Absent Light (26 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“A
RE YOU HURT
?” H
ELEN
asked anxiously. If the girl couldn't remember who she was, she was probably concussed.

The girl didn't reply.

“Your head, is it bleeding or anything?”

“No.”

“Not bruised?”

“No.”

“Good,” Helen said with open relief, “has he hurt you at all?”

The girl didn't answer. There was something in the quiet, something pitiable. Helen felt her skin go clammy. “Can you remember anything about how you got here?”

Still the girl didn't answer. Knew but couldn't say, Helen thought, or knew but couldn't bear to remember? Oh Christ, what had they both stumbled into? “Listen, we're in this together now. We can help each other. We can get out of here.”

“There's no way out,” the girl said, frighteningly submissive.

“There's
always
a way out,” Helen said, forcing herself to believe it. “You know where we are exactly?”

“In a cellar,” the girl replied.

“Just one entrance?”

“Two.”

“Two? Brilliant,” Helen said. “Where do they lead?”

“One leads into the cottage, the other outside.”

“Outside's good.”

The girl gave a hollow laugh. “You don't understand.”

But Helen wasn't listening. She was planning. “Any tools, gardening equipment in here, ladders?”

“I think there's a hoe or spade or something.”

“Then we can break down the door.”

“Too solid.”

“Not if we keep at it.”

“But we're tied up.”

True, and Helen had no idea how she was going to break free. Not yet. But she was determined to work on it. “Any idea what we're tied to?”

“Pig slats,” the girl replied.

“This used to be a piggery?”

“Years ago.”

“They must be pretty ancient.”

“But still strong.”

Helen tried to contain her disappointment. “Are you cold, honey?”

“Freezing.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Top, skirt and leggings.” Thank God, if she'd been in her nightie, Helen would be seriously worried. “Try and move about a bit, get your circulation going. Got anything in your pockets, mobile phone?”

“No.”

“Never mind,” Helen said, “your family will be looking for you. Your face is probably splashed over every newspaper in the land. You'll feature on every television and radio station. The police will be out in force.” She would have clapped her hands in delight if she could have done. Adults who went AWOL were puzzling. Missing teenagers sent a chill through the nation.

“No one knows I'm missing,” the girl said, her voice dull, empty of emotion.

“But they must do,” Helen said, mystified.

“No.”

“Shouldn't you be at school?”

“Don't go to school.”

“You bunk off?”

“Never been to school. My mum said school was a waste of time, didn't teach you anything. She taught me at home.”

“Then she'll be looking for you.”

“She can't.”

“Why not?”

“She died two months ago.”

Helen's heart gave a sickening lurch. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, feeling her breath catch painfully against her ribs. “I'm so sorry,” she said, thinking that it was an entirely inadequate response, “ but surely someone's looking after you. What about your dad?”

“Don't know which one it is. Mum said it was either Janus or Star.”

Jesus, this was getting more peculiar by the second, Helen frowned. “Then won't Janus or Star be looking for you?”

“They moved on.”

Moved on, Helen thought, bewildered. Who were they, travellers, commune-dwellers, or bloody layabouts? A pity one of these weirdly named individuals didn't live up to his responsibilities.

The girl was speaking again. Her words came in short, sharp bursts. “She wouldn't go to hospital, see. Didn't believe they could help. Tried everything else. Crystals, acupuncture, Chinese herbs, psychotherapy, visualisation, you know,” she gulped. “Made her feel better but none of it worked. They said I couldn't stay where I was.”

“They?” Helen said.

“The people we lived with. It's why I'm here.”

“And where's here?”

“My gran's.”

Oh God, Helen thought, please no. “Your grandmother, is she…”

“She's over there,” the girl said with tremendous calm. “That's what you can smell.”

She heard the bolts pushed back and the heavy door swing open. There was a click and the sound of a light switch going on. Even though she was blindfolded, she sensed that her surroundings were more transparent, less dark. Then footsteps, slow and deliberate. The girl began to whimper, then to cry, each sob betraying fear.

“I'm here,” Helen called to her softly. “Don't worry. You're not alone now.” She felt ringed with fear. It was stronger than the darkness or the silence. Over and above the pervading stench of death, she swore she could smell terror, her own and the girl's.

Helen wanted him to speak, to explain, even if he terrified her with what he might say or threaten, or do. He said nothing. And that was worse. She didn't know whether he was going to curse or assault her; far more alarming to imagine the blow than receive it. The agony was in the waiting.

When he was close enough for her to detect his beery breath against her face, feel it cut through the suffocating atmosphere, she spoke. “Why are you holding us here? Why the girl?” She wasn't demanding – that might antagonise him. She was asking. Nicely.

He pushed the neck of a plastic bottle against her mouth, tipping it up. She drank from it thirstily. Cold water dribbled down her chin. Then he pushed a stale biscuit into her mouth. Right-handed again, she noticed. She felt his fingers brush her lips and realised that he was wearing gloves, not warm wool, but thin vinyl disposables. She considered whether it was phobia or whether the guy was forensically aware. She wanted to ask him to remove the blindfold but didn't dare in case he felt the pressing need to kill her.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

She heard him move away and to her left. The girl let out a shrill cry.

“It's all right,” Helen said, “don't be frightened. Have a drink. You'll feel better.”

But there was a loud scuffling sound, the sound of clothing being disturbed, ripped, a scream of pure pain, followed by the girl shrieking repeatedly. The noise ricocheted around the cellar, bouncing off the walls. He was panting, grunting, mouthing off to the girl but Helen couldn't hear above the screaming. The noise was incredible, like an animal having its throat cut. Helen opened her mouth to cry out, protest, but the words tangled in her throat, her voice deserting her. She felt as if she were undergoing an operation, immobile but not anaesthetised, able to hear, to see, to feel, wanting to scream, too. Torn apart with terror and distress, she found herself shrinking back to the safety of the pole, sliding down, curling up, wanting to clap her hands over her ears, desperate to shut the noise, and the accompanying images, out. In spite of the cold, she was sweating all over. Her mind raced in anguish. The sound mirrored the fear in her heart, the panic in her brain, the dark imaginings of past events. Why not me, she cried inside. Why pick on her? Then there was the sound of a double slap and the screaming stopped.

The door was closed. The bolts were shot. The girl was sobbing. It sounded as if her lungs were wrenching apart. Helen surfaced from her mute state, longing to offer comfort, to put her arms around the girl, to quieten her. But she was trapped, too, a prisoner of her thoughts and fears. All she had was her voice.

“He's gone now. It's all right.”

“He took everything,” the girl gasped.

“I know.”

“I can't,” the girl sobbed. “I can't…”

“Shush,” Helen said softly. “Don't think about it, sweetheart. Try to…” Words failed her. Try to what? Forget, pretend, conceal? Is this what Adam told Tracey, Jacks's first victim, the kid from the care home, she wondered? As a result, had the poor girl grown up believing that nobody would listen to or believe her ever again?

She wasn't equipped for this, Helen thought. She didn't know how to respond, what would be best. She was petrified of making it worse. Why was this man doing this, she agonised, because he could, because it was pleasurable, or was it simply a means to torture both of them?

Her mind filled with images of Rose Buchanan and Tracey. Both young teenagers. Both innocents. Just like the girl tethered beside her. She racked her brains, trying to think of a way to connect, to relieve the girl's present suffering. But how could she? “If you don't remember your name,” Helen said, at last, “we'll think of a new one.”

The girl sniffled.

“Can't have Susan or Jane, far too boring,” Helen said, trying to lighten the tone. “I think you're more of a Jasmine or a Saffron.”

“No.”

“All right, how about Kate or Milly?”

“I like Siena,” the girl said, surprisingly sure.

“Great. I like that, too. It's glamorous. Ever been to Siena?”

“I've never been abroad.” There was wistfulness in the girl's voice.

“It's one of the most enchanting cities in Europe. You'll go one day.”

The girl said nothing. Helen knew what she was thinking. She privately thought the same.

“So Siena,” Helen said, forcing herself to sound upbeat, “remember where you're from?”

“Mum said we were from nowhere and everywhere.”

Gypsies, maybe? “I live in Birmingham,” Helen said, taking the lead.

“I'd hate to live in a city.”

“It has its advantages.” Like there are people close by, busy streets, taxi-drivers, policemen, someone to notice, to sound the alarm, someone to help.

“We used to live outside a place called Totnes,” the girl said.

“I've heard of it,” Helen said uncertainly.

“It's in South Devon.”

“But it's beautiful there. Is that where we are?”

“Sort of,” the girl said mournfully.

“Yeah?” Helen said, inviting further conversation.

“We're in the middle of nowhere.”

“Be a bit more specific?” Helen said, blending some humour into the question.

“We're on Dartmoor.”

Helen paled. Dartmoor in winter, she thought bleakly. Even if they could escape, how would they survive the moors?

“He's going to kill us, isn't he?”

It seemed like hours since they were offered a drink, hours since he'd created chaos. But, actually it might have been less. It was all part of the process of disorientating them, Helen thought, of creating nightmares in their heads, of subjugating them. It was working. With dread, she wondered what he was doing upstairs, what he was plotting, whether he had torture in mind.

“I'd have thought he'd have done it by now, if that was the plan.” It was an honest answer.

“He killed Gran.”

Helen's mouth felt dry. “What happened?”

The girl didn't respond straight away. Either she was assembling her thoughts or steeling herself, Helen guessed.

“He had a gun. He shot her.” It sounded matter-of-fact to Helen's ears, as if it were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps that was the only way the girl could deal with it.

“How did he get in?”

“Knocked at the door, said he'd taken the wrong turning and got lost, that his car had broken down. Asked if he could come inside and use the phone.”

“He didn't have a mobile with him?”

“Said it wasn't working. Not unusual out here.”

And granny fell for it. Almost as daft as her falling for the Good Samaritan act outside Albion Place, Helen thought grimly. None of it was random. He'd probably watched and staked out the cottage for some weeks before. An old woman and a young girl were not going to offer too much resistance. “Go on.”

“He came inside, shut the door behind him, and pulled the gun straight away. It happened so quickly and yet so slowly. Gran was terrified. I screamed at him but he pushed me out of the way. She tried to struggle with him. He shot her once in the chest. He was quite close. She went down on the floor. I knew it was bad. Blood bubbled from her mouth,” she said breathily. “Blood everywhere. I don't think she was dead to start with. I don't know. I couldn't do anything. There was nothing I could do. Then, then,” she said, her voice growing panicky with the memory, “he started on me.”

A chill crawled and spread through Helen's stomach. “And you've been here ever since. Any idea how long?”

“Two or three days, maybe. I don't know.” The girl's voice was colourless again.

Helen rested her back against the solid wood. She wanted to escape. She wanted to live, to see the sun once more, feel the rain on her face, kiss those she loved, but the girl's freedom mattered more. The girl had lost everything: her mother, her home, her grandparent, and her innocence. Although Helen felt helpless, she knew she had to try to find a way to liberate her. In the meantime, she had to inspire confidence, to keep the girl's spirits alive, fan that single flame every human being has deep inside them.

“Siena, listen to me. When he comes back, tune him out.”

“Tune him out?” the girl said, confused.

“In your head. Forget about him, wipe him out.”

“It's no use.”

“Think of something,” Helen said urgently. “Something really nice, your mum or a song. Anything. You like music?”

“I went to Glastonbury last year.”

“Lucky you, who did you see?”

“The Darkness.”

“Ultimate glam. Think of them. Better still, think of Justin Hawkins.”

“No,” the girl said, clipped. “I can't.”