Severed (2 page)

And curse.

The top line says, simply, TYLER, and then beneath it PRESS PLAY.

For a moment, I'm too shell-shocked to figure out what it's trying to say, but then the realization hits.

TYLER.

Someone else knows I'm here.

I take a step back, shut my eyes, and attempt to take stock of what's going on. Outside the window, I can hear the sound of birds singing,
which tells me I am a fair way from home. No-one ever hears birdsong in central London. I don't even know whether or not I came here voluntarily. I know nothing - that is the huge and insurmountable problem I face at the moment. I am in a strange room next to the headless corpse of the woman I still love, with a sign telling me to press play on the DVD player. I feel a sudden burst of panic, which I have to fight down ruthlessly. I need to hold myself together. Different emotions - revulsion, shock, grief at the loss of a loved one - come at me with the force of explosions, but I was a soldier for fifteen years and I'm trained to remain calm in tense situations, and to deal with events rationally.

I take a series of deep breaths, trying to clear my head. I need to remember how we got here, and why we came.

Think.

I think so hard it hurts. I concentrate like a contestant on a game show one answer away from a million with the answer on the tip of my tongue, the effort draining what little strength I have. But still nothing comes back. My last memory is watching a documentary about
global warming on the TV with a takeaway Chinese meal: squid in black bean sauce with egg fried rice. It had tasted greasy, and I didn't finish it. I was alone. I seem to recall that Leah was seeing friends that night. As an ex-soldier, I tend to like routine, and I almost always have takeaways on a Wednesday, so I'm guessing this was when it was. But it doesn't help a lot, because I don't know what day it is today.

I feel the back of my head. There's no tenderness on the skin, no tell-tale lumps, so I haven't been hit over the head. This means I've been drugged, and with something powerful enough that I wouldn't bat an eyelid while Leah, who was a fit young woman, was slaughtered only inches away from me.

I shut my eyes, fighting off another wave of nausea. When I open them again, I find my gaze returning to Leah's body. The blood on her neck wound has coagulated, and the thick patches on the sheets are also drying. She died some time ago, then, two or three hours at least, probably longer, and for the first time I notice the smell in the room, the vague sour odour of faeces and decay that lingers round the recently dead like a humiliating farewell.

Standing there in the dim, leaden silence, it feels as if I've stepped into the middle of someone else's nightmare.

But I'm wrong. As I crouch down and press the play button, I am about to find out that this is my nightmare. And it's only just beginning.

I can hear my heart thumping as I sit on the edge of the bed and wait. For several seconds the screen remains blank before wobbling slightly with interference. Then the film starts.

It opens with a static shot of the room I am now in, taken at roughly chest height and facing towards the top of the bed. The bedside lights are on and it's night. Although the focus is very slightly blurred, like a bad home video, it's easy enough to make out Leah lying spread-eagled on the sheets, very much alive. Her wrists and ankles are tied to each of the small wooden posts at the head and foot of the bed, and she is naked. The expression on her face is one of lust. The sight catches me out. In the few short weeks
I've known her, Leah and I had a healthy and enjoyable sex life, but it never involved bondage. I suddenly feel uncomfortable, like some kind of voyeur, unearthing secrets that are best left alone.

Her full pink lips quiver and form a lazy half-smile, and her eyes are half-shut. It is obvious she's enjoying her confinement; that she's viewing the situation as part of some kind of sex game. The pale contours of her soft young skin ripple with life, her hips snaking as she tries to rub herself against the sheets. She looks good, too - just as I remember her from our first meeting. Her hennaed hair is cut short and stylish, spiky at the top, and her face is a perfect oval, with prominent cheekbones that are dotted with a scattering of freckles. She has mischievous brown eyes that sparkle with the vibrancy of youth, and a model's aquiline nose, with an emerald stud in its left side.

Seeing her alive on the screen is like a hammer blow, and I feel my jaw tighten.

As I watch, there's the sound of the bedroom door opening off camera and someone coming in. Leah turns her head in the direction of the newcomer and her expression changes
perceptibly, the lust replaced by a flicker of confusion. 'Tyler,' she says, addressing the person off camera, 'what are you doing? Why are you wearing that mask?' Her words are distorted on the film and sound tinny. There's a mumbled reply that I can't make out, then Leah's expression changes again, this time the confusion being replaced by a wide-eyed fear. 'What's that?' she asks, panicky now. 'Why have you got a knife? Tyler, tell me.'

I feel my head throbbing painfully as the person she's talking to finally appears, moving round the foot of the bed in profile to the camera. He's naked as well, but his head is completely covered by a black rubber bondage mask, and in his right hand he holds a long, wicked-looking, wide-bladed butcher's knife.

Leah is speaking again, but I can no longer see her, as the man with the knife is in the way. 'Tyler, if this is a game, stop it now. Please. You're scaring the shit out of me.'

I know the guy isn't me - I would never do anything like this - but I have an extremely serious problem. He is roughly my height and build, and given the poor quality of the recording, it's not that easy to tell one way or another.
So a court of law might see things differently. Especially with the way Leah is talking. Either she's a damn fine actress or she genuinely believes it's me standing there behind the mask. And I don't think you can act as fearful as she's sounding. Her fear comes right from her bones, and it is easy to see why.

The man pretending to be me slowly advances round the front of the bed towards her side, taking his time and enjoying each step, lifting the knife higher so that Leah can see it more easily. The blade glints threateningly in the lamplight as he raises it above his head. Beyond him, I can see her struggling vainly on the bed, but the knots that bind her hold easily. She's helpless.

And then, as the guy turns his back to the camera, the trouble I'm in increases tenfold. You see, there's one way to tell without any doubt whatsoever whether or not the man with the knife, the one Leah is calling Tyler, is me. Ten years ago, I suffered a number of shrapnel injuries in a bomb attack, and I still carry the scars. Most are deep but small puncture marks, but three are noticeable from a distance. They are all on my upper back. One is like a pink
birthmark, about three inches across, near the right shoulder blade. The other two are deep, thick lacerations that run down either side of my spine, almost symmetrically. The man with the knife has those three scars. They aren't that clear in the film, but if you know what you're looking for, you'll see them. And I know. I stare at them grimly, my teeth clenched tight. They are in the right place on his back, there's no doubt about that. The man in the shot may not be me, but the way things are looking, I could well end up in a minority of one holding that opinion.

Leah cries out again, her voice loud and full of confused desperation as she continues to struggle uselessly against the bonds. 'Tyler, please! Don't do this! Please!' This last word seems to stretch out for seconds, ending in a terrified, unintelligible sob. It is the sound of someone whose world has suddenly and inexplicably fallen apart, who cannot come to terms with the simple, cold fact that she is about to die.

He stops by the bed, raising the knife high.

And that's it. I can't watch any more. Not another second. I scramble to my feet, grab the
TV in both hands and tear it from its wiring, hurling it against the wall. It lands heavily on the floor and something inside shatters.

The room descends into a heavy, tomb-like silence. The smell of death is so thick it feels like I could almost reach out and touch it. I stand naked and alone, staring at the wall, trying to control the nausea that's rising up in me.

Slowly, very slowly, I turn round and face the bed where Leah's body lies. The sheets are bloodstained almost black. The absolute stillness is virtually impossible to bear.

'Oh God, Leah,' I whisper. 'I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you.'

As I speak, I sink to my knees, my eyes squeezed shut against the tears that are forming. My head aches ferociously and my mouth is bone dry. In those few moments, I honestly feel like I want to die, and the question that keeps running through my mind is 'Why?' Why has someone inflicted this savagery on an innocent young woman like Leah, and left me alive in here with her?

I have to get out of here. The cloying atmosphere is beginning to envelop me, but I can't leave her behind. Not alone, in this place. It
would be an act of cowardice, something I could never forgive myself for, because God knows what will be done with her after I'm gone. The least she deserves is a proper resting place.

My mind's a maelstrom as I try to work out how I can take her with me, in broad daylight, and I hardly hear the movement behind me, the soft scrape of a shoe on carpet.

But hear it I eventually do, and my eyes fly open. I turn round fast, just in time to feel the ferocious electric shock that surges right through me from my toes to my skull. I jangle on the floor, helpless and wild, rolling and writhing, unable to focus on who's doing this to me. The seconds seem to last for ever as my body spasms uncontrollably, and my vision fuzzes and mists.

The current stops as quickly as it began. I'm lying on my back, staring upwards into nothingness. Through the gloom and fog I can make out a blurred, dark figure, almost like a shadow. He grows larger as he leans in close to me.

And then I feel a light sting on my upper arm, and everything goes black.

Tinny music penetrates my subconscious, a familiar tune mangled into a mobile phone jingle. It seems to go on for a long time, and in my head I hum along to it, trying to remember what it's called.

Then my eyes open and I am awake once again. The first thing I see through the car's windscreen is pine trees. Lots of them, rising up on each side of the track my car is parked on. This is my BMW 7-Series - I recognize the leather interior. The music is coming from an unfamiliar mobile phone on the seat next to me. Beside the phone, standing upright, is an equally unfamiliar black leather briefcase. There is also a litre bottle of Evian with the
seal intact. I reach over and pull off the lid, gulping the water down until my raging thirst passes.

The memory of what happened to Leah comes flooding back, and I experience another wave of grief. I hurriedly look round the car, but there's no sign of her and I realize, with a sense of shame, that I've left her behind, all alone in that stinking little room. I am dressed now in the clothes I'm assuming I was wearing last night: a long-sleeved cotton shirt, jeans and a pair of sand-coloured Timberland boots.

The phone is still ringing. I recognize the tune now: it's the 'Funeral March'. Someone, somewhere, has a macabre sense of humour, and it's clear that whoever it is knows I'm here and wants to speak to me.

I hunt around in my pockets for my own phone, but it's gone, which I suppose is no surprise. I look at my watch again. It's 10.41. I've just lost the best part of another hour of my life, but then that's a lot better than Leah, who's lost maybe fifty years of hers.

I pick up and press the answer button. 'Hello,' I say wearily.

'Mr Tyler. I'm glad you're awake.' The voice is
deep and artificial, disguised by a voice suppressor.

I don't say anything. I don't have to. I can tell from the confidence in the tone that the person addressing me knows my situation.

'I'm guessing you slept well,' the voice continues. 'I'm not surprised. It must have taken it out of you, slicing the girl's head off.'

I feel a long slow shiver go from the small of my back to the nape of my neck. Still I don't speak.

'You don't have to say anything, Mr Tyler. As long as you do what you're told, this whole unfortunate matter can be tidied up, and you can avoid spending the rest of your days in prison.'

'You've got the wrong man,' I say at last, trying to stop my voice from shaking. 'I don't know any Mr Tyler, and I haven't cut anybody's head off.'

'I thought you might not remember the actual event, not after all the drugs you've been taking. A nasty mixture of rohypnol, dimethyl-tryptamine and a trace of amphetamine sulphate. Very good for losing your inhibitions. Not so good for the memory. That's why I made
the film, which I understand you've already watched. Let me lay things on the line for you, Mr Tyler, just so there are no misunderstandings. The DVD you watched is a copy. I have the original. I also have possession of the murder weapon. The fingerprints on it are yours and yours only. I can release both these things to the police at any time, and if I do, there'll be no court in the country that could fail to convict you of murder. Do as I say, however, and all the evidence connecting you to this brutal crime will be destroyed, and you will never hear from me again.'

'What is it you want?' I ask, knowing that I'm speaking to the man - and I'm guessing by the tone beneath the suppressor that it is a man - who murdered my lover, and that for the moment at least I have no choice but to cooperate with him.