Absent Light (24 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

PART TWO

P
ITCH BLACK
.

Helen lifted her head. Tremors of pain shot through her neck and skull as she collapsed back down. She was lying on her side in a foetal position. Half of her felt numb. She had no idea how long she'd been there. Could have been minutes. It could have been hours. There was a coppery taste of blood in her mouth.

She was blindfolded and gagged. Her wrists were tied behind her back, her ankles tightly bound. The space felt airless, hot, too hot. It smelt of oil and grease and petrol and made her light-headed. She could hear the muffled sound of music playing from a radio beneath the throaty roar of an engine. Rain hammered on the roof above her head. It sounded like gunfire. Then, with a chill that stole her breath away, the events leading up to her present predicament rushed in rebellion through her brain, and she realised where she was – in the back of the van.

Fear ricocheted through her. She'd witnessed the outcome of things like this. She knew what happened when people were abducted. She knew about young men trapping young women. What if she'd blundered into the world of the serial killer, she thought crazily, someone who'd taken a chance and seized the opportunity? What if this was his mobile killing-machine? Or was this the person who'd stalked her, the someone who'd lain in wait? You read about it all the time. Crazies with nothing better to do than frighten the life out of women. But no, she thought, her brain slowly forming the connections. It was linked to what happened before. She'd been set up. Perfectly straightforward. Absolutely simple. That's what the call from Shirley was about. There
was
someone else involved. The same someone who was driving the van. Maybe the man in the photograph. And how stupid, stupid, stupid of her to fall for such an obvious trick, she wailed. What was she thinking?

The gag stifled a sob. She'd taken one risk too many. No precautions. No excuses.

Courage was one thing, blind recklessness another.

To be so confined tapped into her most primitive fear. As a child she'd considered death with great seriousness and come to the conclusion that she didn't want to be buried when she died. She wanted to have one of those Viking funerals, like she'd seen in films where they sent you out to sea on a burning boat. That way, she calculated, if by some peculiar quirk of fate someone made a mistake, you had, at least, an even chance of escaping. Not so if you're buried six feet underground in a sealed wooden coffin.

She tried to wriggle her fingers and loosen the rope binding her hands. It wouldn't budge. She tried again, willing her hands to be thinner. Still no use. In desperation, she rubbed the restraints against the side of the van until her wrists chafed and her skin blistered and burnt. Nothing but pain. Panicking, she thought her mind might snap.

Got to keep calm, she told herself, got to breathe. Slow and steady. Mustn't think what might happen. Mustn't think of pain and possibilities, death and dying. Cling on to life, to hope. Without it, you're doomed. You're dead already.

She felt too disorientated to listen for anything out of the ordinary. All she could hear was the noise from the radio, the crackle of rain on the roof, the frightened voices in her head. But wait, she thought. There was something. She had a vague awareness of speed and the fact that they appeared to be travelling in a line. Straight road then? Motorway? Which one? North or South?

She tried to shift position, to feel with her body, to find anything that might aid her escape, but with her senses so severely restricted she felt helpless.

Somebody would raise the alarm, she convinced herself, somebody who knew and cared about her. That's how it worked. But nobody knew she was missing, she thought, flickering with fear. Nobody would realise until too late. She'd just be another body found at a roadside or in a shallow grave. Oh God.

Her mind teemed with images of the dead. She couldn't shut them out. They clamoured at the edges of her consciousness, screaming to get in, the road casualties, the murder victims, the mutilated, young and old. She thought her brain might explode in anarchy and confusion, but wait, she thought, sparking with hope, someone must have witnessed the attack if only from the sanctuary of their home. But it was winter, a nasty little voice inside reminded her. The curtains were drawn. A passer-by, somebody on the street then, she argued frantically, trying to remember if she'd registered anyone other than the van driver. She cast her mind back. It was slashing with rain. The streets were empty. Didn't matter, she told herself stoically. Someone would see her car. A busybody or jobsworth was bound to notice, complain, and report it. Then the police would come out…

Her stomach gave a sick lurch. Cars were abandoned every day. They didn't rate as a priority. They were considered a job for the council. Cars only mattered if there was a motorist inside, someone to steal, to extract money, from.

She twisted her head, trying to shake the cynicism from her thoughts.
Eventually
, she promised herself, someone would check with DVLA, identify the owner, try to contact her and realise that something terrible had happened. For the second time in her life, her face would be splashed across newspapers and television screens and…

No, she thought, with rising panic. Albion Place wasn't in some leafy suburb where people cared about their environment, their surroundings. Nobody would phone the council, or phone the police, or wait for the inevitable spat while officialdom dragged its feet. Nobody would give a shit. The chances were her car had already been towed away, stripped down, the plates removed, and the rest discarded and abandoned. She wouldn't be missed from work because she wasn't at work. She doubted if even her father, stoically fighting off his grief, would miss her until it was too late.

Where is this maniac taking me,
she wanted to scream?

She strained to see through the slick of black. Hopeless. She tried to rub her face, to loosen the blindfold. Her right cheek lay against something scratchy, a threadbare piece of carpet or old rug. The fibres would transfer to her body, she thought coldly. Her hair, her DNA, and particles of clothing would be found in the flooring. It would help identify that she'd been there, in this van, owned by this nutter. What the fuck did any of it matter, she thought, stabbed by a blade of fear? She'd already be dead by then.

No, mustn't think like that. Too debilitating. Too dangerous. Got to focus.
You're alive
, she thought, repeating it over and over in her mind.

She tried to move, to wriggle, and relieve the numbness in her side. The vertebrae at the base of her neck, and her head hurt so much she thought one of them might be fractured. If that was the case, she didn't give much for her chances. Was her brain already swelling? Was it already starting to expand and push down on the areas controlling breathing, shutting it down?

Stop it!

No time for hysteria, she thought, breathing hard. She had to believe. Her survival depended upon it. What she needed was a plan. He had to stop some time, she reasoned. He'd need fuel for the van. He'd want sleep, food and water, a toilet, all the things vital to the human body. All the things one takes for granted. Ordinary functions. And when would she sleep and eat again? When would she taste water instead of this saliva-sodden piece of filthy sacking? What if she wanted to pee? She felt almost schizophrenic, one side of her flipping into madness, the other pulling back, constricted by trying to keep sane. Mustn't let fear get a grip, she ordered herself. Use up more air if you panic. Waste energy. Definitely mustn't cry. Don't want to block the airways.

Absurd, can't help it…

The aural landscape was changing. The radio was switched off. The van wasn't going quite so fast now. It felt as if it were twisting, travelling along lesser roads. She felt her body slipping and sliding with the motion. Minutely adjusting her position, she put pressure on her knees, tilting her rear, feeling around with her fingers. She tried to take stock. She'd had a mobile phone in the pocket of her jacket, the side she was leaning on. She tried to make out the outline. It would be bulky, uncomfortable, but she couldn't feel anything there at all. She concluded that he must have frisked her and taken it. What else, she thought? Her bag was in the car. Her keys were probably dropped in the gutter. All she had was the watch she was wearing and a tiny slim-line torch her dad had given her, which she carried in an inside pocket of her jacket. That was it.

Gritting her teeth against the gag, she strained to hear the sound of a clock chiming, aircraft flying over, a factory alarm, anything that could give some idea of her whereabouts. Again, all she could hear was the steady noise of the engine. And it was slowing, she thought. Everything was slowing.

Ice-cold air blasted over her face and body. Her ankles were caught in a painful grip, the rope untied. Then, with one wrenching movement, she was grabbed hold of, pulled out feet first, breech-birth style, and dumped into the outside world.

She felt something cold against her temple. She couldn't see it, but she could feel the shape of the muzzle, feel the weight of the gun. A sharp band of fear tightened around her head. He had her complete and unquestioning obedience. She knew what guns could do. Especially at close-range. She'd seen the star-shaped wounds, the way the skin is stretched and ruptured. She'd seen the ragged exit-holes. This man was clearly a highly dangerous individual.

Although they weren't difficult to come by if you moved in the right circles, it takes organisation to get hold of a firearm. It takes skill to know how to use one. While anyone can grab an eight-inch carving knife from a kitchen drawer, or take a hammer from a workshop, a gun required premeditation, and a measure of expertise. It spelt serious player, serious trouble.

This was a dangerous time for him. Anyone could see them: a guy walking his dog, an adulterous couple. Dangerous for her, too. If she made the wrong move, he might cut his losses, kill her and flee. She wanted to talk, to plead with him, appease him, but all she could make were guttural noises.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled. This time there was no Brummie accent, no pretence. He sounded rough-cut, rural, small town, though she couldn't place where.

She fell silent. Her legs were stiff and unyielding as if they didn't really belong to her. The rain felt heavier against her face, more textured, sleet or snow, perhaps. She could smell earth. The ground beneath her trainered feet felt soft. She heard the wrenching sound of a door opening. He roughly guided her, ordered her to sit down on a kind of ledge, which she did. Then he swung her legs up, crudely bending them, forcing her into a cramped sitting position. As the door was shut behind her, it sounded like a coffin lid being closed.

She found herself resting against something solid, the side of her head against a kind of grille. She could only stretch out her legs a little way before she came to an edge. She guessed she was in some sort of compartment. Again she could smell oil but this time it was coupled with the smell of leather.

She heard the cadence of her assailant's footsteps recede. There was the sound of opening and slamming doors. A scuffling of boots on earth making her consider whether he was wearing the heavy-duty type with ridges that would leave foot impressions. Then there was the sound of liquid being poured, or rather thrown. She could smell it: petrol. A noise, like a huge gust of wind, battered her temporary prison. She could almost feel the surge of heat. For a horrible moment, she wondered whether she was going to be burned alive, but, as she listened to the crackle of flames, she realised he'd torched the van, destroying all evidence.

All perfectly planned, choreographed and orchestrated.

Again she felt an icy draught to the right of her, felt the air disturb, heard the creak of leather, felt the weight of another redistributing her own, then the sound of an engine starting up.

They bumped along at a terrific pace. She felt as if she were on a roller-coaster ride without any harness. Her teeth rattled in her head, and she wanted to cry out, scream, but couldn't. Eventually, the vehicle crossed back onto road, and the ride became smoother.

There was little or no sound, no noise of passing cars, not a lorry rumble. She'd made two important deductions: she was riding in some kind of four-wheel-drive. Having crossed a field or some kind of track, they were travelling on a road that was both quiet and empty.

She began to wonder about her abductor. She thought about his voice, his real voice, what he might look like, who he was. Was he the mastermind? Was he the man in the photograph, the man she'd mistaken for her half-brother? She thought back to the funeral, visualised him, recalled her sense of recognition. In her blinded state, her other senses felt more heightened. She envisaged him close-up: the pasty complexion, the blond hair. He could have blue or green, brown or hazel-coloured eyes, but she imagined them as blue beneath the sunglasses. A picture was forming in her mind in the same way a photograph develops in the dark room. She swallowed hard. The image came into sharper focus. With a terrible sensation of danger, she remembered the guy who'd smiled at her, the man at the bar in The Pitcher and Piano.

So far he hadn't harmed her, she told herself. Not really. Not fatally. That was good. Very good. It's what all the experts said. She had to work with that.

If she could connect with him as one human being to another, build up a rapport, if necessary play on her vulnerability to satisfy his need to dominate, then maybe everything would be all right. Perhaps she could even talk her way out of danger. Every hour that she stopped him from hurting her was another towards building a relationship with him, another hour bought for someone to sound the alarm. In police terms, she knew that the first twenty-four hours of abduction were the most critical. If he were going to kill her, it would be sooner rather than later.