Psychopathia: A Horror Suspense Novel (34 page)

She crawled through the undergrowth, spindly branches grabbing at her, snagging her clothes, tearing her cheek, and now she could taste blood and it filled every sense. She could taste it, smell it, and
hear
it, the frantic swish swish of it as her heart pumped it round and round her body in never-ending circuits, and behind her eyes she could see it, the circuit broken, the blood spraying. Everywhere. The blood was everywhere.

It wasn’t hard to find the clothes. He hadn’t made much of an effort to hide them
; they were buried, but the soil was disturbed, easy to discover. She took her gloves off, peeled them off like unwanted skin, and blinked at her hands, wondering for a moment why they were pale, untouched, why they weren’t red with blood like everything else.

Toby’s hands were red with blood. Not hers.

Scrabbling at the dirt, a small, frightened animal, Tully sniffed and whimpered as she worked, brushing the damp ground from the clothes until they were laid out in front of her, bright, gaudy splashes that didn’t belong in the bush, in the dirt. They belonged on a woman, a woman who smiled and laughed and danced, who dreamed and imagined, who was real, breathing, whose pulse was a tiny, happy ticking under the skin of her wrist, throat, temple. Not here. They didn’t belong here, a worm already caught in the clasp of a lacy bra, dirt clumped in the hem of a flirty little dress that had been worn over thick winter tights. Tully knew who they belonged on and she lowered her head almost to the ground and pressed dirty hands to her eyes so she couldn’t see anymore.

‘Well, this is unfortunate.’

Her eyes snapped open, and she spun around so fast, she almost fell. She stared up into the face she was as familiar with as her own. He’d taken the hat off, held in in his hands as though paying respects at a graveside, and a lock of thick blond hair fell over one eye, giving a look of boyish charm she remembered seeing so often.

The eyes though, they were not her brother’s.

‘You,’ she said. ‘You killed Lara.’

His lips curved in a smile. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ he said. ‘I can’t be held responsible for my actions.’ Arms crossed
, still holding the hat, he leaned against a tree.

She shook her head, disbelieving, the shock draining into a cold, grim, anger.

Smile widening, he showed a neat row of white teeth embedding in swollen cheeks. ‘A jury of my peers said so. Twelve good men, a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker.’ He frowned, then went back to smiling. ‘I might have that wrong, actually – I do believe I was the butcher in that scenario.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘My dear,’ he said, and in the quickness of a breath, he was crouched beside her, one hand reaching out to stroke her hair. Her hat was fallen in the dirt. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you.’ The blue eyes, flat, cold, empty, held her. ‘They found me not guilty. By reason of insanity.’ He licked his lip and Tully felt his hot breath on her cheek. ‘They were right, of course.’ The mouth quirked in a smile again and his fingers insinuated themselves into her hair, twisted it and pulled her face close. ‘I am completely insane, and five years in a lunatic asylum only made it worse.’

Tully closed her eyes. ‘You’re not my brother.’ His breath smelt of blood.

‘Give the girl a prize.’

‘Where’s Toby?’
His fingers dug into her scalp.

‘Your dear brother is getting the treatment he needs.’ Laughter, cold and deep as well water.

She tried to swallow, her head tipped back by his hand in her hair. She looked up at the trees, the grey helmet of the sky above them, clouds bunched and crying cold, despairing tears.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘He’s in here, lost in my memories. Living the things I had to go through. The force-feeding, the ice baths, the beatings, rapes, the padded rooms.’ His breath whispered against her cheek. ‘The treatments for the insane were barbaric when I was alive, but for those of us who were criminally insane? Let’s just say that few of us were as sadistic as the men ‘treating’ us.’

Tully licked her lips. ‘What are you going to do with me?’

Movement, and his hat was back on his head, and he was straightening up, standing, dragging her with him, snaking an arm around her neck, tightening it on her throat.

‘It’s a little unfortunate,’ he said, and she fought not to give in, eyes on the treetops again, the sky, a little voice telling her she was never going to see either again. ‘But I was unprepared for this little adventure.’ His lips brushed against her skin. ‘And you were supposed to teach me to drive before I killed you. It seemed only fair.’

His arm tightened again, and she kicked out, struggled, dug her fingernails into his arm, but they slid uselessly off the thick wool of his coat, and the light was fading and she was slipping, and everything should have been turning black, but as she lost consciousness, it was into a deep pool of red that she fell.

Tully knew she wasn’t dead. She wasn’t that lucky. The deed, her murder, wouldn’t have been blessedly quick, wouldn’t have happened while she was unconscious. That one look at the red room under the abandoned house was enough to tell her that there would be nothing quick about her death.

Lara had suffered. By the time the man walking around in Toby’s body had finished with Lara, Tully didn’t think there could have been much blood left in her, and that meant he’d taken his time, taken his knife and played, touching it to her skin, digging the sharp point in, slicing, skinning, splitting, splashing blood everywhere.

It was no surprise when she opened her eyes to see where she was. The only surprise was that Toby – Tobias
– wasn’t standing over her, the blade in his hand gleaming sharp and hungry in the last bit of sluggish daylight.

She was alone, and leaned
her head forward, panting, relief making her light-headed. For a moment a choir of a thousand angels sang in her head, and then she coughed, faint, nauseous, the stench of drying blood clogging her throat. Blinking, she went to move, to sit up, and realised she couldn’t.

She tugged with her arms, but they were fastened above her head, tied with something that tightened around her wrists, and she cried out, but the sound of her voice, small and dangerously close to panic,
frightened her even more, and she bit down on it, a small whimper escaping before she had that stifled too.

Her legs here bound as well, each separately, by the ankle, tied to something she couldn’t see because her eyes were closed tight again. She was tied, spread-eagled, on what could only be a bed. The bed. The bed where her best friend’s blood soaked the mattress. Twisting, she lost the fight to stay quiet and cried out, a frightened little animal noise.

She was naked. A dank breeze touched the skin on her belly, made her flesh crawl, and she tried to turn away from it, the mattress sticking to her skin, wet underneath her, and she knew that if she were to see her back right now, it would be painted red from head to foot. She twisted her head from side to side and now her ears, her cheeks, were covered in that same sticky substance, stuff that had once allowed Lara to live and breathe and laugh. Now it was just something spilled, something that coated Tully with a gelatinous extra skin.

It was in
her hair too, thick cords of which stuck to her face and she shook her head violently, trying to dislodge them, but they stayed there, and she cried in earnest now, opening her eyes, checking again that the man inside her brother’s body wasn’t there, that she was alone.

The room was dark
ening, a mass of writhing, twisting shadows, and she must have been there for hours, long hours, tied splayed and naked to the bed, no one to help her, no one to save her. She wanted to reach for her phone, an automatic gesture, her lifeline, but of course there was no pocket, no phone, and no hope. She pulled against her bindings, thrashing on the bed, screaming now, loud, terrified screams, but no one heard, no one came. She was alone.

Where was he? If he was not here – and Tully was sure he wasn’t, that he wasn’t standing in the shadows just out of sight, watching her and feeling the pressure of her skin giving away already against the knife blade – then where was he? What was he doing
?

He’d said something about being unprepar
ed. She gnawed on her lip, cries momentarily stilled as she tried to think, tried to ignore the wet mattress under her. So, he’d tied her up, left.

And would be back soon.
Prepared this time, would have the knife that spilled so much blood, would have his game face on, would look at her with those cold blue eyes that would only light up when the blood started flowing.

She had to leave. The bindings pulled tight around her wrists, but she had to leave, had to get out of here before he came back. There was no way around it. If she didn’t go, get up off the bed and go right now, she’d be dead. He’d come back and do things to her and her blood would mingle with
Lara’ and it would all be over except for the screaming. And she had an idea he liked the screaming almost as much as he liked the blood. She thought of all the books she’d read, the movies she’d seen. She knew. She knew how this sort of thing ended. She knew what people like him did.

Did he take his clothes off too, while he worked? Would he lean over her,
touching her with her brother’s body, violating her with the hands of the person she loved more than any other in the world? Would she die with her brother’s hand holding the knife that cut her throat? Would she die with her brother raping her, stabbing her, cutting her?

A noise from deep in the shadows and she stopped her thrashing, eyes wide in the
gathered darkness, frozen. He was there after all. He was watching her somehow, or even just standing in the dark listening to her, he could hear her thoughts, he could hear her screams, they would be music to ears such as his.

She had to get away. The sound came again, and she should have been relieved, but it scared her more than ever, the scuttling, slithering, squeaking of a rat, drawn to the blood, to the bed where she lay,
legs apart, helpless.

She thought of Matt. He’d called her. He was looking for
Lara. Said he’d call her back if he hadn’t heard from Lara. Now, he’d call and she wouldn’t answer, and he’d get suspicious – two missing women – and he’d come looking, track her here, bringing the police with him and they’d find her, be horrified by the blood but they would find her in time and she would be saved, they’d untie her arms, loosen the bonds from her legs and she would be free, and the police would arrest Toby, and she’d be safe.

Tears washed tracks in the blood on her cheeks. Matt would never find her here. Even if he questioned why she didn’t answer her phone – if he even called her in the first place, why would he think she was missing too, in danger? He wouldn’t. Maybe he’d leave a message.
At most, he might call around to the house. And how would that go? Tobias would be there, sharpening his knife, ready for the fun. He’d open the door, invite Matt inside, say yes, he knew where Tully was, why she was waiting for him to join her, they were going out for a drink. Did he want to come with them? Matt would shake his head, say he was looking for Lara, didn’t have time for drinks, had Toby seen Lara, did he know where she was? Toby would be surprised; he’d look at Matt and say yes, he knew where Lara was – he could take Matt to her if he liked. Matt would be confused, suspicious, but Tobias would make up some story, and Matt would go with him.

And then there would be two of them tied up here, and Tobias would play with them both. It would be Tully and Matt and the Knife. A party that would go on for hours.

She had to save herself. It was too dark to see what she was tied up with, but her fingertips told her it was fabric, ripped into strips. The frayed edges teased her and she imagined plucking at the strands, undoing it warp and weft until it disintegrated.

Pulling on
it only tightened the knots around her wrists. An icy sweat joined the tears on her face and she almost screamed and thrashed about again, but a cold voice in her head stilled her, told her she had to be methodical, focused, calm. She listened to it and relaxed her muscles, took a deep breath. There was a way out of here, and she would find it.

The first step was to inch her torso across the mattress as much as possible. It stretched one leg and arm almost out of their sockets, but it gave her room to
walk her fingers up the strip of fabric, trying not to wonder if it was torn from her own clothes, or Lara’s and find the knot that bound her to the bed frame.

There was no point closing her eyes; the room was dark either way, but it helped her to concentrate. It was her tee shirt, the bindings, she was sure of it. The fabric was smooth, stretchy. No frayed edges to pull apart, only the knot, tight and
ungiving.

But it had to give. Her shoulder cramped as she
traced the over and under of the knot, and she bit her lip hard enough that her own blood mingled with Lara’. She waited for the cramp to pass, then walked her fingers over the knot again, felt around, picked a place and plucked at it.

Something squeaked at her from the end of the bed and she shrieked, thrashing for a moment, but still in control enough not to pull the fabric knot tighter. A thud as the rat jumped down from the bed, and she rested a moment, panting, waiting for her frantic heart to stop ricocheting off her rib cage. Her fingers shook when she went back to the knot.