any lengths to avoid. We’re dealing with a man incapable of feeling, a man entirely devoid of any sense of humanity.

“Who the hell writes this shit?” Indignant, I switched off the television and tossed the remote to the far corner of the sofa. I looked to the bookcase for inspiration. I noted that it held a number of books. Some were narrow, others wide. They varied in color. My heart wasn’t in this.

I listened to the rhythm of the rain as it tapped softly at the window. I gazed at my reflection in the blank television screen. I glanced at the clock. An hour had passed. I wondered what I’d been thinking about. I hadn’t
felt
sleepy.

“I’m all done.”

I’d been aware of a certain silence; I could hear the ticking of the kitchen clock, the distant crackle of the rain on the gravel driveway. I’d stared up through my eyelids at the ceiling, dreaming of being asleep, telling myself I should probably wake up. When I did, I wasn’t sure I had. There before me stood an angel, resplendent in white chiffon, the long, loose curls of her hair catching the hallway light and throwing it out around her in a dazzling halo. She gazed down at me with curious eyes, her soft skin glowing, a vision of perfection but for three jagged clawmarks, long and dark and bruised. “You look beautiful,” I whispered.

“Special occasion. Might as well dress up.”

“Did you find everything you needed?”

“For now.”

I looked down at my prone body, making a cursory count of arms, legs, fingers and toes, running a mental check for any new ache or pain. I seemed in good shape. “You missed a trick,” I said. “Could have stabbed me through the heart, and I’d never have woken up.”

Erica offered a faint smile. “For that to work, you’d have to
have
a heart.” I rose stiffly, circled the sofa to face her. She stood her ground, utterly still, following me only with her eyes. “I take it you got rid of her?” she said flatly.

“Yes,” I replied. “She’s gone.”

She nodded slowly, turned away from me as she sniffed back a tear. “She recognized me, didn’t she?”

“I think so, yes.”

“You think so. That’s terrific. I’m glad you made certain you had a good reason before you fucking—”

“Erica, I—”

“Who was she looking for?”

“What?”

“Who was she looking for? It wasn’t me, obviously. Was it Sarah? Kerry? Someone else?”

“I don’t think it matters who sh—”

“You think she recognized me, though?”

“Probably,” I conceded, “but you’re someone else’s case, and you’re not headline news anymore. Maybe she put two and two together, but it doesn’t matter. Too late. She’s gone. They won’t find you here again.”

“Don’t bank on it,” she muttered. “And by the way—” she whirled around to face me again, her cheeks suddenly flushed with anger “—I know you probably think I’m stupid, and I suppose the fact that I’m still standing here mostly proves it, but in future there’s really no need to wave a kitchen knife at me to make me behave, like I might have just started running around screaming. I really thought you were going to bleed her out in front of me, and all that does is make me fucking nervous.”

“I wouldn’t do something like that.”

“Oh, no, of course not. You wouldn’t want to make a mess in here, would you? God forbid you should get a speck of dust anywhere, never mind a drop of blood. What is this place anyway, some kind of freaky experiment? I mean, have you even
used
that bath before? No, you’re right, it’s much better to take her out back and shoot her in the fucking barn.”

“Have you finished?”

“You know there’s such a thing as friendly bacteria, right?”

“Erica, I’m going to give you one chance to calm down.”

“And then what? You’re going to take me outside and shoot me t—”

I knocked Erica to the floor with an open-handed slap across her wounded cheek. Felt a blush of shame as she gasped aloud, threw a hand up to her face and sat stunned, staring openmouthed at her buckled knees. She was silent for a moment, slowly regaining her composure before she took hold of the arm of the sofa, folded her legs under her and pulled herself to her feet. A fat drop of blood trickled between her fingers, rolled down across the back of her hand. She glared up at me, shock and revulsion blazing in her eyes. She took in a deep breath, let it out in a long, deliberate sigh.

And then she slapped me back.

“Don’t you
ever
fucking hit me,” she roared, pounding the heels of her hands into my chest as I reeled in surprise. I grabbed both wrists; she kicked out at me, painfully hammering my shins as I slammed her back against the wall. “Get your fucking hands—” She hissed, clawed and spat, feet lashing wildly as I lifted her clean off the ground. She wrapped her legs around my waist, heels pounding the small of my back, fingers bunched into talons, teeth snapping as they lunged for my face. I pressed into her, fighting for balance, flattening her wrists against the wall above her with one hand, the other clamped under her chin, pinning her firmly in place. She bucked and writhed and growled, repeatedly kicking me in the kidneys until, in a matter of moments, her energy started to wane and the struggle gradually subsided. “You gonna fuck me now?” she spat. “Gonna rape me now, big man? Come on, motherfucker, let’s get it over with. Let’s do it, come on.”

“Calm down,” I told her.

Finally, the talons became fingers. She let her legs hang loosely around me. Her eyes softened in resignation.

“Just calm down,” I said. I released my grip on her throat and she sucked in great, whistling lungfuls of air.

“The next time you hit me, I’ll fucking kill you,” she panted.

That seemed like a fair challenge to me. “The next time I hit you,” I said, “you’ll have left it too late.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.” She smiled, her lips mere inches from my own. Her hair brushed my face as she blew it from her eyes. “I’m okay now, you can let me down if you’re not going to rape me.”

I breathed in waves of vanilla, almond and coconut, a hint of mint and a delicate undercurrent of fresh, clean sweat. My cheek stung, my heart raced and the pit of my belly was a tense, aching knot. My legs, though, were holding up fine. “I didn’t lay a finger on her,” I said.

“No,” she replied softly. “I thought not. And she’ll be back, won’t she?”

“Oh, she’ll be back.” I nodded. “I absolutely guarantee that.”

* * *

Beeeep.
“About eight. No need to dress up. See you then.”

* * *

“I wonder if they know I’m still alive. I mean, really
know
. You see all these poor fuckers on TV, banging on about how they’re not giving up hope, and they know she’s out there somewhere, and they won’t stop looking until she’s back safe and sound and please bring her home, she doesn’t deserve it, she’s never done anyone any harm and all that crap. But it’s all bollocks, isn’t it? They always end up finding out she was dead before they noticed she was gone. It’s funny. I had this conversation with my mum. I bet she’s gone over
that
one once or twice in her head. Bastards have probably already buried me. They’re obsessed. They buried my nan, even though she told them time and time again she wanted to be scattered off the pier at Eastbourne. My sister’s probably moved into my room already. She was gutted when she found out I’d got a job and wasn’t going to piss off to uni. She kept telling Mum to kick me out and make me get a flat, but apparently I’m so good at cleaning and babysitting that I’m not allowed to get a life of my own. Which just sets me up perfectly to live in a cage and mop up after whiny little bitches. Wow, you know what? I never realized how little my life has changed. In fact, it’s almost better, ’cause now I don’t have to get up and go to work every day. I should actually be thanking you. I mean, you feed and clothe me, you keep a roof over my head, you bring me nice friends to play with...and all I have to do is get punched in the face every now and again, and you don’t even do that as hard as my stepdad used to, so that’s just like a fucking holiday. And here I was, daydreaming that you’d just throw me the key and walk under a combine harvester... How fucking ungrateful can you get?”

“There, how’s that?” A curved aluminum rail, secured by three brackets bolted through the walls and ceiling of the cage to steel plates on the outside. Two-inch wooden rings supporting a pair of lavender cotton curtains which, when drawn, enclosed the toilet and sink and provided privacy from the wall-mounted camera.

“I’m not sure about the color.”

“I’ll bring you some crayons.”

“And of course, you’ve only got to walk around the side there and you can still see me.”

“As I’ve told you a dozen times—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re not interested in watching me wee.”

“Fine, then.”

“Good.”

“Anything else you need?”

“Girls’ things.”

“Girls’ things? What are girls’ things? Ugg boots? My Little Pony? An
actual
pony?”

“No,
girls’ th
—”

“What the hell are girls’ th—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m due on, okay? And I’m not spending another week with toilet roll stuffed down my pants, so I need Always Ultra, medium flow in the green packet. They’re right next to where you got all that smelly stuff. Seriously, don’t even argue, it’s inhumane.”

Fair, I suppose. “I’ll try and remember. And if you’ve learned to say ‘please’ by the next time I see you, I’ll try even harder.”

“God, you’re as bad as my d—” she started, but didn’t finish. I trawled up a suitable retort from somewhere, but felt strangely awkward about delivering it. After a brief but uncomfortable pause, she rolled her eyes and dismissed me with an impertinent wave. And then, as I opened the outer door to leave, she called out to me. “Wait,” she said, “I forgot something.”

I turned to her from the doorway, cell keys at the ready, fighting a sudden, curious urge to deny her the opportunity to damn herself. “What is it?” I snapped.