Waterhouse And Zailer: The Carrier Part 20

"Your need to invent such a story says more about you than it does about my daughter," Proust said quietly.

"Im trying to say something about you, something you need to hear," Simon told him. "Regan came to see me to compare notes. Im her hero, for standing up to you. I said she should tell you how she really feels. She looked terrified. When I said Id tell you the truth if she didnt, do you know what she did? Burst into tears, begged me not to say anything. Know what her worst fear is? That youll stop her mother from seeing her. Shes furious with Lizzie for not protecting her from you when she was a kid, like any decent mother would have. Same time, she sees her as a fellow victim, too scared to acknowledge what was going on."

The Snowman didnt look like a person listening to another person-more like a stake with a vein-ringed head that had been driven into the floor of his office. Simon couldnt shake off the sensation of having drifted into a horror film against his will. His heart was pounding; sweat dripped down his sides from under his arms. His conviction that Regan Murray would thank him one day was based on nothing, he realized; he was less convinced now that hed done the damage and couldnt undo it.

"I know lies when I hear them," said Proust.

"You think Im making it up?"

"My daughter wouldnt discuss family business with a stranger."

"Wouldnt she? So how do I know about her friend Nirmals eighteenth? Amandas taxi broke down. She had to get out and flag down another one, and got home ten minutes late. Ten minutes, thats all. Lizzie was relieved she was safe, but that wasnt enough for you. How many hours did you make her stand outside in the rain, with Lizzie cringing in the background, too scared to tell you you were being unreasonable?"

No response.

"I know the answer," Simon said, in case Proust had thought the question was rhetorical. "I know how many hours it was, because Regan remembers. Do you?"

The Snowman walked indirectly back to his desk, stopping in front of his filing cabinet on the way for no reason that Simon could work out. He pulled his jacket off the back of his chair, took his keys from the pocket and, jangling them in one hand, headed out of his office. He was going to lock the door behind him. Simon saw what was about to happen, and did nothing to prevent it.

Had Proust locked him in deliberately? More likely hed done it automatically. Was he in shock? He wasnt the only one, if so.

The conversation Simon knew he needed to have with reception in order to be set free was the kind he most dreaded: awkward, absurd, humiliating. Charlie could take care of it for him; shed make it feel manageable and harmless. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and rang her. When she answered, he said, "Its me. The Snowmans locked me in his office. I need you to come in and get me out."

"So youre talking to me, are you? Now that you need something." She sounded upbeat.

"Is that a yes?"

"Its my day off."

"That why youve been at the Dower House all day, doing Sams job for him?"

"You dont know the half of it. I dont want to boast, but theres been an interesting development, thanks to my efforts. Its not often I get to boast."

"I suppose Buzz Lightweights already heard all about this development."

"Oh, G.o.d! Swear to me that youll stop blathering on about traitors and treachery like some f.u.c.king neurotic medieval monarch, or Im going to leave you locked in there!"

Simon listened to Charlie lighting a cigarette. It was one of his favorite sounds, especially over the phone. He found it comforting: the crackle of cellophane, the metal scratch-crunch of the lighters wheel, the deep inhalation.

He walked over to the desk and sat on it, resting his feet on Prousts chair. "I told the Snowman about Regan," he said.

"Uh-huh. I knew you would."

Simon listened for clues. That was either a smoke ring or a sigh of desolation.

"You told me not to."

"Thats how I knew you would. Is that why Proust locked you in?"

"Telling him was the right thing to . . ." The words evaporated in Simons mouth as he noticed Prousts notepad, the one hed scribbled on while on the phone. The handwriting looked more like germs under a microscope than letters of the alphabet, but Simon could make out a few words. "Attack" was one of them. And the name Gaby Struthers.

"Get me the f.u.c.k out of the Snowmans office," he ordered Charlie. "Now!" By the time he remembered to add a "please," shed already gone.

15.

FRIDAY, 11 MARCH 2011.

Cant see. Wrong, achingly wrong, dont understand. This cant be me, cant be about me, must stop soon. Theres something covering my face and head. Plastic. When I breathe in, it touches my mouth, smells like a cheap raincoat I had as a child. I try to breathe it away, but the wind blows it back, pressing it against my face. Wind. Im still outside, then. Outside my house. My arms are behind my back, held together. By him?

Heavyset, short hair. I saw him. His neck . . .

I want to be unconscious again. Thats where Im going.

My mind scatters its pieces. Flooding panic as I come to, washed in terror. Im upright. I must be standing, though my legs feel shaky and hollow, not solid enough to hold me up.

Dont overreact. Dont react at all.

I struggle to pull my hands apart. Something peels away, leaves a small patch of skin on my wrist stinging, but the movement is minimal. Try again. No difference at all the second time. Tape. Hes taped my wrists together. Somethings putting pressure on my windpipe. Not crushing it-its uncomfortable, but theres no pain. Neck-brace tight, but not getting tighter.

This must mean Im calm: Im able to distinguish between inconvenient and life-threatening.

I can control this fear if I focus. Its an opportunity to be good at something. I mustnt fail.

A ripping sound: tape tearing off a roll. Tighter. Pain. Hes winding tape round my neck to keep whatever hes got over my head in place.

My brain caves in on itself. Im going to suffocate and I dont know why. I cant die without knowing why and who.

A man with short hair and things on his neck. I saw him.

"Gaby, Gaby, Gaby. Youve well and truly overstepped the mark, havent you?"

The sound of his voice sends my body into spasm. This is real. This is happening. I try to run, blind, and hit a barrier-his body?-which throws me back against a harder, more even surface. My car. I was standing by my car. Leaving Sean.

Hes going to kill me. Because I overstepped the mark. What mark?

I cant give up. No reward, ever, for those who give up. There must be a way out that involves thinking; I just have to find it. Im good at thinking, better than most.

"I wish I didnt have to do this to you," he says, sending another wave of revulsion rolling through me. "Im not going to enjoy it." His talking is the worst thing, worse than the bag over my head: hearing that he thinks he is justified, being too weak with fear to argue.

He sounds so ordinary. I try to fit his face to a peripheral man in my life: the heating engineer who came to service the boiler last week and made it worse, the parcel man, the takeaway delivery driver. No, he is none of those. Ive never seen him before. Hes n.o.body from my world. How can I be the person he means to harm? Ive never done anything to hurt him. I know life isnt fair, but its fairer than this, fairer to me.

"All this is for me is a job that needs doing," he says. "Get things sorted. It gives me no pleasure whatsoever, but you have to learn."

I need to be telling him to let me go, but I cant mold my fear into words hed recognize.

Learn what?

He is going to enjoy it. Thats why he keeps saying he wont.

Dread has siphoned the strength out of my muscles. A few seconds ago, I ran. I couldnt now. My oxygens running out, and I cant have any more once its used up. Not fair. The harder I try not to breathe too fast, the faster I breathe: wasteful and helpless, buried alive aboveground. Hes made a plastic coffin for my head and wrapped me in it.

I suck in, feel fingers in my mouth. Then something b.u.mps against my nose and theres a ripping sound, a gust of wind in my face. I can see my car window and smell a cigarette. It takes me a few seconds to realize hes torn a hole in the plastic.

"Please let me go," I manage to say. Hes given me air. He doesnt want me to suffocate. Hold on to that.

"Have you learned, though?" he asks, close to my ear, through the plastic. "I dont think you have."

I tell him Ive learned. Over and over, gibbering. My stomach is coming apart inside itself.

"Oh, yeah? What have you learned? Lets hear it."

Nothing to offer him. Nothing at all. Id pretend if I knew how.

Not Jason Cookson, not Sean. I saw him.

I cant think of anyone else who hates me enough to do this.

"Youve learned nothing because I havent taught you yet, but I will." He presses his disgusting body against mine, wedging me against my car. "Looks like Ill have to teach you not to lie as well. Open your mouth and stick your tongue out."

"No."

"Dont say no."

Shuddering with terror, I obey the order.

"Further. What do you think Im going to do, cut it off?" He sn.i.g.g.e.rs. If Id heard only the laugh and no words, Id think he was younger: a teenager, not a man in his late thirties or early forties.

I saw him. Does that mean h.e.l.l have to kill me? If he doesnt, Ill go to the police. h.e.l.l be punished. He must know that.

"Tongue out."

"I cant!" Cold tremors rack my body. If Im going to die, Id rather it happened immediately. Cant say so. He might kill me.

"Youre not trying, Gaby."

I try. Whatevers covering my face has shifted downward, the torn edge touching my upper lip. I cant see anything anymore.

"What do you think a liar deserves to have her mouth washed out with?" he asks me.

I slump. Am falling in a narrow gap, sliding down the sides. He hauls me up by my arms. Any second now, someone will walk past, see us, rush over to help me. Any second. A couple out walking their dog will notice. . . .

No, they wont. I parked in front of the garage round the back, not at the road end of the driveway, where I normally park. So that it would take me longer to walk to the front door, so that I could put off facing Sean for a few more precious seconds.

Whatever this monster does to me, no one will see.

"I can think of a few things I could wash your mouth out with," he says. "Spoiled for choice, really."

I try not to listen to the pitiful noises Im making, or to him telling me that I wont need any more lessons after this one, because hes such a good teacher. The best.

I dont know how much time pa.s.ses before he says, "You can put your tongue away. And you can thank me for giving you a chance." He grabs me by the face, his thumb and finger pressing into the bone of my chin through the plastic. "Im warning you, though: lie to me again and youll get your mouth washed out with something you wont like the taste of."

More humiliating than thanking him is meaning it. Hes giving me a chance. He wont kill me. All he wants is to teach me something. Im a good learner. Thank you, thank you.

He turns me round, pushes me against the car. Leaning into me, he circles my waist with his arms, takes hold of my belt. Only to scare me. He wont undo it. Its an empty threat, like the plastic over my face. See? He hasnt undone it. I can still feel the belt around me . . . and then I cant. He must have unbuckled it. I tense, wait for the sound of him pulling it out of its loops. He could strangle me with it. No, hes tugging my trousers down. He has a different horror in mind. Cause of death: the accelerated draining of hope.

Every second that I do nothing I let myself down. I scream. He hits me in the side of the head, hard. "Please dont do this, please," I sob. He cant rape me outside my house. Its not properly dark yet. Things like this only happen when its dark.

"I dont want to do it," he says. "Like I said: gives me no pleasure."

Then why?

Because I have to learn.

"What? Please, just tell me. Tell me what I need to learn. Ill do whatever you want." Id like to say more to convince him, but theres a blockage in my throat and mouth, a current. I choke, cough, spray the inside of the plastic with bile.

"Ive never been as frightened as you are now," the monster says matter-of-factly. "Cant imagine what its like to be so frightened that youre sick on yourself. Is it embarra.s.sing? Or just disgusting? How does it feel?"

What will he do if I ignore the question? I dont want to find out. I give him an answer, not daring to lie in case he can read my mind.

"Youre not going to tell the police about this, are you? Thatd be the stupidest thing you could do. Itd show youd learned nothing." He yanks my underwear down. No, he doesnt. No, he doesnt. Thats not whats happening. This is a pa.s.sing nightmare. Not real.

I think about Tims recurring dream. "Recurring" means it goes away in between. I would gladly make that deal if I could, if it were the only way out. Let this stop now and happen to me tomorrow instead-next week, next month. Just not now.

"No fun, this, is it?" my attacker says. "Not at all fun-not for you and certainly not for me. Think about that. Do I want to force myself on you? No, I dont."

I hold the idea of Tim in my mind. He is suffering more: in prison, charged with murder. He must be frightened.

Cold air on my bare skin. Too much skin. I am all surface, no self. Disintegrating, losing too much too quickly.

Dont feel it. Think about Tim. Think of his nightmare, not mine. The first time he told me, the conversation we had . . .

It takes all my mental energy to set the scene: Pa.s.saparola, the table in the bay window. Can I will myself into the picture, forget where I am? Lunchtime, three weeks before Tim checked out of my life. "I think Francine might once have tried to kill me," he said. "But thats impossible, isnt it? If Im not sure?" On his plate, black linguine with squid: his favorite.

My safe place breaks up as vile words pour into my ear: "Are you ashamed? I feel sorry for you. I really do. Im not as hard-hearted as I seem, not once you know me."

Dont feel it.

"Its not impossible, no. People do try to kill people, often their husbands and wives. Though its odd that you dont know for sure."

"Id be ashamed if I were you. Would you say youre a coward, Gaby? People like you often are. I would, by the way-Id say youre a coward."