Take off your clothes, he said, his voice deep and muffled, almost gravelly.
Sarah closed her eyes and grabbed the open neck of her shirt, pulling it tight. This was it now, the reason, what it was all about. Just close your eyes, she told herself. Don't think about it. Give him what he wants, and then get out. She started to shake, felt her chin tremble, more tears on her cheek. She took a deep breath and shook her head, tried to find some reserves of courage.
He took one step forward. Sarah took one step back.
Why are you doing this? she shouted at him.
He kept on walking towards her. Sarah stepped back again, but the wall stopped her. She could smell cigarettes on him, rolling tobacco, strong, pungent.
Sarah looked down and reached for the top button of her shirt.
Don't hurt me, she screamed, and then she began to sob, unable to stop herself. She flicked at the button, her hands trembling, and the top of her shirt fell open. It was one of Luke's shirts and it was too big for her. She flicked at the next button and felt the coldness of the room against her breasts. She was exposed to him, goose-pimples across her chest, and she could smell oil on him, and sweat.
Sarah yelped as he grabbed her chin and made her look at him. She could see only the black cloth of the hood, moving in and out faster now, his breaths deeper.
He grabbed at the next button down, his fingers rough and dry. Her cleavage was flecked with sweat despite the cold. He ran his finger between her breasts and rubbed the moisture between his fingers. It seemed almost tender, caring, and then he said softly, If you don't do as I say, I'll hurt you.
Sarah choked on a sob, and as she closed her eyes, she steeled herself, tried not to think about what she was doing.
She undid the rest of her buttons and let the shirt fall to the floor. She looked down, saw the dirt on her jeans. She undid them and let them fall to her ankles, stepping out of them so that she was naked in front of him. She felt exposed, vulnerable, so she put her arms across her chest and pressed her thighs together. Make it quick, she thought, and looked at the ceiling. Don't make it hurt. Just do it and let me go. Please.
Sarah opened her eyes when she heard movement. He was no longer there. She stepped away from the wall just as he came back into the room, except that this time he was carrying something. A hosepipe.
She was confused at first, but then she looked down and saw how dirty she was. Her skin looked mottled and cold, and her legs were soiled from when she had been trapped in the box.
She cried out as the blast of water hit her. It was icy, the stream coming at her like a punch. Sarah twisted, tried to get out of its way, but it followed her. The dirt around her feet turned into mud. She thought she heard someone else in the room, but maybe it was the water bouncing off the walls. It smacked into her chest, against her legs, her stomach. She cried out but the sound was lost in the noisy rush of water.
Then the water stopped. Sarah gasped with cold as the water dried on her body, her hair still dripping wet.
He moved towards her, his boots squelching in the mud. She didn't look up, just cried and flinched when she felt his hands on her shoulders. They felt warm and clammy against her frozen skin.
Why are you doing this? she asked, her teeth chattering with cold.
I do it because I like it, he replied. Isn't that a good enough reason?
Sarah looked at the hood, tried to guess at the face behind it. All she saw was black cloth. No features. No eye-holes.
That's evil, she said quietly, shivering.
He stepped back in fake shock. Evil? he asked, and Sarah heard the pleasure in his voice. What does that mean?
You know what it means, she shouted, angry now, tears running down her face.
He shook his head, enjoying himself. I give power to my imagination, that's all, he said. You live your life in fear, scared of consequences. I don't. That's what makes us so different.
You don't know me, she said.
Oh, I do, Sarah Goode. Better than you think. Everything has consequences, even the things that you do. Your little games, Sarah, they all mean something.
Sarah swallowed, started to shiver again, but this time it was through fear.
And what if I don't want to play your games? she asked.
Then you will die, he said simply. He gripped her hair in his hands and whispered into her ear, but I could show you a different way. No more fear, no more being held back.
Sarah closed her eyes.
Will you live your life my way? he asked, letting go of her.
Sarah looked at the floor and nodded her head slowly. I'll do whatever you want me to do.
She screamed as the water hit her again, smacking hard against her chest and then her face. She tried to curl up, her arms wrapped around her head, but the water carried on until she could feel herself slipping in the mud.
When the water stopped, she looked up at her captor. He was standing over her, the hosepipe dripping in his hands. He stepped forward and pressed his hands onto her shoulders, turning her around. Sarah could feel his eyes on her even through the hood, examining her, as if he was searching for something. She stared at the floor, tried not to think what he might do. Once he had turned her full circle, he grabbed her face in his hands and pulled her towards him. Sarah tried to look away, but he held on to her cheeks, made her look at him.
What do you see? he asked slowly, his breath smelling stale and unclean, even through the hood.
I see you, Sarah replied.
Not me. What do you see ahead, for you? Your future?
Sarah swallowed, and then closed her eyes.
I don't see one, she said quietly.
Have you ever wondered about the end? he whispered. What it will be like to draw that last breath, to look into the abyss, to know that you'll know the answer soon enough, life after death, or is it just nothing?
Sarah swallowed back tears and small moans of fear escaped.
I want to see the end flicker across your eyes so clearly that I can feel it too, he continued. Sarah could hear him licking his lips, and then he let go of her and turned to leave the room.
When he'd gone, Sarah saw that he'd left no food. And her clothes were gone. She was naked. No blankets, no bed, the incessant beam of the headlights illuminating the room and her feet cold in the wet dirt.
Then she heard the speakers pulse back into life, and the heartbeat sound filled the room once more as she sank back against the wall, sliding downwards, the stone cutting into her back, her cries mixing with the repetitive thumps.
Chapter Thirteen
Rod Lucas looked down at the addresses on his lap, the two other victims of recent explosions, and they were all on his patch, a rural area around Pendle Hill. Although he had worked in the towns nearby earlier in his career Blackley, Turners Fold he had spent most of his career patrolling the tight lanes around the hill. He understood the crime in his area, mostly diesel thefts or large brawls in remote pubs, country boys settling their disputes in the old-fashioned way. The explosions were different. They seemed planned, targeted.
He was outside one of the addresses. He checked his list against the number on the house, peering through the mud smeared on the windscreen of his Land Rover, and stepped out onto the pristine new tarmac of a modern housing estate. He looked along and saw a succession of green lawns, square and flat. As he walked towards the door, faux Georgian, with wooden panels and a frosted glass arch, he heard only the hard smack of his boots on the paved driveway, the curved streets quiet. It took just one knock to get the door to open.
He was outside one of the addresses. He checked his list against the number on the house, peering through the mud smeared on the windscreen of his Land Rover, and stepped out onto the pristine new tarmac of a modern housing estate. He looked along and saw a succession of green lawns, square and flat. As he walked towards the door, faux Georgian, with wooden panels and a frosted glass arch, he heard only the hard smack of his boots on the paved driveway, the curved streets quiet. It took just one knock to get the door to open.
Hello? said a female face from behind a security chain, young and cautious.
I'm Inspector Rod Lucas, he said. I want to talk to you about the explosion in your garden last week.
You don't look like the police.
Rod looked at his outfit. He couldn't argue with that. He was still wearing his pruning clothes, a checked shirt and grubby corduroys. He pulled out his wallet and showed the Lancashire Police crest.
The door closed for a moment, and Rod heard the rattle of the security chain. When the door opened fully, the face at the door turned into a teenage girl running down the hall. College girl was Rod's guess.
Mum? she shouted. There's a policeman to see you.
The girl turned round and pointed to a room at the front of the house. Go in, she said. Mum won't be long. When Rod smiled, she blushed and then skipped into a room at the back of the house.
Rod opened the door to the living room, and he was surprised. He had expected a modern look; laminated flooring, coal-effect fire, maybe a large television. Instead, it was similar in style to Abigail's cottage, like a Gothic lair, with a heavy black chandelier and dark red walls. The fireplace was high and open and made of dull grey stone, more suited to a castle than a modern box in a faceless estate.
He turned around when he heard the door open, and in walked a woman in her early forties, her hair dark and long, crimped into waves, wearing a long linen dress, her feet bare.
Isla Marsden? Rod queried. When she smiled whimsically, he said, I'm here to ask some questions about the recent explosion in your garden.
It was in the shed, said Isla, her voice soft, an almost dreamy quality.
It's happened to someone else, said Rod. Except that someone was hurt today. When Isla didn't respond, he said, It was an old lady called Abigail Hobbs.
Rod saw the flinch, just a widening of her eyes, before Isla quickly brushed her hair from her face, a reflex action, and resumed her faraway smile.
Do you know her? he asked.
Isla made a bad show of thinking about her answer, and then she shook her head. I don't think so.
Her cat died, and Abigail is in hospital, hurt quite badly. Are you sure you don't know her?
Isla shook her head again.
Do you have any more ideas about who might have caused the explosion? he asked.
Again, Isla responded with just a shake of the head, and then she said, I thought I had to ask you that question, her voice defensive.
We're trying our best, he said solemnly. When she didn't answer, he nodded and said, Thank you, Mrs Marsden. I'll keep in touch.
As he walked out of the room, heading for the front door, he paused. It's funny, though, Mrs Marsden, about the coincidence, he said.
What do you mean?
He turned round and saw that her composure had slipped. He looked down at her hand. You share the same taste in jewellery. As her cheeks flushed, he pointed at her right hand. You even wear it on the same finger. Third finger, right hand. The screaming face, silver on black. Abigail has one too.
As she looked at him, her eyes worried now, Rod nodded at her.
Thank you for your time, he said. Call me if you want to talk, and then he clicked the door closed as he went back to his vehicle.
I was heading for the college, trying to shake off my unease about my private life. I wanted to speak to Katie again, to find a reason why Luke's friend had described Sarah's relationship with Luke so differently. I remembered that Katie said she had lectures, so college seemed like a good place to start.
I didn't normally feel old. I was thirty-four but had kept my hairline, just speckles of grey spoiling the dark waves, but suddenly I felt a generation gap as I hung around the college building. It was an offshoot of one of the Manchester universities, a seven-storey concrete slab in the middle of Blackley, next to a one-way system, so that lectures were disturbed by posing young men driving the loop, watching the girls and playing music at distorted levels, making the shop windows rattle as they went past. Young students with rucksacks and attitudes stared at me as I looked around, their faces obscured by hoods, their legs stick-thin in baggy denims. The security guard was chatting up the young female students, his chest puffed out, feet apart.
Katie had said she was studying history, so I made my way inside and searched for the history department. It didn't have much of one, not what you could call a faculty, just lectures taking place on different floors, marked out by timetables printed on notice-boards. I walked the corridors but I couldn't see her.
I headed out and decided to take a drive past the house. I struck lucky. Katie was just locking up the house as I drove up the street, and she looked startled as I scraped my wheels against the kerb, squeezing behind a scruffy green Fiesta. When I jumped out of the Stag, she relaxed and smiled. Back so soon?
I've got a few more questions, I replied.
Well, I was just going out.
Let me take you, and I went to open the passenger door.
Katie looked up and down the street before throwing her bag into the passenger footwell and climbing in.
Where do you need to be? I asked.
Katie thought for a moment, and then said, College will do.
Again? How many lectures do you have a day?
I need to go to the library, that's all, she replied. When I didn't respond, she turned towards me and asked, What do you want to know?
Just more about Luke and Sarah, I replied. There are a few things I can't get straight.
What like?
I set off driving, the Stag struggling up the steep hill. You told me before that Luke and Sarah were close, that Sarah loved him, I said. It would explain a jealous rage, I suppose, the knife in the chest, but Luke's friend tells it differently. He talked like it was a casual thing on both sides. That makes a rage less likely. So which one is real?
Katie looked out of the window as old houses were replaced by traffic lights and a quick route out of town, the grey strip of the inner ring road, trees and flowers along the edge to break up the concrete. The real Sarah is different to what people think, she said.
We were near the college again, and so I found somewhere to park and turned off the engine. Katie turned towards me, one knee onto the seat, and ran her fingers through her hair. What do you think about Luke's murder?
I could smell Katie's perfume, sweet and cloying. I don't think anything, I replied. Not yet. So tell me, why do you think Luke saw it differently to Sarah?
Does it matter? she asked.
Maybe. It can't be a lover's rage if it was just a fling.
Are you in love, Jack?
I found myself about to say no, I didn't know why, like I'd been caught off-guard, but then I stopped myself and asked her why she wanted to know.