Waking Broken (19 page)

Thursday, 10.05pm:

Rebecca sat alone. Outside, rain coursed down the windowpanes. She watched the moving threads of water. On the surface her mind was blank: an empty, unruffled sheet. The whirling emotions had been cleared out of the way and locked down.

She had turned off the light earlier. It was darker in the room now than outside. Streaks of yellow, orange and red light ebbed and flowed as rain ran down the window. The water magnified the colours from the street in little bubbles of distortion. The rain was soft: pattering rather than hammering. Its steady wash suited her mood.

The day had not gone well.

Despite the hangover following the night of laying her soul bare to Cash, Thursday had begun with promise. First came Harper’s sudden arrival and the unexpected embrace that followed. An unspoken intimacy grew on their walk around the grounds of Haworth Manor — broken only by Sarah’s phone call.

When she left the manor, Rebecca was still feeling oddly buoyed: her contentment not built on anything tangible, more a sensation of something being right.

Shortly after midday, though, she had finally summoned the courage to go and see Claire Hamilton; to tell her she was quitting to go and work for Paul Cash. The experience proved highly unpleasant. Rebecca had planned a diplomatic farewell and discrete withdrawal. But the meeting soon descended into bitter acrimony.

The rant that erupted from Claire Hamilton had gone far beyond any of the tirades that previously echoed around the PR firm’s offices. In the end, Rebecca just walked out. She did not dare meet anyone’s eye, thankful she had already cleared her desk of personal items. Only in the relative privacy of the stairwell did she allow herself to cry; the tears as much from anger as hurt.

Failing to get hold of Sarah, Danny or Paul Cash on the phone after escaping Westcote House, Rebecca took herself for a long walk, trying to work the anger out of her system. The morning’s good mood proved elusive though. In the city centre she picked up a sandwich and stopped for a while in a bookshop. But, despite an hour spent browsing, Rebecca was unable to find anything that caught her imagination. By the time she got home it was drizzling. Feeling as damp and depressed as the weather, she had collapsed onto her sofa with a cup of tea. She was still there when Tony knocked on the door.

The four-way conference that followed did nothing to improve Rebecca’s mood. She had felt ambushed and outmanoeuvred. Part of her knew she should not be angry. Sarah was acting out of true friendship: doing what she thought necessary to protect Rebecca even if that meant upsetting her.

Rebecca realised she took things too far with her own attack on Sarah. But she ignored any feelings of guilt. A more belligerent part of her felt betrayed. It was a sneaky trap and the way it was sprung rankled.

It was not as if Sarah’s actions had left things any clearer. Although Tony’s reaction was more positive than expected, Rebecca’s later conversation with Brendan failed to shed more light on Danny Harper, his personality — or the truth of his story. The photographer had not been particularly forthcoming. Rebecca was unsure why. Maybe because Brendan did not really know her or that he simply did not know what to say. If anything, though, the waters were muddier than ever and Rebecca nowhere nearer to understanding Danny or his story.

She sighed. It was only on Tuesday, two nights earlier, that she was tricked into going to the White Lion. She had spent much of Wednesday digesting his story, trying to work out if it was pure fabrication or something more fantastic. On the face of it, the whole concept was preposterous. There remained, however, the unavoidable aspect of Danny Harper’s intimate and unexplainable knowledge. And, as the hours passed, the growing realisation that something about the man drew her to him.

Over the past couple of years, Rebecca had become progressively more cautious with relationships. The main love of her life so far had been Fergus. They met at university and lived together for a couple of years before parting in acrimony. There had been boyfriends since but few lasted more than a few months and Rebecca would not have said she was ever in love with any of them.

It was not that she did not want a long-term relationship. She had little interest in casual flings. She believed in trust and commitment. Equally, she wanted to enjoy life and would never contemplate giving up her independence for the sake of a regular date and the chance of a rock on her finger. She wanted love but she also demanded the full works: the stomach-trembling, reason-busting irrationality of true love. But longing for love did not mean being obliged to hunt for it. She had friends, a career and her own home. It would be a disappointment if she never found the love she craved but lacking it would not turn her life into an empty shell.

It was only the nagging of people like Sarah and a few other friends that had prompted her to agree to last Sunday’s blind date. Which proved as non-momentous an event as Rebecca expected.

A couple of days later, however, Danny Harper had come into her life.

The bizarre circumstances in which their lives collided had thrown Rebecca so far off-course it took the best part of twenty-four hours before she began to see beyond the initial shock. Her mind was busy chewing over the things he said all through Wednesday. But behind the words lay the essence of the man himself: the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice, the depth of his entreaty. Only by Wednesday night, half-drunk as she poured out her confusion to Cash, did she begin to understand what really disturbed her. It was not Danny Harper’s strange tale but the degree to which she wanted his story to be true.

When Cash arranged for Danny to come to Haworth Manor on Thursday morning, the artist sprang the meeting with no warning. He was intent on interrogating the man: looking for flaws in the story of a fractured life. But Danny appeared to pass that test and gain some sort of acceptance from Cash. And with that endorsement, many of Rebecca’s own fears came to seem less important. She was not so infatuated as to disregard the possibility of Danny Harper turning out to be delusional. However, having a neutral third party prepared to at least take his story on face value gave her a lot more confidence.

Sarah’s response was the opposite of Cash’s: equally logical and even fiercer but somehow too dogmatic. She seemed unwilling to even entertain the possibility Harper could be anything other than a dangerous lunatic.

That afternoon’s meeting with Tony and Brendan had been Sarah’s attempt to raise a red flag. But all it had done was leave Rebecca resentful. Her thoughts were more unsettled and the doubts reinforced but if anything her feelings were stronger. When Danny’s credibility and reputation came under scrutiny, her reaction was to protect him, not listen as the grateful beneficiary of best-intentioned advice.

Sarah had left the flat soon after Tony. She would not meet Rebecca’s eye or speak to her as she departed with a thundercloud following.

Brendan would have slipped away too given half a chance but Rebecca insisted he stay. She would never admit as much in front of either Tony or Sarah but the questions did disturb her.

Rebecca had hoped that the photographer, as Danny Harper’s closest friend, would be an ally. She expected him to defend Danny and offer words of reassurance to reinforce the position adopted by Paul Cash.

But Brendan seemed ill at ease when she asked his opinion. He never said anything to suggest outright that he doubted his friend’s story but he was at best a reluctant witness. And that, as much as anything else, disturbed Rebecca. It was why she sat now in an unlit room, staring absently into the city’s wet nightscape.

He walked slowly along the perimeter, keeping to the shadows. The irony made him smile: his task was to bring the light of purity but of necessity he operated in the same darkness that fostered sin.

He picked his way along the narrow path: conscious a fall to either side could be fatal. The strip of bank that remained between the river and the excavation was only a couple of feet wide. To the right, the steel sheets that held back the water were secured in place by a line of piles. Beyond them, the river raced past; the recent rains having turned it into a swollen torrent. On the left, a double skin of wooden shuttering marked where the massive concrete wall would go. At the moment, though, the only thing between the plywood sheets was a grid of reinforcing rods.

He crouched and shone a torch into the space where the concrete would be poured. Inside was a drop of about twenty feet to the base of the wall. Plenty deep enough.

It was a nuisance having to do this but somehow the police had discovered the last place of ordeal. He had no idea how they found it and only learned about it by chance. Still the fact that his preparations had been wasted made no difference. His duty was plain and a minor setback could not be allowed to prevent what must be done.

He knelt in the wet mud, fragments of sharp stone digging into his knees. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head and prayed in silence.

Then, he reached into his sack and pulled out a pair of bolt croppers. He needed to cut enough reinforcing rods to make a gap into which the sinner could be lowered. With a gag around her mouth, she would wait until the concrete came. It was a simple enough test. She had already been given time to make her plea to God. If he chose to save her, she would live. If she had not turned from evil — or had been weighed and found wanting — she would not live.

Her fate lay in her hands; he was only an instrument. As the Book taught:
‘The soul that is sinning — it itself will die.’

Friday, 1.25am:

She turned and groaned. The concrete floor was hard and cold. Despite everything, though, she had fallen asleep. When she wanted to sleep it seemed impossible; but now that staying awake was crucial she had dozed off. Whether for a few minutes or hours she was not sure. Her body felt stiff but then it had before she lay down.

Louise Brent shook her head angrily as she made herself stand up. She was scared. She could not afford to blow this chance. There was no guarantee the trick would even work but the chances of getting two opportunities to try it were nonexistent. She needed to be focussed for the moment and that meant staying awake and alert.

Louise stood and stretched, tipping her head to either side then working on her arms and shoulders. Tendons creaked and muscles complained as she pushed her body through a once-familiar but now near-forgotten routine, repeating the exercises again and again. She was still in reasonable shape for her age but her physical condition was nothing like as good as it once was. These days, she spent more time enjoying life and putting off the consequences than keeping fit. As a teenager, she had won awards and competed at club level as a runner. Now, the odd hour on a treadmill was the extent of her exercise regime.

After a while, she had done as many stretches as she could bear and her body felt as loose as it was going to get. She stopped the routine and began to pace the boundaries of her cell. It was pitch dark but she knew how far she could go. Three paces one way and turn ninety degrees. Another two paces and turn before she hit the bed and the bucket next to it. Three more and a final turn before the last two brought her back to the start.

She did not dare do anything more energetic. She needed the warning of his approach, the sound of the door opening and footsteps on the stairs above. He was quiet but too big to move silently. If she stayed quiet, she should hear him coming. Plus, she would see the faint lines of light that appeared around the hatch in the ceiling. Only the faintest glimmer got through but down here in the total darkness that was like a beacon.

Louise resumed pacing. To start with, she let her fingers trail along the wall for guidance but once into her rhythm she dropped her hand and walked blind, avoiding hitting the side of the cell purely by counting and measuring her paces.

After about fifty circuits she turned round and started going the opposite way.

She had done about thirty more laps when something made her stop.

She froze, listening.

Somewhere above: a faint sound.

Louise licked her lips. They were dry and there was a tremor in her limbs. She tensed her hands and willed the weakness in her legs to go away.

Now she heard footsteps. Definitely.

She moved quickly back towards the bed, stretching her hands ahead of her. She could not afford to walk into it by accident. Any noise could give her away.

The tiny cracks of light appeared and Louise’s fingers found the thin mattress. Hastily, her hands walked along the dirty fabric. Her fingers met the cold metal frame of the bedstead that stood upright against the corner of the cell. From the bar across the foot end — now sticking in the air — she grabbed the loop of dangling cloth.

Louise pulled the material over her head and wrapped it round her neck. Using one foot, she carefully pushed the bucket over, letting its contents flood across the floor. The other foot went into the second loop, the one tied lower down that took the majority of her weight.

Above, the hatch moved up and light flooded down.

As it did so, Louise twisted her head to one side and opened her mouth. She hung, barely breathing and unblinking as the noose very slowly tightened around her neck.

There was silence for a moment before a torch beam swept around the room. It stabbed into her face and it was all she could do to stop from flinching against the brightness and keep her eyes open. The beam stayed focussed on her head for more than twenty seconds, each single moment seeming like several minutes. But Louise kept completely still, knowing that with her head twisted round at a sharp angle her hair would hide most of her face.

The torch beam moved up towards the top of the upturned bed, paused, and then travelled down her body. It lingered on her feet for a while as if unconvinced and twitched sideways to look at the bucket before returning up her body.

Louise held her breath and tried to let her mind go blank.

The torch beam disappeared.

There was silence and Louise’s heart sank. Her worst fear was that he would not investigate, simply put the hatch back and go, leaving her to be discovered some time in the future: maybe next week, maybe next year.

Something heavy rattled against the sides of the opening in the cell roof. Out of the corner of her eye, through a haze of hair, she saw a ladder sliding down. Louise took a couple of quick, deep lungfuls of air, conscious of the smell that now filled the cell, and then stilled her breathing again.

She heard his feet on the ladder and then saw them, followed by the outline of a man coming down into the cell. It was him. She was sure of it. She had not really had a chance to see him in the alleyway. He was a voice and then a shape coming towards her from the shadows. After that, the shadows had taken her memory. Something was put across her face and everything faded as he shoved her into some kind of van. She thought it had been red.

When she woke it was here in the cell. She was uncertain how long ago. It felt like at least a week but she guessed it was probably less.

She had only seen him twice since and each time he wore some kind of robe, with a deep hood that seemed to swallow his face. He opened the hatch in the roof of the cell; letting in the light, then sat and watched. To begin with she had been so angry that she screamed at him, hurled insults and tried to leap at him. She railed and cursed until her voice was ragged. Later she pleaded, cried and begged, asking what he wanted; once she even offered herself.

And both times he sat there without saying a word. He just watched her until she had no sounds left to make. Only when she was silent did he lower down a bag containing a large plastic bottle of water, some bread, one candle and a single match. Then he closed the hatch again and went.

Each time she quickly struck the match on the wall, desperate for the light and the glimmer of comfort it gave to her soul. The first time she wondered why he only gave her one match. Then she realised it was part of the torture. Anyone would crave the light. With more than one match she could have rationed the candles. This way, each time she lit the match that was it. She had to let the candle burn until the last remnant of wick sizzled out in a pool of molten wax. Then it was back to darkness until he chose to return. In a strange, perverted sense, he was making himself her saviour, the bringer of illumination.

When she had a candle lit, she was also able to study the walls of the cell. They were covered with Biblical-sounding quotations. They looked like snatches of Old Testament passages, all dealing with similar themes: corruption, driving out evil and the punishments meted out to those who committed wrongdoing. However, one thing unified all the verses: the link between sin and womankind.

Now, as Louise let her eyes drift out of focus, the writing on the wall opposite seemed to dissolve into the concrete. But through the fog in her vision she could still see him coming. She watched the shape stepping down off the ladder, the way he hesitated for a moment, the torch beam playing over her again. But then he was approaching: uncertain but coming closer.

The seconds that had dragged moments ago accelerated into a cascade.

Louise’s hands shot up and she grabbed the rail above her head. At the same moment, she lifted her feet off the ground, jack-knifed and drove her feet at where his head should have been.

But the bed shifted under the sudden movement and started to wobble. Her feet missed their target but hit him in the shoulder, throwing him back against the ladder. He dropped the torch and it went spinning into the corner of the cell, its light flashing around the small space.

Then: snap. The torch beam died in a tinkle of glass.

Louise let go of the bed. Ripping the noose free, she flipped herself onto her feet. Some light still came in through the hatch in the ceiling. As he got to his feet, she lunged forwards. Her outstretched hands found his shirt and she pulled him towards her, at the same time driving her knee up into his groin. It struck hard and there was a gasp of pain and a rush of expelled air in her face. But there was something wrong too: something that did not feel right.

And instead of doubling up, her opponent stayed upright.

Louise did not stop to think but let go of the shirt and reached for his face, aiming for the eyes. But she had lost the element of surprise and one arm swept across to block her attack. Then a fist cracked into the side of her head and she was thrown to the damp floor, half-stunned.

Frantic, she tried to regain her feet. But she was too slow. Still holding her head and blinking against the pain, she moaned in despair as her captor retreated up the ladder. She tried to grab the metal rungs but he was too strong. The ladder was wrenched out of her hands and he pulled it up behind him.

Then the hatch came back down and everything was dark again.