Crossbones Yard (25 page)
Authors: Kate Rhodes
The next thing I heard was unexpected. A woman’s voice, shrill with fear.
‘No, please. Not again. Let me go.’
It was a weakened version of the original. Exhaustion and terror had knocked the music out of it, but the voice itself was unmistakable. It was definitely Lola. I shouted her name but nothing came out, just a dull squeal, deadened by my mouthful of rags. So I drummed my bare heels against the side of the box instead. At least she would know she wasn’t alone.
‘You fucking bastard, get your hands off me!’
Her yell was loud enough to penetrate the thick wood, and it was a relief to know she hadn’t lost her fight. Then her voice fell silent. Maybe he was forcing her to drink, tipping icy water into her mouth quicker than she could swallow. After a few minutes I heard her speak again.
‘Why don’t you talk to me? Don’t do that, please.’
Begging obviously didn’t work, because after that her speech was muffled. He must have replaced the gag immediately. What I heard then was much worse than listening to her plead. Even the gag couldn’t stifle it. A long-drawn-out wail, followed by a string of muffled cries. I clenched my fists. He was cutting her, and all I could do was pray that it wasn’t her face. I pictured her pale cat-like eyes, and the mile-wide smile that sent men weak at the knees.
There was a scraping sound, then the thud of her body landing in the box next to mine. The lid slammed shut, and his slow footsteps grew fainter as he walked away. The whole process had taken minutes. He had forced water down our throats, like animals in a laboratory, and left his mark on Lola’s skin. It made sense that Sean would act fast. He never slowed down − long hours at the hospital, then squash or football, out somewhere almost every night.
I thumped my bound hands against the wood three times and waited, but there was no sound. Maybe Lola was in too much pain to move. Her reply came back after what felt like hours, three soft taps. She knew we were lying side by side. Without the cages between us we would have been close enough to hold hands. I was still struggling to make sense of it. Maybe there were more of us. The room could be lined with outsized coffins, each one containing a woman, desperate to stay alive.
At least my claustrophobia had disappeared, because I had discovered worse things to worry about than confined spaces. It’s amazing how terror puts a phobia in its place. Most claustrophobics would benefit from a few hours inside a sealed box, but I’m not sure the NHS would sign up to such a radical cure. It may sound strange, but before long I fell asleep. My mind was so busy keeping itself intact that I didn’t even have nightmares. I dreamed of the best holiday I ever had, in Greece with Will and Lola when we finished university. In the dream I was diving from the side of the speedboat we hired for the day. Diving and surfacing, over and over, the sun blessing my face each time I came up for air. For a few seconds my body was at ease when I woke up, as if I’d spent the day sunbathing.
My waking thoughts were harder to cope with. The person I wanted most was Alvarez. By now he would be going mad
with worry, his frown line getting deeper by the minute. I searched my mind for something comforting to latch on to, but there was nothing there. Memories flashed past my eyes like snapshots in a photo album. The first was of my father, when I was twelve years old. I thought I was the first person home, but a faint scratching noise came from the kitchen. I assumed the cat was pleading to be let in, but I found my father lying on the black and white tiles, still wearing his suit and highly polished shoes. His lips were moving, but no words came out; his eyes were wide, as though he had witnessed miracles. I must have been a well-trained child, because I dialled 999, but something prevented me from kneeling down to comfort him. I kept watch from the doorway until the ambulance arrived. Habit had taught me to keep my distance.
with worry, his frown line getting deeper by the minute. I searched my mind for something comforting to latch on to, but there was nothing there. Memories flashed past my eyes like snapshots in a photo album. The first was of my father, when I was twelve years old. I thought I was the first person home, but a faint scratching noise came from the kitchen. I assumed the cat was pleading to be let in, but I found my father lying on the black and white tiles, still wearing his suit and highly polished shoes. His lips were moving, but no words came out; his eyes were wide, as though he had witnessed miracles. I must have been a well-trained child, because I dialled 999, but something prevented me from kneeling down to comfort him. I kept watch from the doorway until the ambulance arrived. Habit had taught me to keep my distance.
The next snapshot was of my mother, admiring herself in the hall mirror. Life got easier for her after my father’s stroke. It silenced him permanently, and his pension from the tax office paid for a live-in carer. There was even a little left over, so she could indulge her passion for clothes. My father had only enough strength left to lift himself in and out of his wheelchair. And he couldn’t even drink his way to oblivion, because my mother made sure the house was dry. His silence left her free to be as vicious as she liked. And it was my brother who suffered most, because he was the brilliant one.
The last picture was of Will, clutching an envelope, too scared to open it. My mother had chivvied and bullied him to the top of his class, but when his A-level results arrived he was paralysed. She grabbed the envelope from his hand. Maybe she believed his success was rightfully hers.
The box filled with anger. I held silent conversations with my dead father, asked him how he could forgive himself. I attacked my mother too, for the pressure she put on Will until he lost his way. But I kept most of the rage for myself. I had
gone into relationships in bad faith, and the longer they lasted, the more damage was done. Maybe none of this would have happened if I’d steered clear of Sean. He had killed the girl at Crossbones just before we split up, but I’d been withdrawing from him for weeks. He’d seen the writing on the wall, decided to take out his rage on any woman who crossed his path. I was the reason why three women had died, and Lola was trapped in her makeshift coffin.
gone into relationships in bad faith, and the longer they lasted, the more damage was done. Maybe none of this would have happened if I’d steered clear of Sean. He had killed the girl at Crossbones just before we split up, but I’d been withdrawing from him for weeks. He’d seen the writing on the wall, decided to take out his rage on any woman who crossed his path. I was the reason why three women had died, and Lola was trapped in her makeshift coffin.
I should have been grateful that my anger finally came to the surface. It gave me the energy to work for hours on the ropes around my wrists, tugging at the knots with my teeth. They refused to come undone, but at least the ties loosened and my fingers could move again, the blood flowing more easily. I had more success with the blindfold, rubbing my head against the rough wood. At first all I got was a scalp full of splinters, but gradually it began to give. The material slid back from my eyes by a fraction and I could see light leaking through narrow cracks in the box. When the footsteps came again I knew what to expect. My whole body was trembling, but if I did nothing Lola and I would end up like Michelle, our skin slashed to ribbons.
I held my breath as he fiddled with the bolt above my head, imagining a river coursing through a valley, washing away cars and trees and houses, strong enough to clear every object from its path. Maybe he inhaled the stored-up rage when he opened the box. It weakened him for a moment, like a cloud of gas. When he leaned down to grab hold of my arm, I caught his bitter reek of ammonia. I thought of the Crossbones girl, so far from her own country, and Cheryl Martin wishing she had fought back when she had the chance. The trouble was, I had no idea how to begin, and I wasn’t exactly a match for him, with my wrists tied. My bruised back thumped against the rim of the box.
When he’d settled me on the chair, I heard him moving around. I tried to guess how far I could jump with my ankles bound. He forced the metal cup against my lip. The water was warm this time, sour and slightly gritty. God knows what he’d doctored it with. Sedatives probably, stolen from the hospital supplies. The liquid ran from my mouth, just a few drops reaching my throat, and all I could hear was his laboured breathing as he forced my jaw open with his hand. My heart drummed painfully against my ribcage. Air stuck in my throat as I remembered the jagged wound on Suzanne Wilkes’s neck as she gazed up from the pavement. I jerked my head free and managed to spit out a few words.
‘I know it’s you. The bleach doesn’t work, I can still smell you.’
The idea that he had been recognised stopped him in his tracks for a second. And then he did exactly what I hoped. He lashed out. But this time I took my chance, knowing it could be my last. When his hand made contact with my face I bit down as hard as I could. My teeth locked on to bone, and my mouth flooded with the acrid taste of bleach. He gave an outraged moan, and tried to wrench his hand away, but I took a final deep bite and heard the snap of a bone breaking.
There was a moment’s grace while he nursed his wound. It gave me time to push back my blindfold, jump away and grab a knife from his collection on the floor. When he came at me again, I raised my bound hands above my head then plunged them down with all my strength. I couldn’t see properly with the blindfold falling back over my eyes, but I aimed at his face. Only his outline was clear, because he was wearing a balaclava, but I was lucky. The knife found its target. I forced it home and twisted the handle. His low inhuman moan was the sound that cattle make when they’re being branded. He slumped to the floor, face first.
I don’t know how long I stood there, doing nothing, watching the circle of blood grow wider, the knife still dangling from my hand.
And then I heard the tapping. I pushed my blindfold back, as far as it would go. In the dim light the boxes looked innocent enough. Four of them. Each one six feet long, less than three feet high. The type of rough wooden storage boxes you might use in your garden for storing logs or coal. My heart bumped unevenly as I opened the one next to mine. I didn’t want to see what he’d done to Lola. When I prised the lid away, it was her back that I saw first, a raw mess of blood and bruises. But at least she was alive. Maybe I imagined it, but when she twisted around I saw the edges of her smile above the filthy gag he’d stuffed in her mouth. I tried to think of something comforting to say, but a mixture of shock and relief had stolen my breath.
Lola’s skin was chalk white, with angry purple bruises all over her shoulders. But at least her face was intact, not a cut in sight. Sooner or later she would be able to answer questions, but in the meantime she was cold and naked, gibbering with shock. I picked up one of the small blades from the floor and began to cut the rope around her hands. Her wrists were raw where she had struggled to undo the knots, but as soon as I had freed her she was calm enough to return the favour. A bleach-stained towel was all I could find to drape around her shoulders. She still couldn’t speak. She just slumped on the chair where he had made us sit, staring down at his body.
I peered under the lids of the other two boxes. Fortunately they were empty. He must have been planning a production line, but he ran out of time.
I was worried we might never get out, remembering Ray Benson’s love of combination locks. It would be ironic if I had fought back, only to find there was no escape route. My heart
battered against my ribs like a jackhammer, but I was still insulated by a thick layer of shock, numbing me as effectively as morphine. At that point it didn’t register that I’d killed a man. I had no desire to check that it was Sean. I didn’t want to pull back his balaclava and witness the damage to his ridiculously handsome face. All I had to focus on was finding a way out for Lola. It was my responsibility to get her to safety, but the door refused to open. It was like a scene from my favourite nightmare, every exit sealed, with no chance of breaking free.
battered against my ribs like a jackhammer, but I was still insulated by a thick layer of shock, numbing me as effectively as morphine. At that point it didn’t register that I’d killed a man. I had no desire to check that it was Sean. I didn’t want to pull back his balaclava and witness the damage to his ridiculously handsome face. All I had to focus on was finding a way out for Lola. It was my responsibility to get her to safety, but the door refused to open. It was like a scene from my favourite nightmare, every exit sealed, with no chance of breaking free.
I stared at the body lying on the floor. He was wearing plain blue overalls, and the keys must have been in his pocket, but I couldn’t bring myself to go near him, let alone rifle through his pockets. So I tried the window instead. It was a standard wooden sash, filled with frosted glass, but it had been screwed shut. I looked around for something to smash it with, but the room was as empty and clinical as an operating theatre. Apart from the boxes and knives there was only a sink, two straight-backed wooden chairs, and the tin cup he made us drink from. I picked up one of the chairs and swung it at the window with all my strength. The shattering noise was satisfying. It would have been a pleasure to smash a dozen more while the adrenalin was still pumping.
For some reason I felt sure we were in a basement. If he was a true follower of the Bensons, he would have made a replica of the dungeon Ray spent months building. But when I stared out of the jagged hole in the glass, the drop was alarming. We were several storeys above ground. In the darkness it was hard to see exactly what lay below, but I could make out a drift of trees and a concrete path. There was no chance of lowering ourselves gently to the ground like Rapunzel without breaking our necks.
I was about to return my attention to the door, when I heard Lola say something.
‘He’s moving,’ she muttered.
When I turned round the man’s body was stirring. And then things went into fast-forward; he was crawling towards the knives, leaving a smear of blood on the black tiles.
‘Get him!’ Lola shouted.
But for some reason I couldn’t move, still cosy in my bubble of shock, unable to react to danger.
Lola pushed me out of the way, just as his fingers closed on one of the largest knives in his collection, and then there was the sound of wood splintering. She brought the chair down on his head again, and he stopped moving. She was about to smash it down a third time, but I grabbed her arm.
‘Who the fuck is he anyway?’ Tears were coursing down her face.
Before I could stop her, she leaned down and pulled off his balaclava. I heard her gasp and then looked down. What I saw didn’t make sense. The knife had sliced through his lower lip, dividing it neatly in two, exposing a line of perfect white teeth. Blood was still gushing from the wounds inside his mouth, and Lola had smashed his nose to a pulp. Between us we had made a mess of his matinée-idol face. But I knew that somewhere under the layer of blood I would find his familiar frown.
‘It’s the Spanish thug, isn’t it?’ Lola rasped.
‘Ben.’
I heard myself repeat his name, then everything went quiet.
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