Afterwards, he falls asleep next to me, chained to my ankle. I look at his white cheesy body asleep on its back and listen to the wet gurgling in his throat. His right arm hangs down over the side of the mattress and his left hand is touching my thigh.
I do not sleep. I want to be awake. I want to put my hand over his mouth and nose until he stops breathing. I want to drive a knife into his heart. For the moment, I lie still next to him, listening to him gurgle, thinking how fear is different when it’s real. I used to love those fairground rides that take you higher and drop you faster, but that was a fear that came wrapped in pleasure. This sort of fear has no upside or happy ending.
He’s awake now. Stretching. I force myself to snuggle up against him. His breath smells like sour milk.
He strokes my cheek. “You missed me?”
“You were away so long… I got frightened.”
This pleases him.
“Can’t I come with you? I won’t try to run away.”
“That’s not possible, my little monkey.”
I ask about Tash. Is she close? When can I see her?
His mood suddenly changes. It’s like flicking a switch. He slaps my face, knocking my head against the wall. He raises his hand again, showing me his palm, challenging me, daring me.
“Forget about her.”
“I’m lonely.”
“I’ll find you another friend.”
“What?”
“Someone to keep you company, eh?”
My mind suddenly stops. Is he suggesting what I think?
“No… who?”
“I can find someone.”
“No! No! Please don’t!”
He takes a photograph from his wallet. “How about if I bring her?”
My throat closes. It’s a picture of Emily. I have seen it before. We were mucking around in a photo booth at Oxford Station, pulling funny faces.
“She’s your friend?”
“No!”
“You wrote a letter to her.”
“I don’t want a friend.”
Even as the words come out of my mouth, I know a part of me isn’t convinced. I want someone to talk to. I don’t want to be alone. I push the thoughts away. Horrified. Hating myself.
“I just want to see Tash. Nobody else,” I say.
“That’s not possible. She’s still being punished.”
He takes me back to the trapdoor and kisses me. Then he lowers me down until my feet touch the ladder.
“If you want a friend, I promise I will get you one.”
“No. Please let Tash come back.”
The trapdoor is closing.
“That I can’t promise.”
31
It’s been sixteen hours since the fire. I slept through most of them, waking to more snow, which has bleached the pavements and parks, dipping the world in white. The newspapers are full of headlines about mob justice and public lynching.
Ironically, for perhaps the first time in his life, Augie Shaw has become a sympathetic figure, a victim not a villain. The police are to blame according to the Guardian. They took too long to react. The Daily Mail says Augie Shaw should never have been granted bail; the judge was clearly out of touch or deranged.
Putting aside the newspapers, I arrange a dozen photographs around the hotel room, propping them on chairs and the TV cabinet. I take a seat in the middle of the room, directly in front of an image of Natasha and Piper sitting side by side in a class photograph, light and dark, blonde and brunette, salt and pepper.
Radiating an odd mixture of vulnerability and sensuality, Natasha has a classical beauty. Piper, by comparison, looks almost boyish and angular.
I am beginning to understand this crime. The details have been floating just out of reach, but are now falling into place. The person responsible is no longer a figment. No longer a mystery. No longer a part of my imagining. I can see the world through his eyes; hear what he hears.
He’s a collector. He enjoys owning things, rare objects, valuable artifacts, things he’s been denied in the past. Some collectors fall in love with great works of art. A few arrange to have them stolen to order, knowing they can never hope to resell such a famous artwork or put it on public display. That doesn’t matter. It is about possession not largesse; owning something unattainable and bathing in the brightness of its perfection.
He’s an aesthete, who craves control and order in a disordered world. A man of strong discipline, trained to reason and compute, yet he has no moral base. He doesn’t believe he is bound by the same rules as other people but is willing to abide by the law because it helps him conceal his desires. Others wouldn’t understand what it feels like to “own” something, to have complete control over another human being-life, death, light, darkness, warmth, cold and sustenance.
What causes this yearning? Where does it begin? A powerless childhood, a chaotic past, impossible expectations; it could be any number of things, but along the way he developed a sense of entitlement or an anger at being denied his right.
Closing my eyes, I try to picture him, not his face, but his mind. There you are! I see you now! You’re a clever thief, bold as brass; you snatched two teenage girls who had known each other since infanthood-same hospital, same primary school, same classes. You planned this in advance, first in your fantasies, then adding elements from the real world.
But why choose these girls? Surely a prostitute would have suited your purposes. Easier to acquire, more anonymous than most, prostitutes are always disappearing but they rarely earn headlines or have a nation on alert. Missing schoolgirls aren’t forgotten. They’re cherished and prayed for and expected home.
You chose Piper and Natasha because they meant something to you, or represented someone. Possession and ownership, that’s how it began, but later the motive changed. Perhaps the luster wore off. You grew bored, or the girls weren’t as compliant as you wished. The reality was never going to match up to your fantasies.
That’s when you discovered another form of control. Punishment. Inflicting pain. Look what you did to Tash. What more intimate example is there of punishing a woman than to deny her something that makes her a woman? You removed her clitoris. You denied her sexual gratification. She might still be a sex object, but would never enjoy sex in the same way.
You expected to be horrified… to feel guilt or remorse, but it didn’t happen. Instead, it was the purest of joys because you had never known anything so intimate or invasive or final. It was the most inspiring and fulfilling moment of your life.
Now you’ve lost one of your possessions. Tash managed to escape and almost get home. She would have unmasked you and destroyed your elaborate secret life.
You’ll be chastened. You’ll go to ground for a while. If Piper is still alive she is alone, more vulnerable than ever. The closer we get to you, the greater danger she’ll face. You’ll protect yourself by removing all trace of her.
Taking a notebook, I begin jotting down bullet points.
• Mid-thirties to late fifties. • Above average intelligence. • He will live alone or with an ageing relative or a subservient wife-some form of domestic arrangement where nobody will question his movements or unexplained absences. • Tertiary qualifications or training that requires discipline and accuracy. • Knowledge of the area. (The
