Beautiful Malice (12 page)

Sean laughed, a short, nervous, and very artificial laugh. I turned to look at him, to smile, but he refused to catch my eye. He stared straight ahead and lifted the beer can to his lips. I realized, as I watched him, that he actually had a very attractive face beneath his fat—striking blue eyes, lovely skin. He’d even be handsome if he lost some weight. And then I thought how odd it was that his hand was shaking—so much that he missed his mouth and dribbled beer down his chin. His forehead was wet with sweat and it struck me, abruptly, that he was scared. And for a moment I felt sorry for him and wondered what exactly he was scared of.

That’s when I realized that Rachel and I were in danger.

Fear hit me immediately. My throat clenched up so tightly that it became hard to swallow; I felt a painful twisting in my gut, felt my hands start to tremble and my heart start to pound. The hostility of all the boys in the car, the way they refused to look at me or acknowledge my presence, was suddenly so palpable that it was almost painful. How had I failed to notice it before? In my desperation to get Rachel home I’d been careless, stupid. I’d thought they were simply rude, but I now realized that their coldness was far more sinister.

They’d
known
this was going to happen. I didn’t know what they had planned, or where they were taking us, but
they
did. They were all in on it. And they could do anything they wanted.

They’ve drugged Rachel
, I thought. And as soon as it occurred to me, I knew that it was true. And they tried to drug me, too. That’s why they wanted me to drink some of their beer.
Rohypnol
. I’d heard of it, been warned about it by policemen at school. Always get your own drinks, they’d said. Never ever drink something that you’re not one hundred percent certain of.

But Rachel was so trusting, so naïve. She would never have imagined.

They didn’t want to look at me or talk to me in case they felt sympathy. It was clear that Grant was their leader. He was relaxed and confident, humming as he drove, his arm resting on the window. The other boys all seemed nervous, stiff, but not Grant. Perhaps they knew that what they were doing was wrong. Perhaps they would take pity on us.

“Please. Could you just take us home? Please?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I
am
taking you home. Christ. The ingratitude. We’re just going to make a little detour first. Take care of some business.” He looked at me over his shoulder and smiled and winked in a cruel parody of reassurance.

Maybe Grant just enjoyed scaring people and this drive was some kind of game. After he’d had his malicious fun, maybe he planned to take us home or just abandon us somewhere—safe and untouched. That was the best that I could hope for, the best scenario I could imagine. But there were a lot of different pictures in my head, more chilling scenarios, alternatives that seemed more likely—rape, torture—and suddenly they were all so petrifyingly possible that I started to cry, with great, gulping sobs that made my body shudder and my breath come in noisy, rasping heaves. I put my hand to my mouth to try and quiet myself—I didn’t want to irritate anyone, give them cause to dislike me—but Grant turned around and looked at me, shook his head, and tutted as if he was disappointed.

“What’s wrong, Princess?” he asked. “Things not going the way you wanted? Daddy’s little girl not getting everything her own way?”

“Sorry,” I muttered, quite irrationally, as I pressed harder against my mouth and turned to look out the window at the blurred landscape. “Sorry.”

Grant laughed nastily and slapped his hand on the steering wheel.
“Sorry?”
He said it loudly, aggressively. “What perfect manners she has!” He turned to look at me and sneered. “Your mother would be proud.”

And as he turned back to the wheel, the car had swerved onto the other side of the road, and for an instant the headlights of an oncoming car shone blindingly through the windshield. As the car passed, its horn blared.

“Fuck you!” Grant screamed, sticking his middle finger up to the blackness. “Fuck you!”

And for a moment I wished that we’d crashed—the passengers in the front would have been most at danger—and then I considered the foolish possibility of trying to distract Grant so that he
would
crash. In a head-on collision with another car, or a tree, Rachel and I would have a good chance of surviving. It might be a better alternative to being at the mercy of Grant, who was clearly sick in the head.

But no, it was far too risky. And if I failed, which was likely, things would only get worse for me and Rachel.

The only thing I could do was wait. Wait and see where they took us, what they had planned. Try and get away at the first opportunity. And this wouldn’t have seemed so difficult, so terrifyingly impossible, if Rachel was awake. But she was deeply asleep, or unconscious, breathing loudly and heavily, and when I put my hand on her knee and squeezed her as hard as I could, pinching her skin, she didn’t even stir.

21

M
ick plays for another hour, and I take the opportunity, while he’s onstage, to watch him. I study the way his shoulders move as he plays, the obvious strength in his hands and wrists as he flexes his drumsticks. Occasionally he catches me looking and smiles, but he’s performing and it’s perfectly normal that I should be looking at him, so I feel safe enough to grin back openly. As soon as the band has finished playing, he comes and stands beside our table.

“What are you guys doing next?” he asks.

“Going home,” Philippa answers. “To bed. Katherine’s got to study.”

It’s getting late, and Philippa’s right. I really should get home to bed, but I have no desire to go. “Oh.” I shake my head. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I feel so much better, and I’ve got a second wind now, and anyway—”

“We should go out somewhere,” Mick interrupts, looking straight at me, and I can tell that he wants this night to continue just as much as I do. “Get something to eat. I know some good places we can still get dinner.”

“Okay,” I say enthusiastically. “Sounds great. I’m starving.”

Philippa looks at her watch and then back at me. She frowns. “It’s almost midnight. I thought you wanted an early night?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Not really.”

“Sorry, but we have to leave. I’m totally and absolutely beat.” Philippa hooks her bag over her shoulder. “Some other time, okay? I really do have to get home to bed. I’m about to turn into a pumpkin. And that would scare you, believe me.”

She stands up, kisses her brother on the cheek, and says good night. And she waits, clearly expecting me to get ready to leave with her, and there’s an awkward moment when I don’t know what to say, what to do, how to make it clear that I don’t want to go. But Mick saves me from having to say anything at all.

“You and I could go,” he says, speaking directly to me, his face unsmiling again. “If you want to. I’ll make sure you get home safe.”

“Okay, yes, good idea,” I say in a rush, suddenly nervous and awkward, afraid of what Philippa might think. I stand up and collect my bag. “I’d love to.”

Philippa frowns, looking both puzzled and exasperated.

“What are you …” she says, and then her eyes widen and a slow, knowing grin spreads across her face. She stares at Mick and then at me, and I can feel my cheeks burning. Then she laughs, tipping her head back. “I knew you’d like each other. I
knew
it.”

I hold my breath and wait for Mick to deny it, to laugh at the suggestion that he likes me, but he meets my eye and smiles shyly and I smile back and I know that what Philippa has just said is true, and I know that with our smiles we are both saying a million un-sayable things. For a moment the three of us just stand there, silent and grinning, awkward and happy all at once.

“Well, then,” Philippa says. “I’d better go.” She turns to Mick. “Make sure she gets home safely. Or I’ll kill you.”

“Shut up, Pip,” he says.

“You know he rides a motorcycle?” she says to me, her eyebrows raised.

“That’s fine,” I say cheerfully, forcing the thought of my parents—the certain horror they would feel at the thought of me on the back of a motorcycle—to the back of my mind. “I like bikes,” I lie.

Philippa hugs Mick and then me, giving me an extra squeeze before she lets go. I take it as a sign that she approves of all this, and I feel a rush of tenderness toward her. She’s so generous and warm and open. Such a good friend.

“I’ve just got to help pack up a little,” Mick tells me when she’s left us. “Won’t take long. You want to wait here?”

I offer to go and help. He takes me to the stage and introduces me to the other band members, and I spend the next ten minutes helping them clear up, bundling electrical cords and returning empty glasses to the bar. When we’ve finished and the stage is clear and the instruments are loaded into the lead singer’s van, Mick goes backstage and returns with two bike helmets and a leather jacket.

He reaches out and takes my hand with his free one—grasps it tight, his palm big and firm and warm against mine. Then he smiles, wide and happy, and I laugh.

“Let’s go,” he says.

We walk, without talking. I don’t know where he’s taking me, nor do I care. It’s odd how comfortable I feel being alone with him, this man I’ve only just met, but it feels natural holding his hand. Right. Our hands fit together perfectly. There’s something easy between us, something almost magical, and when I look into his eyes there’s a feeling of something I can describe only as a sense of safety. Like coming home.

“Here,” he says when we reach his bike. He puts both helmets on the seat and holds out the jacket. “You can wear this.”

The jacket’s big, but it’s soft and it smells good, and wearing it makes me feel like a different girl altogether—someone wild and impetuous, someone brave. And when we’ve got our helmets on and I’m sitting on the bike behind Mick—my arms around his waist, the front of my body pressed tight against his back—and he takes off into the night, easy and quick through the streets, I believe I can really be that girl.

22

G
rant pulled off the road into the shadows.

“So,” he said, unclipping his seat belt and turning to face me, smiling. “Here we are. Time for some fun, eh? You ready, Katie? Katie, Katie? Katie, me matie?”

I didn’t respond, just looked back at him stonily. There was nothing I could say to him, and by now my fear was so great, and my hatred for Grant so enormous, that I was barely capable of speech. I was shaking—my arms, hands, legs, even my head. My teeth were chattering and I had to force my lips closed, bite my teeth together to stop them from making a dreadful noise. And the effort of that gave me something to concentrate on, something to focus my energy on instead of screaming, jumping across the seat, and attacking Grant, which was what all the adrenaline in my body was urging me to do—and which would, I was quite certain, only make things much worse.

And despite my frequent poking and pinching, Rachel hadn’t moved, or blinked, or shown any other sign of being conscious since we left the party. In a way, I envied her the oblivion.

“Come on.” Grant elbowed the boy sitting next to him, rolled his eyes in exasperation, then leaned over him and yelled at the boy sitting closest to the door. “Get out, would ya? You just going to sit there all night waiting for me to tell you what to do?”

“All right.” The boy opened the car door and slid out, the second boy following close behind.

Grant got out, slamming his door shut so hard that the car shook. And then Sean, so heavy and so nervous that I could hear the wheeze of his breath, got out and slammed his door, too. Rachel and I were alone in the car. Trapped, surrounded.

“Rach.” I shook her as hard as I could. “Wake up. Rachel! Wake up.” I heard the hysteria in my voice. “Please, Rach,” I pleaded, speaking louder, no longer worrying if they heard me.
“Please.”

The door next to me opened and I felt the rush of the cold night air. And then Grant leered in at me. “She can’t hear you, Princess. You’re wasting your time.” He looked at his bare wrist as if he was checking the time. “Another hour at least, I’d say, before she even starts to wake up.” Then he put his hand on my knee and squeezed gently in a falsely affectionate gesture that made my skin crawl and repulsed me as much as if I’d been touched by a venomous spider. I wanted to scream and kick and slap his face. But I bit my lip hard and looked up at him, forced my hands not to move.

“What do you want, Grant?” I asked. My voice was surprisingly quiet, level. “What do you want from us?”

He looked thoughtful. He took a drag on his cigarette and blew smoke into my face. I turned away and coughed into my hand.

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Princess. Don’t you smoke?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should take it up. I like a lady who smokes. It’s sexy. Don’t ya think? Sophisticated.”

He took another drag of his cigarette and again blew the foul smoke from his lungs into my face.

I squeezed my eyes shut, held my breath. But then the butt of his cigarette was against my mouth, his fingers pushing it roughly between my lips. I turned away.

Suddenly, shockingly, my head snapped back and there was a searing pain on my scalp. He had pulled my hair, forced my head back, so that I was looking at him from an almost upside-down angle. “Listen, Princess,” he said, his face so close to mine that I could feel the scratch of stubble from his cheeks. “Don’t fucking turn away from me, all right? I don’t like it.
All right, bitch?”
He let go and I nodded. I started to cry.

“Oh, Christ,” he said, sighing. “Not this again. Look.” He perched on the seat next to me, one leg inside the car, one resting on the ground. “Things’ll just be a lot easier if you cooperate, okay? If you just do what I say, when I say it. Okeydokey?”

His air of smug arrogance, possible only because he had the advantage of strength and numbers—the power of the bully—made me want to spit in his face. But my reluctance to be hurt again, my desire to stay alive and intact and as uninjured as possible, was stronger than my desire to strike out.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”

“Good girl. Now have a drag of this smoke. It won’t hurt you. Here.” Once again he pressed the cigarette between my lips. “Now
suck.”

I breathed in as shallowly as I could, drawing smoke into my mouth, and immediately started to cough and splutter. Grant laughed, shook his head as if amused by the antics of a child, and put the cigarette back between his own lips. He stood.

“Come on,” he said. “Time to get out.”

“Where are we going?” I asked, looking back at Rachel anxiously. “And what about my sister? I don’t want to leave her alone.”

Grant peered back into the car and sighed, balancing the cigarette expertly in one corner of his mouth when he answered. “What did I say, Katie? You’re not listening, Princess. Do
what
I say
when
I say it and everything will be fine.” He took the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, turned it, and looked thoughtfully at the glowing red end.

I understood what he was going to do only a second before he did it. And then I was screaming, and the skin on my leg, just above my knee, was consumed with a hot, burning pain. He held the tip of the cigarette deliberately against me and I screamed. And my arms moved involuntarily, pushing him away, slapping at him, hitting, striking out.

He grabbed my arms with both of his and held them down so hard that it hurt. He was so much stronger that I could neither resist nor pull away, I could barely even move beneath his grip. “Shut up,” he said, so viciously that spit collected between his lips and splashed my face. “Don’t ask questions. Don’t ask any more fucking questions. Just fucking. Do. What. You’re. Fucking. Told.”

And my fear and anger and hatred—for I hated him then, and if I could have killed him I would have, gladly—were so strong that I forgot the pain in my leg, could barely feel it. I wanted to scream at him, and I could feel my top lip curl with the force of my loathing, with the effort of not expressing it.
How dare you!
I wanted to scream.
You stupid, ignorant, ugly bastard. How dare you! You’re going to be sorry for this. You’re going to pay. And if I get the opportunity, if you turn your back just once, if I ever get the chance, I’ll kill you. I’ll pound your head with a rock, pound and pound and pound until your brains are a liquid pulp. I’ll smash you until there’s nothing left of your stupid cowardly face, nothing left of your pathetic, evil, sad little mind
.

“Come on!” he screamed at me, making me gasp and put my hands up to my face defensively. “Get out of the fucking car!
Now!”

I slid across the seat and got out.

Sean and the other two boys were standing together not far from the car, watching. I could hear them muttering and laughing. Their laughter sounded unnatural. They were nervous, I realized, and their voices were stiff with an artificial bravado. Their cigarettes made three arcs of glowing orange in the dark as they moved their arms, or lifted them to their mouths.

Grant gripped my forearm tightly and dragged me past the others.

It was dark, and I stumbled occasionally; each time, he pulled on my arm sharply and grunted with annoyance. I was so terrified that my legs were shaking. It was an enormous effort not to fall to the ground and start screaming. Instead, I sobbed silently, tears running down my cheeks and into my mouth, splashing onto my collar.

There was a building in front of us. Some kind of corrugated-iron storage shed. Grant pulled on the door, which creaked loudly in protest, and pushed me inside. And then there was the crack of a bolt and I was locked in.

It was pitch-black inside. The place smelled of mold and dirt, a smell that reminded me of the cellar at my grandfather’s, a place that had always frightened me. As I heard Grant walk away, I fell to my knees and started to moan in terror.

“Please, God,” I whispered into the blackness. “Please, please, don’t leave me here. Please.”

My instinct was to scream—to scream and yell and bash and bang on the wall—to protest as loudly and as violently as I could. But I knew somehow that it would do no good, that no one would hear me. I’d only make Grant angrier and provoke him into hurting me again. Or he might hurt Rachel. It took all my effort, all my energy and self-control, to muffle my sobs.

I pressed my hands against the ground and felt dirt, damp and cold and packed down hard. I crouched on all fours and let my head hang for a moment. I breathed in and out, in and out, and tried to calm myself. It would be so easy to fall apart, so terribly easy, and in a way, it would be a relief to let myself succumb to mindless hysteria. But I needed to keep my head, I needed to think. After all, I was still alive, Rachel was still alive, nothing irreversible had happened yet. And the best—no, the
only
—defense I had was my brain. Grant and his friends were stronger than Rachel and I, but I had to believe that I was smarter. If I remained calm, surely there was a chance I could outwit them and find a way to help us escape.

I ran my fingertips along the ground, trying to feel out the edges of the shed, to work out how big it was and get a sense of where the walls were. I needed to learn if there was any possible source of light, any place from which I might escape.

I kept one hand against the wall and crawled along the floor. I went slowly, afraid, in the blackness, of crawling on something sharp or hitting my head. But it felt better to be moving, to be doing something. It felt much better to have a plan, however feeble and unlikely the plan might be.

The shed seemed endless in the darkness, larger inside than it had from outside. As I turned a corner along the second wall, my hands touched something. It was soft and had an odd texture. I recoiled in horror and put my hands to my mouth to muffle a sob.

My first thought was that it was some kind of animal, but I heard and felt no movement, no sound of breathing. Slowly, I reached out to touch it again.

It was soft but coarse. Not an animal at all but some kind of sack. Burlap. Probably filled with seeds or hay. I crawled farther and discovered that there were piles and piles of these sacks stacked against one wall.

I crawled around the rest of the shed and found no holes or gaps between the walls and the earth, no obvious way of breaking free. I sat back and tried to think, and as I looked around I realized that my eyes had adjusted to the dark. Except for the sacks, the shed was completely empty. The only source of light came from the gaps around the doorway. But I knew the door was locked, I’d heard Grant push several bolts when he left.

I could move the sacks. I knew the chance was slim, but perhaps there might be some kind of hole or way of escape behind them. Corrugated iron could be bent; all I needed was a small gap between the wall and the ground and I’d be able to squeeze out.

The sacks were heavy and hard to budge, but my fear and anger gave me a strength I didn’t normally possess. I didn’t care how much my arms hurt, or my back; the need to escape, to
live
, kept me moving. I didn’t move the sacks far, I just piled them, neatly arranged, just as they were, about a yard from the wall. As much as I wanted to shove them frantically out of my way, to toss them anywhere, I didn’t want Grant to notice that they’d been moved when he returned.

And I was rewarded. When I finally began on the last row, I saw a silvery reflection coming up from the ground. Light. I started moving much faster, suddenly even more anxious and afraid than I’d been only moments before. I felt my stomach twist, and had a sudden overwhelming urge to go to the bathroom. The possibility of escape only heightened my terror, made me conscious of how much danger Rachel and I were in, how terrified I really was. But I squeezed my muscles together and held on; I didn’t have time to stop.

When I’d moved all the sacks just enough so that I could squeeze between them and the wall, I crouched down on my hands and knees and studied the gap. The wall was very slightly bent up and outward at the bottom; that left a space about five inches high and almost a foot wide. If I could just bend it up a little farther, make the gap wide enough for my head and then my body to fit through, I’d be able to squeeze out.

I stood up, put my foot against the iron, and pushed out as hard as I could. It didn’t budge. I needed to be able to put the full weight of my body into it. I got on the ground, on my back, with my head against the sacks and, using my feet, I pushed with all the strength I had. The iron bent upward. A little.

Again, at the idea that I might actually escape, I felt hysteria rising in my throat. I stifled a sob, shook my head, and concentrated. I pushed again. I pushed so hard that it hurt. Beneath my feet, the wall started to move.

The gap now looked big enough to wriggle through. I lay flat on my stomach. Then I pushed my head through first, slowly, so that my cheek scraped along the earth and I felt the sharp points of pebbles against my skin. It was harder getting my shoulders out, but I pulled with my hands and pushed with my feet and forced myself to squeeze through. The rest of my body was easy. I shoved myself forward, not caring that the ragged edge of the iron was scraping my back, slicing through my clothes, bruising my skin. At last I was free.

And now that I was out, it was even harder to control my rising hysteria. I was free, at least for now, and I so desperately didn’t want Grant to find me that I was paralyzed by my own terror. I forced myself to breathe, my legs to move, and, groping in the shadows, I shuffled to the corner of the shed and peered around.

The car doors were open. Enough light shone from inside to reveal that Rachel was on the ground beside it. She was on her back, her skirt gathered messily up around her waist. Grant knelt between her open legs. He was moving back and forth, thrusting into her. Rachel moaned softly each time. The other boys leaned against the car, watching.

The bastards were raping her. My baby sister was being raped.

I had to bend over double and clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. I wanted to run toward them, hit them, scratch them, kill and maim and injure. But I had to force myself to be still, to think. There was no way I could overpower them, no way I could stop them.