No Way Out (3 page)

‘What … bloody …
pictures
?’ I shout, shivering, even though the fire is belting out heat.

Tom turns slowly to me, taking a tin of tobacco and a packet of Rizlas from the pocket of his donkey jacket. ‘No need to get arsey.’

Angry, I pull a face – scrunching up my nose, frowning, baring my teeth – but Tom must think it’s funny because he’s smirking, deftly making his roll-up. I spot the poker beside the grate, trying not to stare at it.

‘Let’s see how far he’ll go to save his family.’

Truth is, you’re stubborn as hell. I can’t see you being told to do anything you don’t want to, whether it’s to save our lives or not. Frankly, I don’t think you’ll even believe this is real.

‘Your Marcus has a chap come in to clean his precious cars, doesn’t he?’

Your Marcus
, I think. You’d hate that.

‘How do you know?’ I ask, eyeing him suspiciously. He’s right, of course, but I don’t tell him that. Even if you don’t take out the Aston, you still get it valeted once a week. Forty-five pounds it costs, and thirty for the Mercedes, which frankly seems a bargain given the time the poor man spends on them. But then you do drive the Mercedes daily, so perhaps it’s justified. To and from the station for your commute to London, only you don’t always make it as far as the train, do you?

I followed you once, you see. Inadvertently, of course, while on my way somewhere else. I left the house shortly after you, but you’d been held up at the lights on Bridge Lane where the water main had burst. They spent days repairing it. Even country lanes have traffic jams occasionally.

You had no idea I was three or four cars behind you; no idea that I saw you turn away from the station, following you on to Halleswell town centre, watching you hop out of the car – hazards flashing on double yellows – and dash into the chemist, then the florist. You emerged gripping a bunch of ugly stained blooms. The receipt carelessly left in your glove box later confirmed the purchase of a pack of condoms, although I’d already guessed as I followed you to Larry and Molly’s place, watched as you turned into their drive.

As if it wasn’t all bad enough.

I screamed at you that night. But not because of what I’d seen, or because of the phone call I’d made to Larry, casually asking if he’d been home that morning. No. I’d screamed because you’d lied so easily. As easily as asking if I’d wanted a cup of tea.

I hear Tom’s voice as he draws on the roll-up cigarette. It wags between his lips. He stares at his phone, shaking his head.

‘Give me one,’ Ellie suddenly says, looking longingly at the cigarette.

‘Eleanor?’ and I watch, speechless as Tom rolls her one. He lights it for her, and she sucks expertly, as if she’d done it a dozen times a day for years. ‘What the
hell
are you doing?’ The simple act of defiance seems magnified by our situation, even though it should feel the opposite.

‘Surely you know I smoke?’ she says, blowing out at me.

‘Time’s up,’ Tom says with a note of regret. He pulls a pouty face and stares at Ellie. ‘Ready?’

‘For what,’ she says with woozy-looking eyes. The nicotine has gone to her head.

‘To give Daddy the finger, of course.’ Tom grabs her hand, wrenching her upright. The cigarette falls to the floor, and he stamps on it. ‘This, my little darling, is coming off.’

Ellie screams, thrashing at him with her other hand. I lunge at him, trying to prise her free, but he’s strong and he has her by the arm and shoulders now. He shoves her against the wall, and she slides down to the floor. Before I know it, he’s got me in an arm lock, both hands behind my back, and I’m on the floor too, pinned down by his knee.

‘Stupid fucking bitch,’ he spits into my ear.

I feel my hands go numb as he binds them together behind my back. However much I squirm and thrash, he’s stronger than me. I taste grit and dirt in my mouth, feel the sting of it in my eyes. Moments later, he has my feet bound up, and gives me a sharp kick in the thigh. Ellie is still whimpering on the floor, slumped against the wall, rubbing her head.

‘Now fucking stay there.’

‘
Nooo!
’ I scream so hard it makes my throat bleed. I try to wriggle, worm-like, to the door. He drags Ellie up off the floor and marches her out of the room. I hear the thunk-thunk of their steps as they tread upstairs, her pitiful cries as she stumbles after him.

‘Ellie! Elli
eee
!’

Lying on my front, I drop my forehead to the dusty boards, sobbing. I am helpless. In the room above, I hear Tom’s voice, and Ellie’s breathless, terrified pleas punctuated by cries and whimpers. Then I hear a loud chop right above me, followed by a single piercing scream from my daughter that fills the entire universe.

Oh my God, Ellie, oh my God no…

I screw up my eyes and see her as a baby, velvet-blue as she slid out of me. As a toddler, defiant and curious. Ellie the schoolgirl – always getting into trouble, yet somehow sad and aloof. And now Ellie the teen, disfigured and tortured by this
bastard
.

It’s more than I can stand, but there’s nothing I can do. I weep for my beautiful daughter. For everything she has suffered.

Five minutes later, he brings her back to me. She is ashen-faced and clutching her hand to her chest. I hate it that she is leaning against Tom for support. Her entire fist is bound up in a grimy rag as she staggers into the room. She falls down into the sofa, sobbing, tucking her hand under her chin.

‘It hurts so … so much, Mummy…’ She hasn’t called me that in years.

‘Baby, oh baby, what has he done to you?’ I strain and squirm like a landed fish, trying to get myself to her. Eventually, I make it to her feet. I rub my face against her Converse, kissing the bare skin of her ankles. ‘Show me, honey…’ I say, although I can’t stand to look.

Ellie shakes her head. ‘It’s too … too sore to touch…’ She falls back against an old cushion, sobbing.

Tom goes back to his chair beside the fire as if nothing has happened. One side of his face dances with firelight, the other is cast in dark shadow. He leans forward on his elbows. ‘That was just for starters, of course.’

‘You don’t need to do this,’ I say, shaking my head frantically. ‘I’ll give you all my credit cards, access to bank accounts. Marcus’s too. You can take what you want. Have the house, the cars, we’ll sign it all over. No police. But please,
please
don’t hurt Ellie any more.’

Tom doesn’t say anything for a while. ‘Don’t hurt Ellie,’ he says through a vile grin.

‘You bastard, why can’t you just leave us alone?’ Tears of fear, self-pity, and frustration drop onto the dirt when he doesn’t answer. ‘You lazy shit. You’re just jealous of people like us. Go and get a proper job instead of terrorising innocent families!’

Tom flicks his gaze to Ellie, before reaching for his phone. He taps out another text to you. I imagine you at home alone, drinking wine, wondering where we are, where your dinner is, cursing all these texts.

Call the police, Marcus … Just call the fucking police…

But you won’t, will you? Not until you’re certain you can’t handle this alone. You won’t want the police crawling over our lives, trying to find clues in every corner of our existence.

‘How about the dog?’ Tom says.

You never liked Bertie from the moment I brought him home as a puppy for Ellie. She didn’t have many friends, so I thought a dog was the next best thing. It wasn’t.

Ellie, aged eight, often heard the vitriol you spat my way. I heard her whispering to herself as she played alone in her room – using vicious, sniping words that she’d learnt from you. Later, I found her sobbing in bed, her head buried under the pillow with stones pushed into her ears.

‘Why can’t you be like other mummies and daddies?’ she’d asked, weeping, lying on the hospital bed as the doctor worked on her. I blagged a story to him, made up a load of excuses as he discharged us.

‘Please don’t make him hurt our dog,’ I say. ‘I’ve offered you everything we have. Just take it and let us go.’

Tom remains silent, untying my hands and feet, before hauling me upright by the wrist. Blood rushes into my limbs, leaving my head in a rush as if I’m falling.

‘OK. Not the dog. Take your clothes off instead,’ Tom instructs. At first I think he’s talking to Ellie, and I lunge at him. But he’s talking to me.

‘No!’ I say. ‘Fuck right off.’ Something inside me shudders. It’s what I should have said to you.

The knife is suddenly at my throat, the cold point gouging into my thyroid. ‘I said, take … your … clothes … off.’ His close-up whisper teases the skin on my face. It almost feels nice, compared to the way you do things.

Slowly, so as not to force the knife any deeper against my skin, I ease my arms out of my coat. It drops to the floor. Tentatively, I pull the hem of my tunic up my body, exposing my bra beneath.

‘Why did you buy that shapeless thing?’ you’d said the first time I wore the top.

‘Because I like it,’ I replied, and you slapped me. When you thumped me in the back, I couldn’t breathe.

‘Don’t wear it again,’ you’d said.

Just to be defiant, I do wear it, but only when I know I’ll be able to change out of it before I see you. Quiet defiance, I told myself, ashamed I couldn’t find the dignity to speak up. The truth is, I needed you; needed
us
. Escaping from Tom seems more likely than me ever leaving you.

Slowly, shamefully, I peel away my remaining clothes. I am naked, but still wearing my socks. I hug my arms around my naked body, shivering, trying to conceal all of me at once. I can see Ellie from the corner of my eye, but can’t face looking at her. I know she’s not staring – she has too much integrity to do that. If there’s one thing we’ve done right, you and me, it’s bring her up well.

‘Put your arms by your sides,’ Tom says, taking a photograph. Then he hooks my jeans up from the floor with his foot, kicking them into my arms. I turn away and struggle back into them, untangling my pants. ‘Your turn,’ Tom says to Ellie, and I know it’s futile to put up a fight. Turning away as my daughter strips, tasting the bile as it rises up my throat, it’s you I see pressing the button on the camera, not Tom.

*

‘No, no,
no
…’ Marcus wailed, staring at the picture of Eleanor’s severed finger. It was wearing the silver ring he’d given her last birthday. Dark blood spilled out from the rough-cut knuckle. He felt the wine sloshing in his stomach; wondered if it was going to come up. He screwed up his eyes.

He was tired and scared, but more than anything, he was angry as hell with Lisa. How had she got her and Ellie into this situation? He wondered if it was time to call Roy, though he had no idea how to ask for help without having the house swarming with police. They’d delve into everything from business ventures that weren’t exactly legal, to his personal affairs. Especially his personal affairs.

Just as he was about to make the call, another text came in.

Which one?

It took a moment for him to focus on the two pictures – one each of his wife and daughter. They were both naked. His mouth went dry at the sight of them, and his hands shook as he texted back.
What do you mean?

Nothing for twenty minutes. In desperation, he dialled Roy’s number, but hung up before it connected.

Choose one
.

Marcus felt himself grow cold. A sweat broke out on his forehead, and wetness spread from under his arms and across his back. This time as he dialled Roy, he let the phone connect, almost feeling relieved when it went to voicemail. At least he’d tried to get help, he thought, hanging up without leaving a message.

Just let them go
, he texted.

Choose one or they both die
, came back immediately.

Marcus strode around the library, bashing furniture with his fists. Then he sat at his desk, head in his hands. How could he choose between his wife and his daughter? What would it mean if he did?

His phone rang, vibrating noisily on the wood. He jumped, lunging to answer it.

‘Roy,’ he said, wishing he’d checked the number first. ‘Yes, yes, I did call before. How are you?’ he asked, trying to sound normal.

Roy launched into how great it was to hear from him, that it had been too long, how they must come round for dinner soon.

‘That’d be great, Roy,’ Marcus said, hearing another text message come in. ‘Listen, Roy,’ he went on, wondering whether to mention the situation, or let it go. He drew in a deep breath, hesitating. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go. Lisa’s just served supper.’ He hung up, jabbing the buttons on his phone to read the new text.

You can save both
, he read.

How?
he texted back. The bastard was bargaining again. If only he could remember where Lisa had been going today, it might give him a clue to who had them.

More time passed. Marcus stood at the window, willing Lisa’s Range Rover to swing round the head of their drive. Rain and wind sheeted across the acreage, bending the young saplings that he’d had planted sideways. He liked to sit and watch Ellie riding her horse, her legs stretched wide around the saddle, catching the glint of her soft blonde ponytail as it swayed in the breeze, oblivious that he was watching. She gave him comfort; made him feel good about life.

When the text came back explaining what he had to do, Marcus sat there, unable to move, his throat choking up. His eyes burnt with salt as he sobbed, and his mind seared with guilt at what would happen if he didn’t comply. He glanced at his watch through blurry vision. He didn’t have long.

*

‘Put your clothes on,’ Tom tells Ellie.

She obeys, but slowly, as if she’s quite used to being naked. I turn her sweatshirt the right way round as she pokes her arms and legs into her underwear. I can’t help noticing that Tom is watching her, drawing his eyes up and down her young body.

It reminds me of when Ellie was a toddler, how you would always volunteer at bath time, even though we had an au pair to help out. Father and daughter time, you’d said, leading her upstairs by the hand with the promise of a bedtime story. She loved it, and I was grateful for the time to myself. Time away from you.