Silent Winter, page 4
He thought of the knife block in the kitchen, of the blades it housed, their metal dull and stained with ancient grime. In his head, Rick saw himself grab the largest one, then pad across the carpet. He’d open the door to his mother’s room, then wham! Take that, Mr Nasty! He’d stab the blade, hard and deep, into the ogre’s belly. The man would sink back with a groan, his hands clutched around the knife handle. He’d die within seconds, although Rick didn’t like to think about all the blood there’d be. With him dead, though, everything would be wonderful. Rick pictured his mother, so grateful he’d saved her. She’d press him close, murmuring thanks in his ear. Tell him how much she loved her special boy.
He hesitated amid the darkness, his ears attuned to the fury in Mr Nasty’s tone.
‘Don’t disrespect me, bitch. Or I’ll make you regret it.’ A fist slammed against flesh.
Fear snaked through Rick’s body; his mouth drained of saliva, and his knees trembled. He needed to act—now—but the door to his mother’s room flew open, the wood banging against the wall. Find somewhere to hide, Rick, and fast! Over there! He darted behind an armchair and crouched against the sanctuary it offered. His heart hammered so hard the whole world must surely hear it.
Mr Nasty stormed into the room, fully dressed. He dragged the boy’s mother in his wake, her wrists gripped by one huge hand. In his other he held something Rick couldn’t identify. His mother’s hair was wild; a livid bruise bloomed on one cheek, her bottom lip split and slick with blood. Inarticulate mutterings issued from her mouth. Tears streamed down her face.
‘Shut the fuck up, bitch,’ Mr Nasty ground out. He took the unidentified object—it was one of her fishnet stockings, Rick realised—and stuffed it between her lips. From his vantage point, Rick watched an expression that terrified him creep over Mr Nasty’s face. Even at seven years old, he recognised evil when he saw it. His teeth shook with fear, a rapid click-clack that would surely betray him. Wetness flooded his pyjama bottoms and soaked into the carpet. The smell terrified Rick further. Mr Nasty couldn’t fail to sniff out the wuss cowering behind the chair.
The man’s attention, though, lay elsewhere.
‘You need to learn a lesson, whore. You’ll get the same treatment I dished out to that slut Rosalie Parker. That’ll teach you to respect me.’
A powerful punch knocked his mother unconscious. Rick gave a strangled gasp, his nails driven deep into his palms, but Mr Nasty didn’t notice. He slung his victim over his shoulder and stalked out of the flat.
CHAPTER 10
A steady clump, clump roused Drew from his sleep. His senses strained for every nuance of noise that reached his ears. Footsteps were what he’d heard, coming closer. Drew jerked himself as upright as his bonds allowed, praying that rescue had arrived at last.
The footsteps stopped outside Drew’s prison.
‘Hey!’ Drew managed to croak, his dry throat straining with the effort. ‘Who’s there? Help me, please!’
His demand went unanswered. Oh, God. Whoever was outside must be his abductor. Not, as he’d hoped, someone who’d come to save him.
He tried again. ‘Get me out of this place right now, you hear me?’
A glimpse of light flashed near to Drew’s feet, then vanished. Accompanied by a sound he couldn’t place. Then came the thud of plastic hitting concrete inside his cell, followed by a sloshing noise. In that moment Drew forgot all about his captor. All he cared about was getting water.
His left hand scrabbled into the darkness to close around a large plastic bottle. His ecstasy was such he barely registered the soft plop of something else being chucked into his prison. His fingers fumbled with the cap, unable to tilt the container upwards fast enough. He gulped the precious fluid until his throat protested, and he collapsed against the floor amid a welter of coughs. It didn’t matter that the water had been stale and tepid; life was returning to his desiccated body. For now, nothing else mattered.
Drew lay in his bonds, gasping, relief flooding his brain.
With infinite care, to preserve the liquid that remained, he screwed the plastic top onto the bottle, then tilted it upside down. By his estimation, a quarter was left in a two-litre container. With no idea when his captor might return, he’d need to eke out his supply.
He listened, but heard nothing. Whoever threw the water into his prison hadn’t hung around. Well, when his jailer returned, Drew would be ready. Unwilling to confront his gut instinct, he’d convinced himself mistaken identity must be to blame for his incarceration. He’d yell that he was Drew Blackmore, damn it, followed by: you’ve got the wrong guy, you sicko. Get me the hell out of this shit-hole.
Wait. His abductor would surely kill him to prevent him contacting the police, not release him. Or else he’d abandon Drew to die in the darkness. He’d lose his mind if he spent much longer in this place. Rescue seemed increasingly unlikely; wouldn’t the cops have found him by now if they had any clues? No, if he stood any chance of escape, it needed to be through his own efforts.
If his legs still worked. The cramps from earlier reminded Drew his muscles would soon atrophy under his present circumstances.
Maybe he could prevent that. Drew flexed both feet, back and forth several times, wincing at the soreness in his calves, then stretched both legs, pointing his toes. Next a few ankle rotations, followed by bicycling his feet through the air. The discomfort in his lower limbs receded.
He set the water bottle beside him, surprised when it rested against something soft. He recalled the plop he’d heard earlier. His fingers moved through the darkness and closed over a cling-film-wrapped triangle.
Drew ripped off the protective covering, shoving the sandwich into his mouth. The bread was thick, stale, with only a scraping of butter, the two slices bracketing a slice of ham. To Drew, though, his makeshift meal tasted better than the finest fillet steak. His teeth tore off chunks of bread and meat until the food was gone. He slumped back, unfazed by the hard concrete banging against his head wound. He was still terrified and uncomfortable, unable to see anything, but his hunger and thirst had been satisfied. Progress, of sorts.
The sound as his captor delivered the sandwich and water returned to him, along with how it seemed familiar. A cat flap, that was it; Uncle Hal and Aunt Mel had used one for Bandit, their ancient Siamese. What he’d heard hadn’t sounded plastic, though. He guessed the door must be wooden and that his abductor had cut a hinged feeding flap into it.
Resolve poured through Drew. Now he knew for certain where the entrance to his prison was located. Soon he’d break free, and when he did, he’d tell Holly he wanted kids, lots of them. He’d do other stuff too. Todd and he had discussed training for the London marathon—time to make good on that goal. As for work, he’d get shot of his boss and set up his own software firm. Never again would he complain about stuff that didn’t matter; when he got his life back, he’d treasure every second.
He’d already lost so much that was precious. Uncle Hal and Auntie Mel, who’d raised Drew and Todd after they were orphaned, had died two years ago after a drunk driver rammed their car off a bridge. His parents were long gone. Only the faintest of memories remained of Eloise Blackmore. None at all of Barry Blackmore. Drew’s heart hitched when he thought of his father.
His fingers strayed to his right hand, where the man’s signet ring had sat for so many years. ‘I miss you, Dad,’ Drew said aloud. His voice cracked. ‘Please, just get me the hell out of here.’ A man dead for over two decades couldn’t help him, but Drew didn’t care. He’d always derived comfort from talking to his father. Love for the man he didn’t remember warmed his heart.
Drew touched where his wedding ring had been. Most important, he needed to consider Holly. They had a future as husband and wife. With any luck, one day they’d be parents. He wouldn’t let some psycho ruin that.
‘Fuck you, you bastard,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll not get the better of me. No way.’
ONE THIRTY ON SUNDAY afternoon, sixty-seven hours after Drew went missing. More snow had fallen overnight, but Holly remained determined to press ahead with the search. She and Todd were in the main car park at Blaise Castle. Despite her angst, Holly was pleased with the turnout. Her husband’s boss and colleagues had shown up, along with Amber and Elaine from her own place of work. Twelve runners from Drew and Todd’s club put in an appearance. The rest of the group comprised four people she’d never met, one of whom introduced himself and his cohorts as ‘concerned members of the community’.
‘Nosy gits, more like,’ Todd muttered after the guy moved away. ‘Not that it matters. The more eyes we have looking for Drew, the better.’ He frowned. ‘Where are the police? Shouldn’t they be here, along with tracker dogs?’
‘Not enough manpower, they said. Blamed recent funding cuts. And they only use dogs if they consider the missing person to be vulnerable, like a child, or someone elderly.’
‘Fuck ’em, then. We’ll do this ourselves.’
At two o’clock the group split into different factions to conduct the search, with instructions to meet at five for a debriefing at the Bat and Ball Inn. The running club chose to scour the Blaise Castle estate, a herculean task given its six hundred and fifty acres, but Todd instructed them to concentrate on the main walking paths. Drew’s workmates would focus on a circle around Jonas Software. Holly and Todd elected to cover the area near to Drew’s home, and the rest of the searchers would check his other running routes.
The weather was dry, crisp and clear, but that didn’t help when snow covered the ground they needed to search. Holly didn’t hold out much hope.
‘At least we can try,’ Todd said, his voice pinched, as they turned into the small park behind Drew and Holly’s house. A grove of beech trees stood at the far end, sending a flood of memories Holly’s way. She’d walked among them so many times with Drew, his fingers entwined with hers. Drained with exhaustion, she lost herself in the past, until the world shifted, and... yes! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She knew, without a doubt, where Drew was. Holly sprinted towards the trees, her feet searing a trail through the snow. Her husband lay there, perhaps lying hurt, but alive, still breathing, and she just had to reach him, oh please God...
‘Drew! Drew, where are you? Can you hear me?’ She ran, panting, amid the trees, her eyes checking around her. The ground was mostly flat, apart from under the nearest tree. That shape—might it be Drew? Holly dropped on all fours, her hands scrabbling through the icy whiteness. She ignored the chill penetrating her knees, too intent on rescuing her husband.
‘Hols!’ Todd shouted, but his voice sounded very far away. Holly continued to dig until her nails scraped something solid. She’d done it; she’d found Drew. Thank God. Her fingers dug deeper, only to reveal stone instead of flesh. A flat boulder she’d seen many times, but had forgotten in her angst.
Her scream of denial rose high into the afternoon air. A dull pain throbbed through her hands. When she looked down, spots of red stained the boulder. Her nails still tore at it, and she didn’t know how to stop them.
Behind her, Todd spoke, his tone gentle. ‘Let me hold you, Hols. Please, love.’
He pulled her to her feet to hug her close; her tears soaked his shoulder. Once her sobs tapered off, he took her bloodied hands in his. He cleaned them on his T-shirt, then kissed each finger.
‘We’ll find him, Hols,’ he said. ‘It’s just a matter of time.’
Holly nodded, too choked to speak. Numb, she allowed Todd to lead her out of the park to continue the search.
Three hours later, the two of them joined the rest of the party at the Bat and Ball Inn. Nobody had found any sign of Drew.
Amber pulled Holly into a hug. ‘Don’t give up hope, okay?’ Over Amber’s shoulder she saw Elaine’s face, tight with concern.
‘We did our best,’ Rory Bruce, one of Drew’s running mates, said. ‘But with snow covering the area—’ He shrugged, his eyes sympathetic.
‘Aye, and who’s to tell what it might be hiding?’ Mike Randall, another runner, chipped in. ‘Perhaps when we get a thaw—’
In her peripheral vision, Holly saw Adam Scott, the guy beside Mike, elbow him in the ribs, his expression a warning. The man shut up, his face turning red.
Tears came into Holly’s eyes. She understood what Adam had stopped Mike from saying. That somewhere, under the snow, might lie Drew’s corpse.
FOOTSTEPS ARRIVED OUTSIDE the door. Drew’s stomach growled with hunger, but other, more important, considerations occupied his mind. Despite his fear, he found his voice, his throat lined with sandpaper.
‘My name is Drew Blackmore. I don’t know who you are, but I’m not the man you’re after.’
The flap opened, lessening the gloom for a second. The subsequent thud told Drew his sandwich had arrived. Seconds later a plastic bottle hit his thigh.
‘Did you hear what I said? I’m Drew Blackmore. You took the wrong guy.’
No reply. Whoever stood outside didn’t move away, though.
‘I won’t tell the police, I swear. Just let me go home.’
Still no response. Drew’s mouth was so dry he could barely speak.
‘You can blindfold me if you want. That way I won’t see your face.’ Scenarios flashed through his mind: the unlocking of the door, an order to keep his eyes shut. Soft cloth tied over them. Followed by the unfastening of his restraints. Then Drew would attack, using the chains that had bound him. Their metal links crashing against the bastard’s nose, or blinding him. A long shot, but it might work.
A stir of clothing, an intake of breath. But no key in the lock, no bolt being drawn back. Perhaps the guy didn’t have a suitable blindfold handy.
‘For God’s sake, do the right thing. You have to let me out of here.’ Hysteria pervaded Drew’s voice, and he fought to stay calm. He’d never expected this to be easy.
A snort of derision. Then the sound of footsteps in retreat, growing ever quieter.
‘Hey!’ Drew’s vocal cords cracked under the force of his shout. ‘Come back! Don’t leave me here, you prick!’
His plea met with silence. His jailer had gone.
Fury pounded through Drew’s body. He screamed until his voice gave out, terrible yells of rage and denial that filled his makeshift prison. His wrists strained against their bonds as he wrenched himself upright, inflicting savage bruises on his flesh.
Exhausted, he crumpled against his mattress, tears stinging his eyes. His former resolve seemed very distant.
That night Drew slept more deeply than usual. When he awoke, his head felt fuzzy, as though stuffed with cotton wool. He crawled to the bucket, surprised yet relieved to find it empty. Before it had been rank and almost full. The discarded bottles and used cling-film had also gone. His captor must have drugged him, then cleaned up his cell.
Horror prickled Drew’s skin, and sobs choked his throat. While he’d lain unconscious, his captor had been within touching distance. The nightmare had just stepped closer.
CHAPTER 11 - Before
Rick waited in the empty flat, huddled in his bed. His pyjamas were soaked and stinking from when he’d wet himself, but he didn’t care. A whiff of stale sweat clung to his duvet; his mother hadn’t washed it for months. She’d be home soon, he persuaded himself; she’d never left him alone overnight. It was just a matter of time before he heard her key in the lock.
He wrapped his arms around his pillow, covered in his mother’s T-shirt, and held it—her—close. The hours ticked by until at last he slipped into a troubled sleep.
When he awoke the morning sun was filtering through his bedroom curtains. He listened, his ears straining for any sound, but heard nothing. Silence wrapped the flat in an uneasy embrace. Rick unfurled himself, threw back the duvet and walked into the living room. His mother’s door was open, allowing him a view of her empty bed. He padded towards the bathroom, then the kitchen, but both were deserted. Icy fear clutched his heart.
Rick retreated to his bed, pulling his duvet over his head and the pillow into his arms. He inhaled his mother’s scent from the T-shirt, deciding she must have gone straight to work. She’d be back once her shift finished. At least it was the school summer holidays. Instead of fidgeting through lessons, he’d be home, the way a good boy should be, when she returned.
‘I want my mummy,’ Rick sobbed, his face buried in her T-shirt. Surely she’d come, if he wished hard enough?
Time inched by as the day passed. Rick didn’t venture from his room; his empty belly went ignored, and he voided his bladder into an old Fanta bottle. He refused to think about Mr Nasty hauling his mother out of the flat. That way it hadn’t happened.
Later, after dark, a fist pounded on the front door. When nobody answered, curses followed in a male voice. Rick recognised its owner: one of his mother’s punters. He cowered lower into the depths of the duvet, but the fist hammered on the wood again. After a while, the man’s footsteps retreated along the tiles of the communal hallway.
Days passed. Rick continued to wait, only moving from his room if he needed to shit or to grab food from the kitchen. Dry bread eaten straight from the packet. Slices of processed ham rolled up and shoved in his mouth. It didn’t take long to empty the fridge and cupboards. Once they were bare, he rummaged through the waste bin. In it he found two chicken bones, both with shreds of skin and flesh clinging to them. Once he’d gnawed them clean, he chewed into the marrow.
Throughout his waking hours Rick lay in bed, replaying in his head the words his mother’s abuser had spoken.
You need to learn a lesson, whore. You’ll get the same treatment I dished out to that slut Rosalie Parker.
The unknown woman’s name became seared on his brain, although he had no idea who she was. Nor did he care. Rick just wanted his mummy to walk through the door, no matter how bruised and battered. She was all he had.
