Chapter 2
Two
Natasha collapsed against the sideboard, one hand pressed over her mouth, blood dribbling down her chin to drip scarlet blossoms on the pale carpet.
Her small, muffled moan was cut short by another visit from DS Davis’s fist.
Something shifted deep inside Andrew’s stomach, fizzing as it headed south. Making his balls clench as he stood there and watched.
Oh, this wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all!
Natasha crumpled to the floor, and Davis took a little run-up – slammed his foot into her stomach, like he was trying to score a goal from the halfway mark.
A short scream barked free, and his foot landed again. And again. Making her curl up, arms covering her head as his sandshoes hammered into her legs and back.
Every blow came with a snarled word: ‘I – know – who – you – are!’
Davis was going to kill her. He was going to kill her, right here, with Andrew in the house.
Oh God . . .
Then Andrew’s eyes snapped wide, because what were the police going to think when they turned up at the crime scene? Dead woman downstairs and there’s Andrew, hiding in the box room, with a rape kit in his rucksack and the murder-victim’s underwear in his bloody pocket.
Think they’d believe he had nothing to do with it?
Think DS Davis would fess-up to killing her?
Course he sodding wouldn’t – he’d point the finger right at Andrew. And his police bastard mates would believe him. And they’d plant whatever evidence they needed to make Andrew look guilty. And that would be it: prison for life, while their murderous colleague danced off into the sunrise.
Fuck that.
Because Andrew was getting the hell out of here.
He shuffled his feet on the bone-pale carpet.
But how? The only exits were downstairs, and no way was Andrew going anywhere near that mad bastard.
Oh God . . .
THINK!
There had to be a way out of here.
Just needed a couple of minutes to breathe and get his head together, that’s all.
Andrew slunk away from the corner and opened the first door he came to – the kid’s bedroom.
Not a lot of places to hole-up, but it would have to do.
Somewhere downstairs, a clock struck midnight – the twelve chimes echoing through the mausoleum house as Natasha cried and DS Davis huffed and puffed like a rutting bull. Kicking the living shit out of her.
Andrew eased the bedroom door closed so gently that the catch barely whispered into place. Then backed away.
With the curtains shut, it was dark as a crypt in here, not so much as a sliver of moonlight.
Shitting hell . . .
He kept going, putting some distance between him and the door. And whatever nightmare was going on downstairs.
Why did everything have to go wrong?
Hadn’t he earned a little fun for a change?
Wasn’t it completely unfair that—
The edge of the bed hit the back of his knee and that was it – both legs gave way.
No, no, no, no, no!
Andrew whirled his arms, arching his back, trying to get his balance back. Then gravity took over, thumping him down on the mattress hard enough to make the whole bed bounce. Not far. Just a fraction of an inch. But the bed’s metal feet clunked against the carpet like a hammer.
An avalanche of stuffed toys tumbled to the floor.
The silence that followed was deadening.
Please no . . .
Oh Christing, buggering, no . . .
What if DS Davis heard that?
What if DS Davis decided to investigate?
What if DS Davis killed him too?
Andrew wrenched himself off the bed and scurried on his tiptoes back to the door. Making no sound at all. Not even breathing. And pressed his ear to the wood.
Silence.
Natasha wasn’t crying any more. Might be unconscious? Or already dead.
Anrew bit his bottom lip.
Was that a creak?
Maybe it was a creak.
A footstep on the stairs?
And there was nowhere to hide.
The bed!
Hide under the bed . . .
Only the tiny gap wasn’t big enough to take him and his rucksack and it was only a single bed and the metal frame wasn’t going to conceal much and all DS Davis would have to do is bend down and look and see him cowering there and he’d be trapped and Davis would drag him out and kick him to death on a kid’s bedroom floor surrounded by stupid stuffed fucking animals in this horrible lifeless house.
Andrew’s throat tightened.
Jaw quivering as tears threatened to break free.
Please . . .
Should’ve hidden in the other bedroom – the one filled with boxes. But it was on the other side of the landing and how was he supposed to get there with all the lights on in the hall and DS Davis standing right there?
Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .
Andrew shifted his weight from one foot to the other, dithering, looking from the door to the curtains and back again.
Barricade the door?
No time.
And the noise. And Davis would know he was in here. And . . .
Wait.
He lurched into the middle of the room, thrust his hand up inside the tasselled lightshade, and twisted the bulb from its fitting. Cold and firm against his nitrile gloves. Then slunk back against the wall, on the leeward side of the door – so he’d be behind it when it opened. Hidden.
But maybe it wouldn’t open?
Maybe DS Davis would come to his senses and realise what he’d done?
And maybe he’d run away like a sane person and not a total . . .
The door handle turned.
Andrew flattened himself against the wall, holding his breath, still as a corpse as the door swung open and light spilled in from the hallway.
It was faint, though. Like it was glowing up from the ground floor, instead of crashing in from the landing. Not bright enough to make much of a dent in the gloom. Leaving the kid’s bedroom smothered in darkness.
Trembling so hard that his fingers barely worked, Andrew reached into his hoodie pocket and slipped The Knife free of its sheath again. Gripping it tight in his shaky hand, the other covering his mouth. Tears making the room shimmer.
A grunt from the doorway.
Then DS Davis must’ve reached for the light switch, because that distinctive click sounded. Only nothing happened – what with the bulb missing.
Davis tried a few more times.
Click, click, click . . .
Same result.
OK.
Very, very quietly, Andrew pulled the night-vision goggles down over his eyes again, and the whole room lit up like a bile-green Las Vegas. Just in time to catch DS Davis stepping into the middle of the darkened room.
Davis peered up into the empty lightshade.
On the goggles’ screen, something . . . radiated off him. Something sick and dangerous. Something desperate to slash and tear and destroy.
Partially hidden by the open door, Andrew tightened his grip on The Knife.
He could do this.
He could.
All he had to do was lunge forwards and slit this scary bastard’s throat, then watch whatever the hell it was bleed right out of him.
Deep breath.
Do it.
Right now.
Before Davis turned around, saw him hiding behind the door, and battered him to death as well . . .
But Andrew couldn’t even move.
DS Davis’s head turned to the right: towards him.
Oh God, the bastard knows he’s here.
Andrew’s whole body clenched.
Across the room, Skeleton Bob grinned at them both, glassy black eyes sparkling – hungry and malevolent.
The Knife shook so much there was no way he could hold on. And if he dropped it, Davis would—
A clunk rang out.
But it wasn’t The Knife – that was still clenched in Andrew’s fist – and a breath later came the porcelain crash of something expensive shattering downstairs, followed by a wet, agonised sob.
Sounded like DS Davis hadn’t killed Natasha after all.
A growl ripped out of the vicious bastard, then he snatched a stuffed penguin from the bed, and marched from the room. Not bothering to close the door.
Oh, thank Christ . . .
Andrew closed his eyes and shuddered out a silent breath. Sagging as his body unclenched. Then frowned down at the front of his black trousers. Damp and warm, followed by a yeasty smell.
Yeah.
Because things weren’t horrible enough without that.
Outside: the sound of feet, thumping down the stairs.
Then Natasha’s voice, wrenching between a loose-lipped mumble and a full-on scream. ‘HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP ME!’ Then a catch in her breath. ‘No, please! I have money, I have—’
A thud muffled out.
Silence.
Then a sort of hissing noise, like something was being dragged across the carpet.
A door opened.
More dragging.
And the final, coffin-lid thunk of the front door closing again.
Andrew folded in half, grabbing his quivering knees – the fabric of his cargo pants already starting to go cold and clammy through his nitrile gloves.
He stayed there as the room whooshed around him, breathing hard, like he’d just done a thousand reps on the bench press, blood pounding in his temples.
But what if it wasn’t over?
What if Davis came back?
Stiff-legged, Andrew shuffled to the window and peered out between the curtains.
DS Davis was already halfway across the drive. He’d grabbed hold of Natasha’s ballgown – between her shoulder blades – hauling her, one-handed, towards a car that was every bit as nondescript as he was. That stuffed penguin crushed in his other fist.
Please don’t come back.
Please don’t come back . . .
Andrew fiddled with the buttons on his night-vision goggles and the picture zoomed in to full magnification, giving him a perfect view of Davis bundling her limp body into the boot then hurling the penguin in after her.
The bastard looked left, then right, making sure no one was watching, before climbing in behind the wheel with a huge grin on his face. Far more terrifying than the one printed on Andrew’s ski-mask.
Then the car’s lights flared in the goggles’ screen, washing out all details till the sensors caught up again. And by then the pale, anonymous Vauxhall was pulling away. Rolling down the drive and out onto the road. Heading left, back towards town.
Leaving Andrew alone in the house of horrors.