He blinked once, then twice. He would have sworn he could see the lights of a car coming down the lane towards the farm. Distant. Far away. But he wasn’t sure of what he was seeing.
He took the gun out of his pocket. Checked it. He was ready to deal with whatever he was going to face. Kill or be killed. He started to run. Fast and hard. 25. SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER, EVENING
Carrie leaned back against the wall of the barn trying to look as calm and relaxed as she could. Like she’d been trained to do in tense and difficult situations.
About as calm and relaxed as you can, she thought, when you’re gagged and bound to a wall. And a madman is standing over you about to kill you. Because his mother told him to.
Most likely with his bare hands. Unless he had a knife in his pocket that he’d pull out and use to cut her throat. She felt a sudden, sobbing sense of despair. She’d never see Noah again, nor her mum. She tried to speak. Calm and rational words. Mumbled desperately through her gag.
The man put down the lantern he was carrying and reached into his pocket.
Pulled out a knife.
Moved towards her. Carrie looked up, terrified.
She was not going to let him see that, though. She met his gaze, her chin jutting out, her eyes steady, strong and defiant.
She thought her final words. Noah. I love you with all my heart. Mum, Dad, I love you, too. Dad, I remember you always.
The man lurched forward, cut at the gag at the side of her mouth. Opened her mouth. Removed the handkerchief. “Do not scream again,” he said quietly. “I will put it back on if you do.”
“Please,” she said as calmly as she could. He must be able to hear the shaking in her voice, she thought. “Let me go … it’s not too late.”
The man with the melted face shook his head.
“Let me go now, just untie my arms and legs and let me walk away. You don’t have to do this.”
The man shook his head again, more emphatically this time.
“It’s not too late. We can sort this out. I’ll speak up for you and help you. Just let me go now.”
The man with the melted face reached into his pocket and took out a hip flask.
He held it up to her lips.
“It is water,” he said. “You are thirsty.”
She drank from it, once, then twice, and nodded her thanks.
“I must take you somewhere else. Before my brother gets back. He will know you are here.” He spoke so slowly, almost methodically.
“Why? What will your brother do? Where’s he gone?” She tried not to let him hear the panic she was feeling.
The man crouched down next to her. Then sat down, reaching for his tin of tobacco.
“He is hiding your car in the forest,” he said slowly, opening the tin. “He will be back soon.”
“What will he do then? To me?” Again, she could hear her voice wavering. Wished she hadn’t said it. Knew she shouldn’t sound like a victim. Should sound calm and measured. And she had to take charge of this situation somehow. Be in control. Act fast too.
He was just sitting there. Calm as you like.
The brother on the way back.
Here at any moment. God knows what then.
The man took out a cigarette and a matchbox from his tin. With thick and clumsy fingers, he tried to light the cigarette. He dropped the burning match. Pressed it out with his foot.
“Here,” she said, “untie my hands. I can do it for you. Let me help you.” She smiled as best she could.
He shook his head as he had another go. The match burned down to his fingers before he dropped it and trod on it. Once more, and the cigarette was finally lit.
There was a moment’s silence. She wondered whether a lit match might set fire to the straw, the barn going up in flames. Her and him with it. Whether he would untie her then or walk away and let her burn to death.
He smoked his cigarette carefully. He held it like a child smoking for the first time, she thought.
She wanted him to hurry, before the brother returned. To do whatever it was he could not bring himself to tell her about. But she also knew this was her chance to engage with him, to somehow win him over.
“Please may I have a cigarette?” She had not smoked a cigarette for years. Not since she was at school. Even then, only the once. She had coughed and spluttered and thought she was going to throw up. But she had to bond with him somehow. This was her only chance. All she could think of to say.
He stopped smoking. Held his roll-up cigarette away from his mouth. Thought and then mumbled his reply.
“I do not have proper cigarettes. Only these.” He gestured the roll-up towards her.
She smiled. “I’m like you. I smoke those.”
He looked at her curiously, thought again for a moment, and then answered, “Ladies do not smoke roll-ups. They are for men … working men,” he added with emphasis.
She went to say, “I’m no lady.”
Thought better of it.
Asked his name instead.
The man with the melted face dragged on his cigarette. He thought for a while. So long that she thought he was not going to answer. But then he did.
“Dennis,” he said. “My name is Dennis. D. E. N. N. I. S. Dennis with two n’s not one n.”
“Georgia,” she replied. “Georgy to my friends.” She smiled at him. And then added, “You can call me Georgy if you like … We should shake hands. Now we’ve been introduced properly.”
He looked at her
