Stalkers

Chapter 3

Each time Louise woke up it seemed like she was emerging from a horrific nightmare, only to discover that it was reality.

She was in the boot of a vehicle — she’d realised that much from the rumbling of the engine and the constant jolting and bumping. Her hands were secured behind her back in what felt like a pair of plastic cuffs, which were pulled so tight that they burned into her flesh. Her legs were crooked painfully beneath her because she couldn’t lie full-length in such an enclosed space. It was pitch-black and stiflingly hot; her clothes were damp with sweat, and yet her body was utterly frozen with terror. She didn’t know how long she’d been in here. It seemed like days, though surely it couldn’t have been that long — a day and a night maybe, possibly a little longer? Either way, she was parched with thirst, hunger was gnawing her insides out and the atmosphere was unspeakably foul as she’d urinated on herself at least twice. Yet none of that compared to the mind-numbing fear of what might lie ahead.

A piece of duct-tape had been smacked across her mouth and wrapped around the back of her head so she could barely whimper, let alone scream. A blindfold made of cloth was bound around her eyes. The memory of what had happened on the quiet country road was only vague. Whoever the man was who’d attacked her — if it had been a man (that diabolical face was still imprinted on her mind) — he’d choked her into unconsciousness. But at least that brief instant of agony and dread had been swift. She’d have swapped the merciful oblivion it brought for the prolonged, torturous ordeal that she was going through now. She’d been enclosed in this metal coffin for so long that she’d even slept once or twice, though that was mainly because each time when she’d woken she’d thrashed about frantically until she was exhausted. Louise struggled again, futilely, wailing beneath her gag. The problem was that the boot was claustropho-bically tight and confined; its lid was only a couple of inches above her, and she had no leverage with which to kick against it.

For the thousandth time, her thoughts raced chaotically as she tried to recall the contradictory advice she’d heard over the years about what a woman should do if she was attacked by a rapist. She was sure a police officer on television had said that you should fight, scratch, bite — but what if this antagonised the assailant? Someone else had said that you should plead with him, humanise yourself by talking about your family, your children. But again — what if he was a sadist, and that gave him even more pleasure?

Of course, at the end of the day all this was theory. It had never occurred to Louise that she might at some time be in a position to put such horrors to the test. Even now they barely seemed real. Some thirty-six hours later — it was at least that long, she decided, which made it sometime on Sunday morning — she was still numb with shock, still faint, still nauseated by fear. Fresh sweat seeped through her clothes as she pondered the many possibilities behind her abduction. Above all, Louise clung to the fact that she was still alive so many hours later. She hadn’t been raped yet, or beaten, or murdered. In addition, the car had stopped once — quite a few hours ago now, it seemed — the boot had opened, her gag had briefly been removed and someone who never spoke had forced a plastic straw between her lips, allowing her a few sips of water. Surely all this meant she was more to them than a mere plaything? It seemed increasingly likely that they needed her alive, though she hardly dared anticipate such. Alan was a wealthy guy and Goldstein amp; Hoff were major players on the international banking scene: obvious targets for ransom demands. In addition, her kidnapper had gone to great trouble to snare her in the first place: she hadn’t just been dragged into an alley. That slow pursuit all the way from the City, the stinger across the country road — clear evidence of deliberation, of forward planning. In some ways that made it even more frightening, but it also gave Louise hope that she was merely a pawn in a larger game. What game that might be, she had no clue; it wasn’t necessarily financial — heaven knew what the top brass in the City sometimes got involved with — but as long as this was not a personal attack against her surely she stood at least a reasonable chance of being released unharmed …?

Very abruptly, the vehicle slid to a halt.

There was a squeal of tyres, and a loud clunk as the handbrake was applied.

Louise lay shuddering as the engine was switched off and two car doors opened and closed simultaneously. This had already happened several times during the course of her imprisonment in here. There was the incident when she was given water, but on the other occasions no one had come to her. Hours had then passed, during which she’d squirmed and wrestled with her bonds, and again had tried to cry out — to no avail. Whoever had taken her was clearly moving her from place to place and, on the few occasions when they’d left her, they chose somewhere very private where not a sound could be heard. In due course, they’d always returned and the car had started up again.

However, that didn’t happen this time.

Icy fingers scurried all over Louise as she listened to the sound of heavy feet approaching. A key was fitted into the lock, there was another clunk, and light spilled down on her; it was so bright after her long hours of confinement that it poured through her blindfold, searing her retinas. When the cloth strap was torn away, she snapped her eyelids shut and averted her face, but rough hands took hold of her. She moaned and went dizzy as they hauled her upright and left her in a sitting position. Blinking rapidly, she tried to adjust her vision, but only after several seconds did everything swim into focus. What she saw proved just how long she’d been peering into empty blackness: it wasn’t glaring sunshine that had half-blinded her, but the gloomy twilight of an underground car park.

Her eyes darted fearfully around, seeing water-marks on concrete pillars, loops of corroded chain hanging from overhead. About twenty yards in front was the hulk of a burned-out vehicle. Beyond that lay deep shadows, cross-cut with occasional shafts of dull, grimy daylight. Then she saw the two men looking down at her.

Both wore dark overalls and gloves, and knitted ski-masks with holes cut for their eyes and mouths. One ski-mask was purple, the other day-glo orange. She stared helplessly back, eyes bulging, as they appraised her.

‘She’s a fucking sight,’ the one in the purple mask said.

But it was the reply from the one in the orange mask which sent a deeper, more paralysing chill through Louise than she’d ever known. ‘Aren’t they always.’

‘I suppose she’ll scrub up,’ Purple added.

Orange continued to stare at her. He was taller than his comrade. Narrow circles of skin were visible around his eye-sockets, and, by the looks of these, he was black. When he’d spoken it had been without an obvious accent, though the other one, who looked to be white, sounded as though he was from the Midlands somewhere.

‘Nice legs on her,’ Purple remarked.

Belatedly, Louise realised that her skirt and shoes had been removed, though her tights, torn full of holes, were still in place.

Purple leaned down and squeezed her left breast. ‘Firm tits too. Keeps herself in shape for her old fella.’

Louise barely noticed the personal violation. With each passing second, this ordeal was becoming ever more real. Suddenly it seemed terribly, terribly certain that she’d never see Alan again, or their lovely house in rural Buckinghamshire.

Purple chuckled. ‘Least she’s not shit herself. Hate it when they do that.’

‘P-please,’ she stammered. ‘Let me go, let me go, just let me go … I won’t say anything … how can I say anything, I don’t know anything!’ But it was a spittle-slurred mumble that was barely audible outside the duct-tape. The men paid no attention anyway.

‘How we doing for time?’ Orange asked.

Purple glanced at his watch. ‘No problem.’

Orange nodded, bent down to a haversack and fumbled around inside it. Louise watched, hair stiffening, not knowing how she’d react if he took out a knife. She was bewildered rather than relieved when he produced a bottle of water and what looked like a ham roll wrapped in cellophane.

Before doing anything else, Orange regarded her intently with his liquid brown eyes. At last he spoke again, and this time it was to her, not to his henchman.

‘Listen love, and listen good. I’m going to take that gag off. You can scream and shout all you want. No one’ll hear. But it’ll piss us off royally, and what’s going to happen to you is still going to happen. The only difference is if we’re pissed off we might decide to beat the fucking shit out of you first. You understand?’

Louise returned his gaze helplessly, before vaguely nodding. She was in no doubt that he was absolutely serious.

‘Now you be a good girl and keep things nice and quiet,’ he added, reaching out and slowly peeling back the duct-tape.

It snagged on her dry lips and when he tore it loose from the back of her head, yanked out several strands of hair, but at that moment she didn’t mind, she was too thankful to have it taken off her. It was so good to be able to breathe properly.

She sucked the air in great lungfuls, but despite the promise she’d just made, couldn’t stop herself speaking. ‘Look … whatever it is you want, my husband’ll get it for you. Or my company. I don’t know who you are or why you’re doing this — I don’t even want to know, but look …’

Orange glared at her. ‘I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut?’

‘Just let my husband know I’m alright,’ she begged. ‘That’s all I ask …’

‘Alright?’ Purple said casually. ‘Who said you’re alright?’

She glanced from one to the other, trying to be bold, trying to look as if she wasn’t frightened, but knowing that she was little more than a scared rabbit in their unblinking gaze. ‘You just … you just should know that whatever you took me for, whatever you’ve got planned … you can make money out of this. Good money. All you need to-’

Orange leaned menacingly towards her. ‘I said shut — the — fuck — up.’

The edge to his voice was so hard, the maniac gleam in his eye so intense that this time, desperate as she was, Louise clammed up.

He watched her closely for several seconds, and then, satisfied, unscrewed the cap from the water bottle and offered it to her. At first, Louise felt inclined to refuse — as if such an act of miniature defiance would be a victory over them — but it just as quickly occurred to her that it was ludicrous to think it would ever matter to men like these how dry her throat became. She had to remain clear-minded and level-headed; any action she took must be geared towards survival — that was the only way she was going to get through this. So when she finally drank, she drank deeply, thirstily.

After that, they presented her with the sandwich, holding it to her mouth, though despite her hunger pangs she was still so sick with fear that she could do no more than nibble at it. As she did, she eyed her surroundings again, wondering if there was any possible means of escape. Far to her right, what looked like an exit/entry ramp sloped down from above, but now that her vision was fully attuned, there were other shattered cars on view: mangled masses of burned or rusty metal, dumped in forgotten corners and thick with dust and cobwebs. It had entered her head that, wherever she was, someone might unknowingly venture down here and prove her accidental saviour, but the more dankness and dereliction she spied, the less likely this seemed. In addition, there was nowhere for her to run to, even in the unlikely event she got free. God knew how many exit ramps she’d have to scramble up before she reached the surface, and she was so weak from her confinement that she doubted she could even stand. Once again, that sense of horror and despair overwhelmed her.

Giving up on the sandwich, Orange scrunched it in its wrapper and tossed it. He screwed the top back onto the bottle and shoved it into his pocket. ‘Now for dessert,’ he said, delving into the haversack again and taking out a small steel box.

He opened it to reveal two slim objects, one of which he handed to his compatriot, the other which he kept hold of himself. Louise felt her heart miss a beat when she saw that the objects were hypodermic syringes. The fluid in the one in Purple’s hand was transparent, whilst the one in Orange’s hand was a dark, brackish red.

‘We’re going to inject you,’ Orange said matter-of-factly. He showed her his syringe. ‘As you can see, this one’s dirty. It’s been used loads of times, and currently contains blood that was recently extracted from a heroin-addicted prostitute. However, the one my mate here’s got is sterile and contains a medically-approved sedative. It’s up to you which one we use?’

There was a brief silence, during which Louise tried to speak but could only gag. Once she’d dry-heaved a couple of times, she glanced up again, but said nothing. She inclined her head slightly to indicate that she’d give them no trouble.

‘Smart move,’ Orange said, replacing his blood-filled syringe in the box and putting it away, then clamping a hand across her mouth and pushing her back down into the boot. ‘I knew you’d be sensible.’

Behind him, Purple removed the cap from the sterile needle and flicked steadily at it with his gloved finger.

‘Just lie still,’ Orange added, ‘and think of England.’