Eeny Meeny
M. J. Arlidge
EENY MEENY
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
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M. J. Arlidge has worked in television for the last fifteen years, specializing in high-end drama production. In the last five years Arlidge has produced a number of primetime crime serials for ITV, including
Torn
,
The Little House
and, most recently,
Undeniable
,
broadcast in spring 2014. Currently writing for
Silent Witness
, Arlidge is also piloting original crime series for both UK and US networks. Debut thriller
Eeny Meeny
,
which introduces Detective Inspector Helen Grace
,
has sold to publishers around the world. The follow-up,
Pop Goes the Weasel
, is published by Penguin Books in September 2014.
1
Sam is asleep. I could kill him now. His face is turned from me – it wouldn’t be hard. Would he stir if I moved? Try and stop me? Or would he just be
glad
that this nightmare was over?
I can’t think like that. I must try to remember what is real, what is good. But when you’re a prisoner, the days seem endless and hope is the first thing to die.
I rack my brains for happy memories to hold off the dark thoughts, but they are harder and harder to summon.
We’ve only been here ten days (or is it eleven?), yet normal life already seems like a distant memory. We were hitching back from a gig in London when it happened. It was pouring with rain and a succession of cars had sailed past without a second look. We were soaked to the skin and about to turn back, when finally a van pulled over. Inside, it was warm and dry. We were offered coffee from a flask. Just the smell of it was enough to cheer us up. The taste was even better. We didn’t realize that it would be our last taste of freedom.
When I came to, my head was pounding. Blood coated my mouth. I wasn’t in the warm van any more. I was in a cold, dark space. Was I dreaming? A noise behind me made me start. But it was only Sam stumbling to his feet.
We’d been robbed. Robbed and dumped. I scrambled forward, clawing at the walls that enclosed us. Cold, hard tiles. I crashed into Sam and for a brief moment held him, breathing in that smell I love so much. Then the moment passed and we realized the horror of our situation.
We were in a disused diving pool. Derelict, unloved, it had been stripped of the boards, signs and even the steps. Everything that could be salvaged had been. Leaving a deep smooth tank that was impossible to climb out of.
Was that evil shit listening to our screams? Probably. Because when we finally stopped, it happened. We heard a mobile phone ringing and for a brief, glorious moment thought it was someone coming to rescue us. But then we saw the phone’s face glowing on the pool floor beside us. Sam didn’t move, so I ran. Why did it have to be me? Why does it
always
have to be me?
‘Hello, Amy.’
The voice on the other end was distorted, inhuman. I wanted to beg for mercy, explain that they’d made a terrible mistake, but the fact that they knew my name seemed to rob me of all conviction. I said nothing, so the voice continued, relentless and dispassionate:
‘Do you want to live?’
‘Who are you? What have you done to u—’
‘Do you want to live?’
For a minute, I can’t reply. My tongue won’t move. But then:
‘Yes.’
‘On the floor by the phone you’ll find a gun. It has one bullet in it. For Sam or for yourself. That is the price of your freedom. You must kill to live. Do you want to live, Amy?’
I can’t speak. I want to vomit.
‘Well, do you?’
And then the phone goes dead. Which is when Sam asks:
‘What did they say?’
Sam is asleep beside me. I could do it now.
2
The woman cried out in pain. And then was silent. Across her back, livid lines were forming. Jake raised the crop again and brought it down with a snap. The woman bucked, cried out, then said:
‘Again.’
She seldom said anything else. She wasn’t the talkative type. Not like some of his clients. The administrators, accountants and clerks stuck in sexless relationships were
desperate
to talk – desperate to be liked by the man who beat them up for money. She was different – a closed book. She never mentioned where she’d found him. Or why she came. She issued her instructions – her needs – clearly and crisply, then asked him to get on with it.
They always started by securing her wrists. Two studded leather straps pulled taut, so that her arms were tethered to the wall. Iron ankle fetters secured her feet to the floor. Her clothes would be neatly stowed on the chair provided, so there she’d stand, chained, in her underwear, awaiting punishment.
