Fairwood (a suspense mystery thriller) (23 page)

“Doesn’t get us anywhere though,” Simpson noted. “They try it on, get the shit kicked out of them by a woman and then our fugitives piss off, just like he said.”

Cawley couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s suggestion they were
our
fugitives. Whether it was a slip of the tongue or not, he could sense that a part of Simpson was missing the job.

He shrugged. “We’ll see.”

28

His limbs were tired, but they felt like his own again; unrestrained by the iron grip of the rusted shackles. He stood, stretched and shook away a lacklustre weariness that poisoned his blood.

He didn’t want to fight, didn’t know how much of a fight remained in him, so his heart attacked his chest, his hands moistened with his own unease and his blood ran cold with a sense of trepidation as he used his limited time to search for an exit in the basement. He hoped for a window to street level, or a door besides the one at the top of the stairs, but he found nothing.

His focus was limited when he was shackled, his visibility restricted, but there was little else to see that hadn’t been seen; except the stairs themselves, which served as his only escape.

The staircase looked old and rickety, but felt sturdy underfoot. He’d heard his abductors track up and down a number of times and hadn’t noted any creaks or noises. He was confident they wouldn’t be able to hear his ascent, but not so confident that they wouldn’t open the door at the top and stare straight at him as he was making that ascent.

He contemplated hiding and pouncing on them, but not for long. He was younger, stronger, and he had the broken shard of glass to use as a weapon, but he was weak, tired and beaten. They had done a number on him and if he tried to fight them they would finish the job; he struggled to move, struggled to lift his feet, to shift his aching ribs that pulsated with a painful throb every time he breathed.

He exhaled in short, sharp, staccato breaths as he stared up the stairs. He wiped his sweaty palms on the seat of his
blood-stained pants, closed his eyes to say a silent and reassuring prayer and then planted his injured foot onto the bottom step.

A loud thump from above interrupted him. He looked down at his foot, planted firmly, and told it to move. It didn’t shift an inch.

Another thump. A heavy sound absorbed by the floor above.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tightened his jaw and listened in the silence for another series of thumps; for the door to open and an angry face to glare down at him.

He heard a shout, softened through the walls, and then nothing. He waited, still stuck in a half-step, until he couldn't hear anything through the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. Then he took his first step.

***

Pandora had heard the ruffles of her kidnappers’ conversations a number of times. She had listened to their faded voices dribble through the thick walls and closed doors, deciphering little more than a few words. But now she could hear them clearly.

The woman had been in to tease her with food, waving it in front of her face; letting her smell it, telling her what it was and how good it would taste, before taking it away. She had been interrupted by the sound of a doorbell. She hesitated at first, waited for a few seconds and cursed at her absent husband, before leaving to answer it herself.

In her rush she left the bedroom and hallway doors open. Pandora could hear everything that followed.

She recognised Dorothy’s voice, the pleasant and sinister tone. “So, where are they?”

“The girl is upstairs,” the woman replied. “The other is downstairs.”

It pleased Pandora to know that Dexter was still alive, but worried her that he was referred to as
the other
. Did that mean he wasn’t as important as her, and, if so, what important thing did they have planned for her?

The woman called to her husband at that point. He shouted something back; she heard a door being closed.

“He’s excitable,” the woman said, excusing her spouse.

“That’s understandable,” Dorothy said, a sliminess to her tone. “So,” there was a long pause, at which point Pandora could imagine Dorothy looking around eagerly and rubbing her hands together. “When do we get to see them?”

Pandora’s heart skipped a beat as she thought about Dorothy torturing her the same way the sadistic woman had. For some reason it disgusted her more, the woman was a stranger -- a sick, sadistic stranger -- but she had liked Dorothy, she reminded her of her grandparents, of
all
good people. She swallowed thickly, thought about all the sick things that such a smiling, sociopathic mind could conjure.

A door slammed. Pandora felt the vibration kick up through her, rocking her cold and hungry body. Another door slammed shut and then she heard the booming voice of her male abductor as he greeted his guests, followed by his Jekyll and Hyde wife who excused his loud banging and then offered his guests tea before promising to show them
the victims
.

***

Dexter lost his balance, nearly toppled over. He grabbed hold of the banister -- his cold hands sliding against the partially rusted iron -- and stopped himself.

It felt like he had been climbing for an age. Every step was slow and methodical, an inch by inch encroachment towards the door at the top which was both a goal and a fear. He held the glass in his free hand, ready to use it if need be, but he doubted he could land any deadly blows in his state.

He wanted to be silent, to make sure that he didn’t make a sound, but he struggled to hear his own footsteps. His head rushed with a wave of blood; a whining sound screeched out of his ears. He knew he had to keep going, had to get to the top, but he didn’t know how long he could maintain consciousness. He was weak, he was tired, he was hungry, thirsty and he was in pain. He hoped his survival instincts would kick in and force him to continue, but he’d forgive his body if it gave up, packed in -- a part of him felt like doing just that.

The thought of Pandora pushed him upwards. They had been through a lot together, had barely spent a day apart since they’d fallen for each other. He felt that he’d let her down, that he was on the brink of losing her, if he hadn’t already. That was what kept him going, that was what helped him fight through the pain and the tiredness. That was why he made it to the top of the staircase.

The keyhole was blocked; there was no way of knowing what was on the other side of the door. He had images of his abductors waiting for him, wondered if they had somehow been watching him all along, laughing at his struggle, waiting to push him back down to the bottom again. He stuck an ear to the door, pushed a bruised lobe up against the cold wood.

He heard talking, a multitude of voices. He would have dismissed it as a television, or even a radio, but he hadn’t seen either device since his arrival in Fairwood. He strained until he could pick up the voices more clearly, until he could differentiate the voices, could tell that there were at least four people in the house.

The clarity increased as he listened, he even picked up a few words. Then he realised that his hearing wasn’t improving, his focus wasn’t clarifying; the noises were just getting closer.

They were on the other side of the door.

Dexter sprung backwards, shot a worried glance over his shoulder and instantly knew that there was no way he could make it back downstairs quickly enough. He could fight; give them everything he had; hope to take at least one of them out before they inevitably overpowered him.

He turned to face the door; ready to accept his fate.

“
Fuck
,” he whispered under his breath.

***

They left the hallway, moved into the living room. She heard their muffled excitement as they walked through the house and tried to pinpoint their location. She knew they weren’t coming to see her, so they were probably going to Dexter.

In the silence of the bedroom she strained to hear every noise she could from downstairs. She struggled with the female voices but could pick up the heavy bass tones of the two males, one -- probably the creepy, slimy man -- clearly more enthusiastic than the other.

Then she heard the woman scream, a rattling sound that echoed throughout the house and was followed by a loud thud and a shout from one of the men.

She didn’t hear much else, couldn’t pick up any words, but she knew something was wrong.

29

Dexter held his head, his fingers clasped behind his neck and pressing against the top of his arched spine. His eyes were
closed; a series of stars blinked and disappeared in the reddened darkness beyond his tightly squeezed eyelids.

He had never feared for his life, or his own safety, as much as he did over the last few days. He enjoyed the thrill of robbery, thrived on the adrenaline rush of being on the run, but this was different. This was sordid, this was deep. It strangled a nerve that had never been touched, activated an innate fear that had never seen the light of day.

He had been clenching his teeth, didn’t realise it until he released the tension in his jaw and felt a sharp pain spread around his head, from his neck to the back of his skull.

He looked up through the gap in the door, a bright, vertical window into the room beyond. His abductors, along with Dorothy and her husband, stood in a cramped circle, still giggling hysterically.

He pulled away from the light, ran a hand through his hair.

He had slipped out before they’d entered the kitchen, he didn’t want to fight them on the stairs, didn’t want to face them at all if he could avoid it. He staggered out, dragging his feet, bent over like a crippled hunchback. He expected to be caught but they hadn’t seen him. In the safety of a closet under the stairs he watched as they prepared to enter the basement. His female abductor had gone first, only to play a joke on the others, pretending that Dexter had grabbed her and pulled her into the basement.

She screamed, pulled the door half shut behind her. Her husband nearly had a heart attack and told her so afterwards, right before they all chorused a nervous laugh.

Now they were standing at the half open door and Dexter was waiting for them to enter. He needed to find Pandora and had a whole house to search, he doubted he had more than a minute before they realised he wasn’t in the basement and began to search for him.

The husband went first, holding the door open for the others. Dexter saw his needy eyes pass over the closet door and for a moment his heart was in his mouth, sure he had been seen. He ducked into the darkness, waited in the silence and then slowly leant forward, expecting the homeowner waiting for him with a knife and a grin.

He saw his broad back disappear down the stairs, leaving the door to close silently behind him. He heard their steps through the door, heard their excitement and knew he didn’t have long. He prepared to dart through the house. If he couldn’t save Pandora, couldn’t get her out in time, then at least he could join her.

He slipped out of the closet, nearly bolted for the living room, then stopped short. He remembered the blocked keyhole on the other side of the door, remembered not being able to see into the kitchen.

He crept backwards towards the door and cracked his first smile in a long time when he noticed that, as suspected and hoped, the key to the basement door was in the lock.

The homeowners had laughed and mocked as they beat him; Dorothy and her husband had giggled like school children as a harmless joke was played at his expense. Dexter felt like laughing himself when he turned the key and locked them all in the basement.

***

He didn’t need to rush -- there was no way the four elderly sadists were getting past the basement door anytime soon -- but he did. He checked every corner of the living room and scanned the kitchen and the dining room for any sign of his partner in crime, the love of his life. He couldn't find her, couldn’t find anything indicative of her location or her state.

The house was clean, prim and proper, just like the couple that owned it. He hadn’t expected anything else; he knew that the sickest and darkest individuals kept their skeletons in the closets, or in the basement, hidden away from the world.

The decor reminded him not just of his grandparents’ house but of every grandparents’ house. It was floral vomit, a mismatch of dense flowery patterns, flowery cushions and landscape paintings on the walls. A screen door led out into a back garden that was home to an army of gnomes and fairies; a beaded door led from the living room to the hallway, clinging to Dexter's face and shoulders as he strode through. He brushed it off; imagined all the times those beads had clung to the bodies of his captors. The thought disgusted him.

The stairs creaked as he climbed, wearily and painfully at first, then taking them two at a time.

“Pandora!” he called when he reached the top. He listened intently in the silence that followed, praying he would receive a reply, any reply, so that he would know she was still alive.

When he didn’t hear anything he refused to let his heart sink, refused to let it get to him. He staggered across the hallway, peeked into the first door he saw: the master bedroom, decked out with enough tat to stock a seaside gift shop. A dozen faces, from porcelain teddy bears on the dresser to lifeless masks on the walls, grinned vacantly at him.

He backed away, left the door open. “Pandora!” he called again, tracking further across the hallway. His heart skipped a beat when he heard something in reply. It wasn’t a voice, wasn’t coherent, but it sounded human.

He pushed open the bathroom door, disregarded the light blue interior and the linoleum floors, moved quickly on. He could hear banging from downstairs, angry fists on an impenetrable door.

His foot sunk on a loose floorboard that squeaked with a vengeful creak. He heard a mumbled call, louder, clearer -- and bolted forward, through the door ahead of him.

He saw Pandora tied to the bed. She looked terrible, hungry, thin, dirty, but his spirit lifted at the sight of her. He was just happy that she was alive.

“Pandora,” he said, softly.

She squirmed at the sound, kicking out against her restraints when she recognised his voice.

“It’s okay,” he assured. “We’re getting out of here.”

He ripped off her blindfold. She flinched as she laid eyes upon his beaten face, an expression of pity crept onto her gaunt features.

“It’s okay,” he said with a grin. “You should see the other guy.”

He took out her gag. It peeled away painfully from her face, taking with it a line of dried skin from her lip and a strand of saliva that hung like string from the gag to her bottom lip.

“Did you kill them?” she asked in a rough and dry voice that she had to force out of her throat.

He shook his head, she looked a little disappointed. “They’re locked in the basement.”

“Dorothy?” Pandora asked as Dexter untied the rope from her arms.

“You heard her?”

Pandora nodded, keeping her eager eyes on him.

“She’s in there as well.”

He used the shard to free her arms, severing the tight rope that wrapped around her wrists. He left the makeshift weapon on the bed; he couldn’t carry himself, Pandora and that. He was confident he wouldn’t need it, sure that he wouldn’t be able to successfully use it if he did.

They embraced before he planted her on her unsteady feet.

“You think this was her doing?” she wondered.

They held a stare. They had both been taken in by Dorothy’s charms and had both suffered because of it; they hated her, even more than they hated their kidnappers.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But we’ll find out.”

He wrapped her arm around his shoulder and helped her out of the room. She peeled away from him, told him that she could handle herself and that he didn’t need to escort her out, but he stayed close regardless, fearful of losing her again.

The banging increased as they descended the stairs. They heard shouting, male voices at first, threatening them with repercussions if they didn’t open the door. Then Dorothy offered them idle promises in a motherly tone that shot bile up Pandora's throat, forced her to turn around just as they were about to leave the house.

“Where’re you going?” Dexter pleaded when he felt her pull away and head for the kitchen. “Leave it. Ignore her.”

Pandora wasn’t listening. She half-ran half-hobbled to the source of the noise, reached the door just as Dorothy was piling on the faux charm and trying to convince them that it was all a big game.