Susie Learns the Hard Way (6 page)

It was some while before she noticed anything was wrong, and it was even longer until she realised what it was. At ten o'clock, when she decided to turn on the news for a bit of company, it hit her.

Silence.

Not a sound.

No one had come to the house, not a soul emerged from upstairs, not a floorboard creaked, nor did anyone upstairs make a sound, sexual or otherwise. Based on the experience of the preceding days there should, by that time, have been at least a bit of traffic on the stairs and thudding from overhead.

Instead there was silence, not even the rattle of Andy shifting jars, or whatever it was he did.

So what was she to make of this latest development? Had Annie finally been sold to the Arabs and spirited away in the night? Almost certainly yes, was the answer to that. The last ones to visit had been those three Arab-looking ones in the posh car, and after that – nothing!

And the moment the money changed hands, Annie vanished completely.

Spirited away as soon as dusk fell over the peaceful suburban street, she began her tortuous journey eastwards, towards a lifetime of enslaved depravity as the plaything of men who used her in any way they chose
.

Brilliant!

Susie listened carefully through the night but heard nothing from the rooms above, nor saw a thing. Early next morning she lay in bed debating whether to get up early to go and collect her newly-developed pictures, or go later, after she'd finished off what her teasing fingers had just begun.

No contest really.

 

 

 

The distant trilling of a telephone brought her back from her dreamy relaxed state. It wasn't her telephone but the familiar tones of the one upstairs, muffled by its passage through the floorboards. It rang for a long while, somehow making her own flat seem as empty as the one upstairs, before it eventually stopped. By that time she was wide awake and on the move.

Susie sat in her kitchen, coffee mug steaming beside her as she pondered carefully, and reached no conclusion apart from the fact that she was cold. She headed for the shower, and apart from a momentary distraction with the tingling jets of hot water, she thought carefully about the recent events and began to form an idea about her next course of action.

She dressed quickly, pulling on a white blouse and a black pleated skirt. They were both old, and allowed her plenty of movement. She pulled on a pair of thick, soft socks; more grey than white, they were more than anything else, quiet. She didn't know why she was bothering about noise, since there was no one to hear her, but somehow it seemed vital to creep upstairs on tiptoe.

She didn't know why she was frightened either, but she was, a sort of cold tingle all over her body, jittering every fibre of her being with icy fingertips. Well, almost every fibre. There was one part of her that was hot, and she realised that the fear had once again liquefied in her knickers as a pool of molten heat. She smiled at the familiar response, and that seemed to encourage her a little. Feeling more brave and less stupid, but just as aroused, she opened the front door of her flat a fraction and peered out into the empty hallway.

It was, unsurprisingly, empty.

On the stairs it seemed that every floorboard was loose and each one went off like a gunshot. Each sharp crack had a twofold effect, making her flinch with fear and seep more juice.

At the front door she paused, listening, then knocked loudly. She wasn't expecting an answer; she knew there was no one home, but just in case she was wrong she had her story rehearsed, even had an empty cup in her hand for the sugar. But neither were needed: there was no answer.

Slowly she pushed the key into the slot, hoping it would work. When she moved in she was the first tenant in the newly-refurbished building and when she'd called at the agents' office for her key she'd been invited to help herself out of an old biscuit tin. ‘They're all the same, dearie,' said the woman in the office. ‘It's easier that way, but you can change yours if you like, and then the next person can keep theirs the same.'

She hadn't changed the lock, and she was hoping that the people upstairs either didn't know about this estate agent's convenience factor or, like her, simply hadn't bothered to do anything about it.

Her hand was trembling as she paused a moment, then applied pressure. The key turned easily and silently and the door opened just as quickly, so that she almost fell into the hallway.

With the door wide she knocked again, ready to say she'd seen it open and was merely concerned about burglars.

‘Hello?'

Her voice echoed into the emptiness. There was no answer. This was the moment of truth. She breathed in deeply and stepped swiftly through the doorway, closing it softly behind her until the lock clicked home.

To her left was an open door to the bathroom. It looked as though this flat was identical in layout to her own; she already knew the bedroom was directly above hers. That meant the kitchen was to her right and the second door led into the lounge. The curtains were still drawn but she could see the big television at the far end of the room, with three armchairs circled around it. Apart from some scattered cans and crisp packets, there was nothing else in the room at all.

The door at the far end of the hallway led into the bedroom, she knew, and though she'd been expecting to uncover her evidence in there, she hadn't expected the rest of the house to be so bare.

The bedroom door was closed, and she paused, stupidly wondering if she should knock. Her heart already was, hammering inside her chest. Taking the handle firmly in her fingers, she gave it a twist, and the door opened onto the half light forcing its way round the edges of the curtains, still drawn, like those in the lounge.

As she stepped inside the door swung silently shut, powered by a large spring; obviously this was a room in which privacy was necessary.

It was oddly dark, but her eyes were accustomed to the artificial twilight, and she saw the big double bed was neatly made, pillows plumped and sheets straight.

The dressing table was bare; not a pot nor a tube, no tweezers, brushes or combs. No woman still lived in this room, Susie knew at once. The wardrobe was bare as well, empty wire hangers, crumpled plastic bags from the dry-cleaners, no more.

There was a chest of drawers, waist-high, where you might keep knickers and jumpers. The top drawer was open an inch, and it looked empty. She tugged the handles and it made a creaking sound as it pulled back.

The loud bang that followed it came from outside in the hallway.

It banged again. The unmistakable bang of someone knocking on the front door of the flat!

She froze, holding her breath, waiting for whoever it was to go away. There was a long pause, followed by a scraping sound and then the thud of the front door swinging open on its hinges and bumping the wall. Then there were more bumping noises and rustling too. Someone was coming through the front door!

For a moment she almost screamed. Then she almost fainted. Cold fear iced her spine. Hot flushes seared her groin. Her hands trembled, her breath gasped. She spun round, looking for another way out, but she knew there wasn't one. She knew she could open the window and knew equally well she could never jump to the ground. She'd been afraid of heights since she was a child. And anyway, she'd only break a leg or her neck on the solid concrete below.

Out in the hallway she heard a voice – a man's voice. Even her last hope, that it would be the woman who lived here, had been snatched away. It was him! The slaver! The man who kidnapped women and sold them to the Arabs!

But wait a minute. Who was he speaking to? And who was that answering?

It was another man! There were two of them! Now Susie was certain she was in deadly danger. Little whimpering gasps came from the back of her throat. Maybe they wouldn't bother selling her to the Arabs. Maybe they'd just kill her! Or worse. But there was nothing worse than being killed, was there? She hoped not.

She crossed to the window, but one look confirmed what she already knew. It was too high to jump, even if she had been brave enough, and there was no handy drainpipe or overhanging branch like there always is in films. She was trapped!

She looked around the room, searching for somewhere to hide. The wardrobe!

But it was a cheap piece of chipboard, hardly big enough to get in. And anyone opening the door couldn't fail to see her.

Under the bed!

It was an old-fashioned ironwork affair, with a mattress on springs, and tall legs. Lots of room underneath, but it was hardly a place of concealment. She'd be as visible as a... as a... oh, forget it, just plain
visible
. And she needed to be the opposite.

Behind the door!

If anyone came in she could stand behind the door! And then, when it swung shut on its spring, they'd see her and kill her.

But she could hold it, grab the handle and hold it. That would do it. She almost ran across the room on tiptoe, freezing when she realised the bedroom door wasn't shut. The spring wasn't strong enough to close it properly, just push it to. She put one eye to the crack, and was rewarded by the sight of a small sliver of wall, which was all she could see. She pressed her ear to the crack instead, and that was better, because the murmur of conversation became separated into words, some of them recognisable.

She strained to hear as much as possible, picking out words and trying to string them into a sentence, or at least a meaning...

‘No, she's not very... be gentle... rough stuff. If you treat her... she'll... full strength... couple of minutes... please yourself... door at the end... going out now... back later, so just... when you've finished with her.'

How on earth did he know she was there? And why didn't he seem to care?

More mumbling came from outside. She pressed her ear to the door again.

‘Sure, she knows how to... and make it last.'

The second man spoke, a hoarse whisper she couldn't decipher at all. The reply was crystal clear, though, just a single word. ‘Annie.'

There was more whispering from the croaky voice, which again she didn't understand. But what she heard of the reply explained everything.

‘Course he won't... any time, he said... help myself... keep the key.'

One of Andy's mates had brought one of
his
mates round to enjoy the pleasures of the house. That was why he'd telephoned first and why he'd knocked on the door before retrieving the key from whatever hiding place he knew it would be kept in. He didn't know that Annie had been sold hardly twenty-four hours earlier. He – or the croaky one, anyway, was expecting to find her in.

In her bedroom!

Fear ran like ice-cubes down her back and into her stomach, and it was as if the contracting muscles squeezed her like a peach, making the syrup run.

There was a louder mumbling from outside and the front door banged shut. For a moment she thought she was safe, that they'd both gone, but then she heard a shuffling noise – the sound, she realised, of someone taking off a coat. There was still someone there in the flat. A man, a stranger, black, white, nice, nasty, handsome, ugly, violent, friendly – she didn't know. But she was about to find out, because he was about to do as instructed, and come through the door to please himself with Annie. Who wasn't there.

But Susie was, and when he saw her he'd – he'd think she was Annie, she realised, with a sudden rush of relief. He'd never been there before, never seen her before. He'd think
she
was Annie, so he wouldn't think she was a burglar, so he wouldn't call the police, or tie her up till Andy returned. He'd just... he'd just... oh God!

What he was going to do, unless Susie told him the truth, was imagine her to be some form of sex slave, and do whatever it was men did to sex slaves. But if she
did
tell him the truth she'd go to prison at best, or a lonely grave at worst. Or maybe get sold to the Arabs, like Annie.

There wasn't much time, and there wasn't much choice.

The door opened, suddenly and silently.

There was no time. And no choice.

The man who stood there looking at her was old, sixty at least, and the light framing him from behind lit up the white fuzz of his unshaven cheeks and the crumpled outline of an old and much-worn jacket which might once have been the top half of someone else's suit. It certainly didn't fit the man who was wearing it now, nor did it match the baggy corduroy trousers gathered in bunches around legs which were clearly too short for them. As he shambled into the dimly lit room, revealing a shirt open at the collar, Susie caught the scent of last night's drink and stale tobacco.

‘Hello, my dear. Annie, isn't it?'

Susie squeaked quietly and he nodded approval. ‘I see you've dressed the part,' he croaked, and she realised that her breaking-and-entering clothes might easily be mistaken for a school uniform; blouse, pleated skirt and socks. He took a step closer, and as the bedroom door swung closed on its spring, the light in the room faded so he was just a shadow, and the croaky voice assumed a sinister aspect.