The Sister (28 page)

Turning the radio on, he tuned in to a station he thought she might like. It was trance or techno, either way it was too loud. She couldn't be bothered to say anything.

She shivered. "Can I turn the heater up?"

"I'll do that for you, love," he said.

He cranked down the window a crack, and lit the third smoke he'd had since she'd entered the car. Tiny white flecks floated around, and she realised that the dust everywhere in the car, was probably composed almost entirely of ash.

His window was open, but only enough to push out the cigarette end to flick the ash off, which he did frequently; he didn't seem to notice that most of it came back in.

Apart from the incessant smoking, something else struck her as odd about him. He was wearing sunglasses in the rain.

Chapter 52

Sunglasses in the rain?
Eilise didn't attach too much importance to it. Maybe the light hurt his eyes, or he didn't want to be recognised. More likely, he just thought he looked cool.

"Undo those for me," he said, handing her a pack of cigarettes.

"Do you mind if I change the music?" she asked.

"No, go for it!"

She found a station playing alternative country music, turned the volume down a notch and closing her eyes, she drifted off. Occasionally, she was aware her head was lolling from side to side, but she was too tired to do much about it, other than rest it up against the window, where it drummed and jarred her into a semi-relaxed state of dreamless sleep, until, on the verge of slipping deeper, a warning whispered in her mind.
Something's wrong.

They had stopped. She sat up, instantly on guard.

He'd parked outside a tower block, behind a row of lock-up garages. "Relax," he told her. "I have to put it away, or we'll have no wheels when we come back. Kids round here got no respect, no matter who you are," he growled.

He left her in the car while he unlocked the garage door.

It had stopped raining.

She opened the passenger door, pushing it wide as she prepared to get out. Her eyes felt bleary; she rubbed them. She leaned in and grabbed her bags.

"Leave those there, no one will take them."

"I'm bringing them anyway."
All I have is in those bags.

"Suit yourself," he said, with a shrug of his shoulders.

They came round the front, up a wide flight of steps to the entrance. There was graffiti on the brickwork, as far as the artist could reach, above and either side of the doors. Inside, there was a draught blowing right through from somewhere, bringing with it the twin scents of lost hope and despair.

They took the lift up to the seventh floor. Inside the lift was filthy, the smell of stale urine overpowering.

He fiddled with his keys. The door to his flat was deadlocked top and bottom, as well as the night latch in the middle. Turning to face her, he said, "You can't be too careful. These kids round here would be in like a shot, if they had the chance."

She noticed someone had taken the number off, leaving a faint imprint in the paint behind it.
Seventy-one.

Once inside, he shut the door and said, "Get out of your clothes."

"I'm sorry?" she said, surprised and indignant at the suggestion.

"We'll soon get them dry, yeah?"

Something to do with the way he asked a question, and then answered it for her, made her uneasy, made her think he might have a tendency to be controlling, just like her foster father. She didn't like the mixed messages coming through her head about him. One thing she knew for sure; she wasn't going to remove her clothes.

"They're already near enough dry, but thanks."

After the state of his car, she was shocked to see that his house was quite tidy.

Now she was there with him; she wondered why she allowed herself to get into such a vulnerable situation. William was trying just a little bit too hard, and she sensed it.

What made her think he would be such a pushover? She couldn't be sure, but maybe she shouldn't have accepted a lift in the first place. Anyway, she reasoned, what's the worst thing that could happen?

Her skin was beginning to crawl, the sensation of thousands of tiny insects roaming all over her, started her scratching. She sniffed and wiped a dewdrop from her nose.

He watched her with renewed interest; he'd seen these symptoms before. Her vulnerability turned him on. The look in his eye changed.

A distant voice was telling her to get the hell out of there, but she needed money for her addiction, and it defeated the voice of reason. The itching had spread under her skin; no amount of external scratching would rid her of it. There was only one thing that would relieve it. She needed another hit. The mind that controlled her addiction had won.

"I'm just going to have a shower, get changed . . . You'll be okay out here,
all on your own."

There was a slant to the way he said it that made her think,
surely, he doesn't think I want to join him in the there!

He filled the kettle and put it on. "I'll only be a minute; we'll have some tea then get going, yeah?"

"Yeah, you take your time; I'll get the tea going. Where are the makings?"

He showed her. "Won't be a minute," he said and disappeared out of the kitchen.

She heard the shower turn on, the rattle of the curtain rings along the rail as he swished it across.

He started to croon wordlessly. "Bah - bah - bah - bah - bob…"

At the sound of his singing, she was up, quietly and systematically rummaging through the drawers in the sideboard. She opened a Cuban cigar box. She probably would have used it as a hiding place herself, but still she can't believe her luck . . . It was a polythene self-sealing sandwich bag, with two smaller bags inside it. One was half-full of fine brown powder; the other contained a dozen or so wraps.

She fished one out, held it to her nose and smelled it. It made her mouth water. It was heroin.
The guy is a dealer!

If she'd had the time, she would probably have found his cash as well, but she decided she'd go with what she already had. She stowed the dope bags in her pocket and grabbed her bags from the floor, twisting the necks so she could hold them in one hand.

Down the stairs and into the hall, the front door seemed miles away. Taking long, exaggerated silent steps towards it, her heart pounded in her ears. Mouth dry, and suddenly aware she hadn't breathed for a while; she sucked air deep into her lungs, and then held it, before continuing past the cupboard halfway along the passageway, until she reached the door. With trembling hands, she unlatched it top and bottom.

She didn't hear the cupboard door as it swung noiselessly open behind her.

Chapter 53

Eilise was halfway out of the door, when a heavy hand wrapped around her upper arm, pulling her back in. Naked, and still dripping from the shower, he turned her almost effortlessly, putting himself between her and the door. He used his heel to push the front door shut.

She almost wet herself with fear.

"Where do you think you're going?" He rasped in her ear, his foul breath drawing a gasp from her. "Did you honestly think I was that stupid? I had you booked for a junkie as soon as I saw you! Yeah, that's right; it takes one to know one. You can't kid a kidder. I know exactly who
you
are - runaway girl."

She tried to snatch her arm away; he tightened his grip, his fingertips squeezing in through her bicep, right down onto the bone.

"Ouch, you're hurting me!"

She stopped struggling. He relaxed the grip.

"You thought you could rob me, eh?" He wiped the spittle from his lips with the back of his free hand. "Hand it all over!"

She reached in her jacket pocket and retrieved the drugs. He snatched them from her. She was struggling to understand how he'd reached her so quickly.

"But how did you?" He didn't answer, instead spinning her round, so her neck was in the crook of his elbow, his other hand pushing her wrist up between her shoulder blades, forcing her back past the cupboard door. Inside she caught sight of a crash mat on the floor at the base of a gleaming fireman's pole. A long, dark red velvet curtain came down to within six inches of the floor and behind it; she couldn't be certain if her eyes had deceived her in that briefest glimpse, but she thought she saw the bars of a cage and a pair of bare feet. The fog in her head had fully cleared. Propelled forwards, she thought fast.
Could that really have been a cage with someone sitting quietly barefoot in there? Well, you wouldn't think so, but then, what sort of man, has a fireman's pole installed in his house?
For one insane moment, she thought of Batman and laughed nervously. He squeezed on her windpipe, choking it off.

"Are you laughing at me?"

He had her so tight; she couldn't deny it. A tear rolled down her face. She knew she was about to die.

"I said, are you laughing at me!" he shouted so loudly, her ear exploded with pain.

Her feet were almost off the floor; only her toes remained in contact. Suddenly, a woman spoke calmly. "Martin - no, it's enough. Let her go." The voice came from inside the cupboard.

Still he crushed her.

"Martin!" The woman's voice sounded close to panic.

He released her. She fell to the floor, sucking in air. She knew if she were to survive, she'd have to be clever.

"Q-quiet . . . I've let her go."

Eilise's bruised larynx kept her voice barely above a whisper as she spoke. "Who's that you have in the cage,
William
and why is she calling you Martin?"

He shut the cupboard door. The woman's muffled voice now barely audible, said something about a middle name.

Eilise asked him softly. "What do you want me to call you?"

Turning and squatting down on his haunches, he was holding a knife. He pressed its edge against her mouth.

"Sssshhh . . ." The coldness of the blade against her lips terrified her, sparking an uncontrollable trembling; the control she held onto precariously at the door, when he first caught her was lost. She spasmed, and a warm trickle of urine ran down her legs. Struggling to regain composure, she forced herself to make eye contact with him, knowing that if she could connect with him, she might have a better chance of getting out alive.

He stared back at her with eyes as cold and black as stone. He let her go, wiped his wet lips dry on the back of the knife hand; he seemed to be looking at his reflection in the blade. When he spoke this time, there was a soft hint of Irish in his voice.

"She's been with me a long time that one, she knows how to toe the line . . ." He lowered his tone so the caged woman wouldn't hear. "And if you turn out to be as good as she is, I might even decide to keep you . . . you know, look
after
you, like I do her."

She shivered at the thought. "And if I don't?"

"Then you'll be dead."

"Look, why don't you just let me go, I won't tell anyone I promise."

He held the knife out.

She should have stopped talking then, but her voice was like a disembodied thing. She heard herself telling him she was a junkie, and she couldn't help it. Surely, he knew what it was like, surely he understood. "I would lie, I'd cheat, steal or
anything
for my next fix."

"Really, Eliza?" he took a wrap from the bag and held it up in front of her. "Show me."

Leading her upstairs, Martin produced a syringe and a spoon.

"I've never taken it like that before," she said, too needy to be afraid.

"Welcome to my world."

He prepared the makings, a half teaspoon of water, a measure of smack, a single drop of lemon juice. He heated the mix in the spoon until the powder dissolved, then dropped in a piece of cigarette filter. Eilise had only ever smoked the stuff before; she had the feeling she'd no choice in the matter. If she wanted it, he would jack her up.

His lips hung open, slightly apart and wet as he drew the solution into the syringe. He wrapped one hand around her bicep and squeezed, she felt no pain, just a weird numbness as the veins struggled to maintain the flow of blood, becoming visible and raised. The other hand pushed air from the clear plastic cylinder. A dribble of liquid appeared at the tip of the needle.

She licked her lips in anticipation; he found a vein; he drew on it, a tiny cloud of her own blood swirled in the mix, she swore she felt it leave her body and then
whoosh!
He injected the contents into her . . . A feeling so high and so low took her above and beyond the limits of just smoking it. She relaxed on the sofa vaguely worried about what would happen next, she noticed his cock had become erect; she struggled to focus.
Holy shit he's going to . . .

She struggled to recover her senses, but could not. He pulled her clothes off roughly; she was as limp as a rag doll, detached, powerless, as though she were watching it happen to someone else. He moved on top of her, parting her knees, preparing to penetrate her.