The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (13 page)

P
hil opened his eyes. Still clamped to the chair, his body unable to move or even relax. He felt pain down from his neck through his back, along his legs. Stiffness from sitting in the same position combined with rigidly cramped muscles resulting from the tension in his body, the fear, the uncertainty in his mind. And the more purely physical pain: his head still throbbing and aching from the attack.

After the woman left the room, the first thing he had done was give in to the pain. He knew that was the wrong thing to do, like sleeping after a concussion, but his body gave him no choice. The pain, combined with his terror-filled situation, caused his body to close down, to either sleep or pass out, he didn’t know which. He didn’t care. The numbness, the absence of being, came as a relief.

But now he was awake again. Disorientated, alone. His body felt like it had been on a long-haul flight with an economy airline and not allowed to move for the duration of the trip. It screamed out for movement. But, try as he might, straining and pulling against the leather straps, he just couldn’t provide any.

He tried to calm himself down, quell his rising fear. Take deep breaths, focus. Calm.
Calm
. Think about what he knows, try to put it in order. Try to formulate some kind of plan. Don’t give in to despair or helplessness. Don’t have another panic attack. Not now.

Focus. How long had he been in the chair? He didn’t know. Could he tell from the way his body was feeling? Unlikely. Several hours, it felt like, judging from the pain in his muscles. No other way to judge what time it was.

What can you see? Nothing. No, wait. That wasn’t quite true. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and could make out vague shapes and shadows in his surroundings. He was still in the facsimile of his dining room, could still make out the features on the walls. Light, faint and small, must be getting in from somewhere. But he had no way of knowing whether it was artificial or day.

Close your eyes, listen. What could he hear? Nothing around him. Silence in the building – wherever and whatever the building was. Listen harder, expand his reach: still nothing. No TV, music, no traffic beyond, no noise from anywhere apart from his own movement, his own breathing.

No trace of the woman.

What else? He needed the toilet. His bladder was aching.

Phil sighed. He had rarely felt so alone.

He shook his head. The throbbing increased. He tried to ignore it. No. No. Don’t give in to despair, to self-pity. He was alive. He had hope. He had to assume that Cotter had worked out what had happened, that she would have a team out looking for him. That Beresford – if it was, in fact, him – had been brought in for questioning and given him up.

Hope. That was all he had. And he couldn’t give up on it.

In the meantime, he thought, if he was alone, he should try and turn that to his advantage. He looked round the room, eyes now as accustomed as they could be to the darkness. What did he see? What could he use? And then he saw it.

The door.

Yes, he was strapped to a wheelchair, but there was a door in front of him. A working door that the woman had used. Turned the handle, gone in and out. It closed, it opened. And there had been no sign of a lock on it.

Something small fluttered inside him. Hope. There it was again. He tried not to let it build too much, take on unworkable aspects, false properties, but he didn’t dismiss it either.

Feeling the aches in his muscles diminish as adrenalin pumped through them, he wheeled his way towards the door. It was slow going, his bare feet, strapped at the ankles, being his only method of conveyance, his stomach muscles cramping as he used them to push too.

Gasping and grunting, he eventually reached the wall. He stopped moving, allowing his breath to return. The movement had left him light-headed. Black stars danced before his eyes, took away sections of the room from him. He tried to ignore them. Breathe deep. Concentrate. Just try to get out of that room.

He was up close to the wall now, able to see it closely. When the photographic images of his house had been enlarged the colours had leached away to near black and white, the sharpness of the small image now blurry. But he could still make out details.

He pushed himself round the perimeter of the room, examining those details, trying to work out, from what he could see, when the photos had been taken. Within the last year, he concluded. Not too recently because there had been certain additions to the room – ornaments, books on shelves, small things of that nature – but nothing large enough or specific enough to resonate in his memory. But it meant that someone had been in his house. With enough time to catalogue every room. And the worst thing of all, they had done it without him knowing or even suspecting it.

He kept moving, slowly, agonisingly slowly, until eventually he reached the door. Like the walls, it was a photographic representation of his dining room door, the one leading off to the kitchen. He didn’t know where this one would lead but wouldn’t have been surprised if his kitchen lay beyond, or at least a photographic facsimile of it.

The door handle was real. Three-dimensional. A copy of his, of course. Not quite perfect for close scrutiny, but good enough to be taken as the real thing from a distance.

Phil didn’t care about that right now. All he wanted to do was open the door, get to the other side. See what lay beyond, negotiate his way to freedom.

He was facing the door. He tried to reach out, grasp the handle, but couldn’t. The restraints held his hand too tightly. He would have to try it sideways. Grab it that way. He pushed back the wheelchair with his bare feet, agonisingly slowly once more, feeling even worse than when he had started because the handle was so tantalisingly close.

He tried to move the wheelchair sideways into the wall, found it wouldn’t go. So he had to move it slowly backwards and forwards, incrementally, like trying to parallel park a large car in a too-tight space when he couldn’t see the kerb.

Eventually he managed it. He was sweating, gasping for breath and again seeing stars once more when he came to a stop beside the handle. But he ignored all that. He had made it. He had done it. He was one step closer to freedom.

The handle was near his left hand. If he could reach out and pull it down then push his weight against it while still holding it the door would open. It had to. He thought again. Had it opened inwardly? Had she come through that way? A tremor of doubt ran through him. If that was the case his plan wouldn’t work. He thought once more. No. Outward. From the dining room, into the kitchen. Yes. He was sure of it.

He took a deep breath. Another. Tamped down his nerves. Grasped the handle.

And screamed.

M
arina felt the cold of the late evening almost as keenly as she felt the pain in her ankle. The stairs had been a challenge for her but now, trying to make her way as quickly as she could through the estate and back to the car, she couldn’t help shivering. She tried to use the cold to her advantage, concentrate on it, hope that by doing so it would take her mind off her foot. She hoped she had just twisted or sprained it. If it was broken she wouldn’t be able to move for weeks. And that, she thought guiltily, desperately, meant she could play no further part in looking for Phil. And that wasn’t something she was prepared to face.

The door slammed behind her. Upstairs, she thought, Michael Prosser was watching her leave. She had no idea what he was thinking but knew it wouldn’t be good. She was still angry with herself for the way she had behaved with him. Unprofessional. Letting him wind her up like that. She had to rein her emotions in if she was to get anywhere doing this. Treat it as another case. Yeah, she thought. Because that isn’t impossible.

She again ignored the square of scorched earth in the centre of the quadrant, walked round the outside. Kept to the light. Or what there was of it. Then she reached the narrow alleyway. She could see her car ahead. Only a few metres to go. But she was thinking so much on the way she had behaved with Prosser, so wrapped up in her own thoughts, that she wasn’t aware of being followed.

It wasn’t until she had set foot in the alleyway, walked away from the buildings, that she noticed. She was grabbed from behind, a strong, heavy arm wrapping itself round her throat, another arm round her midriff.

A muffled voice: ‘Scream and I’ll fucking cut you.’

She looked down. Her attacker had a knife against her throat. She didn’t scream. Instead she spoke.

‘I’ve got… I’ve got money… Here, take, take my bag, it’s… it’s just under here…’

She moved against the arms, heart hammering away, trying to get her bag out.

‘I’ve got… cards, my cards, credit cards are in there…’

‘I don’t want your fucking money,’ the figure said.

Because of the fear, the adrenalin and blood pounding round her system, deafening her to everything but her wildly running heartbeat, it took a few seconds for Marina to process the words she had heard.

‘You… what?’

The figure gripped her even tighter. She felt the air huff out of her lungs, her throat constrict. Couldn’t get enough air into her body.

‘What did you want with Prosser? What did he say?’

‘He…’ She gasped, unable to breathe properly. Not enough air to speak with. ‘We talked…’

Tighter again. ‘What about? I’m not fucking about here.’

‘I… we… can’t breathe, please…’

The figure didn’t relax its grip. Just pushed the knife against the skin of her throat. ‘Answer the question.’

Marina felt wetness on her neck, a small stab of pain. The blade had broken skin. Her body now trembling she tried not to move, barely to breathe. ‘I…’ Focus. Concentrate. ‘I asked him some questions. He wouldn’t tell me anything.’

She felt the knife push harder against her skin. Tried to gasp, breathe her neck away from it. Couldn’t.

‘What kind of questions? Who about?’

‘About… about… Fiona Welch…’ She didn’t think it was a good time to lie. Or even attempt to negotiate. Do nothing to antagonise her assailant, inflame the situation. That was all that was running through her mind.

‘And what did he say?’

‘He… nothing. He said nothing. Wouldn’t… talk to me.’

The figure didn’t reply.

She could still hear the ragged breathing in her ear, smell some kind of aftershave on the scarf he was wearing. But no more words. Tentatively, she tried to speak.

‘Look, just… just let me go. Now. I’ll not… not report this, not say anything to anyone about this. I swear. Just, just… please let me go…’

‘Shut up, bitch.’

Tighter again.

Marina made another attempt to reason. Perhaps her last one, for all she knew. ‘Michael Prosser told me nothing. Now please, let me go…’

She didn’t know what the reply would be. Because at that moment another figure appeared at the end of the alleyway, blocking out the light, cutting off Marina’s view of the relative safety of her car.

She opened her mouth, attempting to scream to this newcomer, taking her chance, but she had no time. Because the figure, small, compact and all in black, began to move along the alley at speed, building up momentum as it reached Marina and her attacker.

The figure shouted four words. ‘Close your eyes, Marina…’

Too scared, confused and numb to think actively and coherently, she mutely obeyed. She heard a sound, then a scream. And felt air flood her lungs once more.

She fell to the ground, opening her eyes as she did so.

This new figure had pepper sprayed her attacker in the eyes. She had then followed this up by taking out an extendable nightstick and bringing it down hard on the attacker’s wrists and arms. As Marina watched, the attacker turned and, blinded and injured, ran as fast as he could.

Instead of giving chase, as Marina had expected the newcomer to do, she found herself being helped up from the ground.

‘You OK?’

‘Yeah, I think so. Thanks, I…’

Something about that voice made Marina turn. Took in this new person for the first time. All dressed in black Lycra and running shoes like a cat burglar or an athlete. With a black wool beanie cap pulled down low. The figure pulled it off revealing spiked peroxide hair, illuminated against black skin. The figure smiled.

‘Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?’ said Anni Hepburn.

I
t was the eyes that got her first. Big, sad. Not that that was unusual in itself; lots of the kids here had big sad eyes. Most of them tried to hide the fact. Put angry screens in front of them. Or funny. Or brave. The ones who didn’t became the stragglers of the pack and got the sadness bullied and beaten out of them. But this one was different. Something about that sadness in those eyes that connected. In a big, big way. In a way that no one had ever connected with her before.
 

Yes. She could remember what she was doing the first time she saw Fiona. Nothing. Waiting. It was all she ever seemed to do there. Michael ushered the girl into the common room.
 

This is Fiona, he said. Look after her, treat her well. She’s coming to join us. Live here. She’s one of us now.
 

And off he went, back to avoiding whatever it was he was supposed to be doing.
 

Kids gathered round her. Hoping to project whatever they wanted of themselves onto the new arrival. Those wanting friends hoped they saw a friend. Those wanting a victim hoped they saw that. But what did she want when she looked at Fiona? She didn’t know.
 

She saw a girl, a little underweight, her hair cut in an unfashionable style. Wearing clothes that were old but that she could sense she still had pride in. That must make her feel good to wear them. But it was what she saw in her next that broke her heart.
 

Damage, vulnerability. But deep, intrinsic to her. Not the kind she could exploit, make worse. The kind that made her want to protect this new girl. Nurture her. This was a new sensation and she didn’t know how to cope with it.
 

She went up to the girl. You’re Fiona, she said.
 

Fiona nodded.
 

She gave Fiona her name.
 

Fiona nodded again. But this time reached out. To do what? Shake hands? Touch her? She didn’t know. But she was glad Fiona did. Because as soon as Fiona’s fingers touched her, it felt like an electric charge had been put through her body. She looked at Fiona. Right into her eyes. And knew that Fiona felt it too.
 

Responding, she placed her arm round Fiona’s shoulder. Looked round the room. The rest of the children knew what that meant. Fiona wasn’t to be touched, harmed. Fiona was protected.
 

And she felt so good about it.
 

Weeks passed. They became inseparable. Fiona enjoyed school and work too. They shared the same interests in music, TV shows. The fact that it was different to everyone else’s just bound the two more tightly together. They even started to dress alike. She shared her money from pimping out the other girls with Fiona. It was one of the first things she had told Fiona she was doing.
 

They’re weak, she said. They need someone to take care of them.
 

Is that taking care of them? Letting men do
…
She couldn’t say the word
…
what they do to them?
 

It’s either them or us, Fiona, she said, stroking the other girl’s hand. If I wasn’t doing that to them, one of them would be doing it to me. To us. D’you want that to happen?
 

Fiona thought. Shook her head. No.
 

No. Exactly. This way I make sure it doesn’t happen. I keep you safe. And I get money to buy you things. She smiled when she said the last bit.
 

Why? asked Fiona. Why d’you want to buy me things?
 

Why? Because
…
She knew the answer, the words, but she didn’t want to say them. Or rather couldn’t bring herself to say them. Even with Fiona. Because everything that had happened before meeting her was still part of her. That castle was still inside her. The walls thick and strong. But she had to say something – or do something – to show Fiona how she felt, what she meant to her. So instead of words she grabbed Fiona by the back of the neck, moved her head towards her own, and pushed her lips on to hers.
 

The kiss was returned.
 

The kiss was beautiful.
 

And just the start. After that there was no stopping them. The other kids knew what was happening. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened in the home but it was the most intense. And Michael knew too. But he didn’t dare interfere or stop it or even, as he had done on other occasions, threatened to inform on the kids unless they allowed him to watch. So they were left alone. In their own world. Population: two.
 

She had never been so happy. Fiona’s body, like her mind – her soul – was a beautiful, wonderful thing to explore. And Fiona felt the same in response. She could tell.
 

Fiona began to blossom then. There was still that damage, that pain inside her. But it started to fade as her happiness grew. She began to look beautiful. Smile. Have confidence in herself. And that just made her love Fiona even more.
 

But some of the other children began to notice the new, confident, even beautiful, girl. One of the boys in particular. Jack was an arrogant boy. Or at least full of bravado, bluff and boasting. She hadn’t let him near her, but he had fucked (nearly) all the other girls in the home. And a few outside. He was dealing drugs. He was going to nightclubs and working for local gangsters. He was all of that. And he was keen on Fiona.
 

At first she found it quite amusing how Jack would flirt with Fiona. How Fiona would have nothing to do with him. Belittle him and make him look stupid in front of the rest of the kids. But he kept at her. And gradually, Fiona began to respond. In her own small way. Flirting back with him, teasing him instead of traducing him. And she didn’t like that. Didn’t like that at all.
 

So she seethed, hated. She had never felt like this. It was the flipside of what she had felt like with Fiona at first. That gnashing and gnawing inside no longer pleasurable, just hateful. She didn’t want to feel like this any more. So she confronted Fiona.
 

What are you doing with him? Why are you talking to him like that?
 

Fiona looked confused, then smiled. Oh, Jack. It’s just fun. That’s all. Nothing serious.
 

Well, I don’t like it. I don’t like you talking to him like that. He’ll get the wrong idea.
 

What would the wrong idea be?
 

He wants to fuck you. And you’ll let him.
 

Fiona smiled again. So what? It might be fun. I might enjoy it.
 

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Not from her Fiona. I don’t care, she said. You’re not doing it.
 

Why not?
 

Right up close to her. Breath to breath. Because you’re mine, Fiona. Mine.
 

And again, a smile. More crooked this time. I’m not yours. Really. What we’ve got together is great. But it’s not everything. If Jack wants to fuck me, I might let him. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.
 

She stared at Fiona. At that still smiling face. And she realised something. She had misjudged the girl. Badly. The damage she had seen within her, that she had recognised, went even deeper than she had thought. There was something in her that was unreachable. That was wrong. Even more wrong than the damage inside herself.
 

She stepped back. Knew she had no control over Fiona any more. That she never really had. All the time she had been fucking Fiona, Fiona had been fucking with her.
 

It felt like her whole world was ending.
 

Fiona fucked Jack. She said she enjoyed it. But Jack didn’t. Whatever she did to him scared the boy. Seriously scared him. So much so that he wasn’t as loud-mouthed after that. But Fiona was happy. Happier than she had been since she arrived at the home.
 

And she desperately hoped that Fiona would come back to her now. That everything would be as it was before. She would forgive her – of course she would. If Fiona would just come back.
 

And she did. Kind of.
 

She got into bed with her that night. Looked at her.
 

What you do with the girls, she said. How you pimp them out to men.
 

She waited.
 

I think I’ll join you. I think I’ll help you.
 

She was so desperate to keep her she said yes.
 

And then lay awake all night.