shoulder, but she kept her body limp. He grunted. She was heavier than he had bargained for.
Theresa was not the sort of girl to blow over in the wind, her father always teased her. The thought of her father made her weak with hopelessness. How would he find her? Theresa opened her eyes. The car was parked underneath a stone shelter. The man pulled a heavy wooden door open and carried her into a darkness so dense it almost seemed solid. He dumped Theresa onto something lumpy and hard. Pain shot through her shoulders that had been twisted backwards. She heard him breathing deeply, satisfied. Theresa did not move.
Then he was gone, slamming the door shut. The key grated in the lock. He shot two bolts across. They were obviously stiff, but the door was too thick to hear if he swore or not. Like runnels, tears ran through the blood on Theresa’s face and into her hair. She shifted her weight off her arms, relieving the pain in her shoulders and neck. She was barely able to move – he had tied her expertly.
It was not only dark but also cold where she lay. She spread her fingers out wide, trying to feel what it was she was lying on. The fibres were tight, hard, pressing into her hips and her shoulders. Rope, thought Theresa, a great coiled-up rope. She listened to the muffled thudding.
‘The sea. Where?’ Her voice in the darkness startled her. It sounded cracked, as if it belonged to someone else, someone old. She thought about the girls she’d read about who had been found dead on the promenade. Their killer had not yet been caught. Panic rippled through her. Theresa breathed in and out carefully, forcing herself to keep calm. She turned away from the wave of horror bearing down on her.
‘Work it out. Work it out.’ The darkness was filling with tiny sounds. She focused on them, distracting herself by trying to work out what they were.
She thought of the promenade, where she and her mother sometimes went for walks. They parked at the swimming pool and walked from there, enjoying the whoosh of air that the skaters dragged behind them, the nannies with their over-dressed charges on the swings. She retraced the grey ribbon of stone from memory, counting benches, deciding whether they were yellow or blue, placing orange dustbins, cracked paving, snatches of overheard conversation. Theresa reached the turning point of her imaginary walk just as she saw the boathouses at Three Anchor Bay. The man would have driven his car down the slipway and unloaded her there. No one would hear her here. There would have been no one to see her, either. No one would remark on an expensive car parked on the slipway. If anyone saw a man get out of the car with a girl they would look away. At night it was only street prostitutes who brought their clients here – rich men, sailors with shore leave, whoever was paying. A woman’s scream would attract no attention – even if it was heard.
Theresa turned her face to the wall. Dread overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes and let herself slip back into oblivion. She did not hear the skritch, skritch in the recesses of her cell. The rats – fattened of late, and replete – waited for their moment.
Theresa surfaced despite herself, awoken by the resistance of the rusted bolts, her throat burning with thirst. She listened to his approaching footsteps. She couldn’t bear to die this thirsty. She kept her eyes shut. She would fight to stay alive. She couldn’t bear the thought of dying at all.
The man was close now. She had to buy herself some time, recover from the blow to her head, force herself to think. His smell, pungent with adrenaline, assaulted her nostrils. His breath brushed her cheek, moved over her lips. She did not flinch. The man’s warm breath moved down her throat and neck, followed by a hand that traced the outline of her body without quite touching it. A low moan escaped him, thick with desire and relief. Theresa’s skin burnt when he held his hand over her breast. She flinched, unable to contain the revulsion. He must have looked at her face again, because she felt his breath on her throat once more and then it was gone. She felt his hands at her ankles. He was untying the ropes there. The blood rushed painfully back into her feet. He pushed her over and released her hands.
Every fibre of her being recoiled, but she willed herself to stay limp, silencing the scream burning in her throat. His hands moved over her body. Purposeful, this time. He removed her shoes with practised dexterity. Her jeans went next. Her top was more difficult, but he slipped first one arm then the other out, like a mother undressing an infant. Then he jerked it over her head. The cord of the hood scraped her face. She felt the cold blade on her skin as he sliced off her bra and panties. The trickle of blood where the scalpel nicked her was hot. He traced the hips bracketing her hollowed stomach. His fingers passed over the mound of dark hair and lingered on the small mole on her thigh. Theresa wondered if being a virgin made her feel worse.
The man bent close, burying his nose in the hollow of her throat. Slowly he moved up towards her ear, breathing her in, sniffing for the essence of her. His wet lips left a trail of slime on her skin. Nausea pressed at the base of her tongue. He knew she was ready for him. He put his lips close to her ear and stroked her eyelids with infinite softness.
‘Wake up, beautiful. We’re going to have some fun together.’ The ordinariness of his voice pressed the air from her lungs. She had to look this nightmare in the face. She opened her eyes.
He smiled at her. His face was familiar, nice-looking, the man who had waved at her from the yacht. Friendly lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was so close, she could see his thick eyelashes. They were very long – like a girl’s.
‘How is your head?’
He was so solicitous that, before she could help it, she replied, ‘It hurts.’
‘Here, sit up. Have something to drink.’ He helped her up and gave her some water.
‘Who are you?’ she asked him. ‘Why have you brought me here?’
‘Do you like movies?’ he asked, as if she had not spoken at all.
‘Yes,’ Theresa said. She would try something else. ‘I’m cold,’ she said. ‘Do you think I could have my clothes back?’
He looked at her naked body. But Theresa’s question had shifted something. Very briefly, he lost the power to direct the interaction. Theresa felt the movement deep within the chrysalis of hope she was holding fast.
‘My clothes are there,’ she said, pointing as well as she could to the pile of garments hurled into the corner.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I have something much better for you. Something for a girl of mine.’
He reached behind a chair and pulled out two shopping bags. Theresa recognised the exclusive labels.
‘Put these on.’
He pulled out a very short skirt and a transparent top. The underwear was sleazy and uncomfortable to wear. She put it on, biting back her repugnance as she slipped the blue garter onto her thigh. The boots were blue suede. They came halfway up her thighs. The boots and the clothes were tight. The man must have had someone smaller in mind when he’d bought them. When she was dressed she stood up straight, turning slowly for him.
‘How do I look?’ she asked, marvelling at her ability to summon a coquette out of her terror. She might survive if she kept her wits about her. If she kept talking. It seemed to throw the man off track. If she lost it, then her clothes would stay in the pile in the corner. Her skin crawled. Her clothes would be covered by somebody else’s in a month or two, just as her jeans and hoodie were covering someone else’s now.
‘Is this where you brought the other girls?’ she asked. Her voice was so light it bounced off the heavy stone walls.
‘It is. Cosy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Theresa. ‘Did you watch TV together?’
He patted the large set. A video machine was balanced precariously on top of it. ‘We did. We watched TV and we made a bit of TV too. Just a little home movie. That’s what we are going to do, too.’
‘That’s what the costume is for?’ He nodded. ‘You must have known I was an actress, then.’
‘All women are actresses,’ he said. ‘Born to it.’ He stood up. The focus was back in his eyes. Theresa felt very afraid. The fragment of power that she had imagined she had held was gone. ‘Stand up,’ he ordered. ‘We have a lot to do.’
Theresa stood up. ‘My name is Theresa,’ she said. ‘Theresa Angelo. I want to go home. Let me go now and no one needs to know anything.’
She did not see his hand pull back before it caught her across the jaw. The blow knocked her against the wall with dizzying force. She slid down, wedged behind the bed of ropes.
‘You dirty little bitch. You don’t speak again unless I tell you.’ He leaned over and yanked her back to her feet. He held her fast while he rearranged her clothes and hair to his liking. Then he took her left hand. Her bones crackled as he folded her fingers tightly around a small silver key. He took a length of blue rope from his pocket and wound it with great speed around the hand, trapping the key inside. It cut into her palm. Blood trickled between her
