Chapter 42
XLII
The sky was murderous black through the crumbling window socket, spread with cold dead stars. A sliver of curved bone shone through the trees, as the full moon clawed its way over the horizon. Turning the world to ice with its uncaring light.
But even though the sun had gone down long, long ago, Natasha’s prison remained an oven. Turned up full and left to burn everything to a cinder.
Except for the shit.
That roasted in the cloying heat, its foul brown stink seeping into the dirt and stone walls. Lining the leather mask. Helping it suffocate her . . .
As the light faded, the bluebottles had settled down for the night.
But DS Davis hadn’t.
Rock music pounded out of the static caravan, loud enough to make the metal walls buzzzz. Because even when they were asleep you couldn’t escape the flies . . .
Natasha lay on her back, in the dirt, gazing up and out of the window at the cool, indifferent darkness of space.
Waiting to die.
Because that was what she was doing here.
Dying.
The only question was, what would get her first: dehydration or DS Davis?
. . .
Inflicting his revenge for something she didn’t even do.
Wasn’t her fault some violent scumbag tried to burn a bunch of migrants to death, was it? She didn’t light the match, no matter what the psychotic bastard said.
All she did was reflect the fears of her readers.
She wasn’t the monster here.
SHE WASN’T THE MONSTER.
He breaks into her house, attacks her, abducts her, strips her, chains her up in a shitty outhouse, tries to kick her ribs in, and somehow she’s the monster?
Fuck that.
Bastard’s insane, that’s what he is.
A rabid dog who needs taken behind the wood shed and put out of its misery.
Cos she’s not the monster.
It’s not her fault.
It’s his.
The music got even louder, and it wasn’t all muffled any more, then a whump and it was back to being an insect buzzzz again.
Like someone had opened and shut the caravan door.
A bobbing light stabbed in through the gaping window hole, illuminating the far wall for a moment, before disappearing again. Then her prison door squealed and shrieked and clattered open.
And DS Davis stepped inside.
He was wearing one of those head torches, turning himself into a shadow, only half seen as a void where the light bounced off the raw stone walls, carrying a bucket and spade. Like he was on his way to Bondi Fucking Beach.
Only they weren’t the kind you gave to little kids, they were full-sized ones. He clanged the bucket down, and scooped up Natasha’s shit with a disgusted grunt. Thunking it into the bucket. Retching as it hit the bottom.
Then, holding the bucket at arm’s length, he took the turd and the spade away.
Hope he bloody choked on it.
But he was back a couple of minutes later, with a spray bottle of something – squirting it onto the ground, smothering the stench of shit with the bitter-bleach stink of lemon-scented toilet cleaner.
A grunt.
Then he was gone again, leaving the door wide open behind him.
But none of Natasha’s limbs worked any more, and even if they did, the anchor wouldn’t let her go more than six feet.
So, instead, she closed her eyes.
Natasha blinked up at the grey ceiling.
No idea how long she’d been out for, but the moon had crawled its way across the window’s jagged hollow, still low in the sky, skimming along the treetops.
The music had changed too – different singer, different band – but deep down it was the same: pounding drums and guitars, full of bitter chords and angst-fuelled rage.
Burning . . .
Her throat was made of firebricks.
Couldn’t even swallow any more.
Just made her whole head jerk with the effort.
Back when she was five or six, she’d hiked up Redpath Hill, behind Nanna Carter’s house.
There was a roo, must’ve died in the bush a couple of weeks before.
Magpies had been at it, but they’d barely made a dent, cos he’d been a big fella.
But that was a long hot summer and the skin had shrunk as the body dried, till the ribs stood out like a bloody xylophone wrapped in leather.
She threw stones at it for a while.
Then went for a dip in Hyland Creek, while there was still some water left.
Christ.
To be back there, floating in the cool clear water, listening to the kookaburra cackle in the trees and the dragonflies hum. While the fat golden sun blazed—
‘Bitch.’
The whole world disappeared in a sharp glare of white, driving nails into her eyes.
Natasha screwed her face tight shut as those nails stabbed right out through the back of her head.
A foot nudged her ribs.
DS Davis was back – his voice slurred, and angry. But then he was always angry. ‘You know, you should thank me.’
Oh, yeah, cos he’d been such a great host!
‘I said, you should thank me.’
There was the sound of boots scuffing on the hard dirt floor, then fireworks exploded across her ribs again.
It got him nothing more than a muffled groan and a desiccated sob.
The bastard could slit her throat right now, and sand would pour out.
‘Because I saved you,’ his knees popped like gunshots, and a waft of whisky breath seeped through her leather mask, ‘from a fate worse than death.’
Something bounced off her arms and crumpled onto the floor.
Natasha forced her eyes open, narrow slits against the harsh beam of Davis’s head torch.
The thing looked like a ski-mask: black, with a jagged smile printed across the mouth in sharp, pointy teeth.
The fabric was weird though. Thin. But a bit rigid, like there was something sticky on it.
Something that had dried to a rich, dark-brown shine.
The smell of raw meat seeped out of the fabric.
DS Davis had a bottle of what looked like whisky, dangling from one hand. He took a swig, wiped his gob. ‘This piece of shite was in your house, waiting for you to come home.’
The whisky bottle got propped against the window hole, then Davis held up a flat slab of plastic. Opening it brought a laptop screen to life.
A synthetic-faced young man smouldered out at her, from the backdrop, with carefully manicured eyebrows, a precision-trimmed beard, and veneers whiter than Sydney Opera House.
Davis squatted down beside her again, fiddling with the laptop’s trackpad till a video played.
Took a moment, but that was her back garden. Her house. Filmed in the middle of the night, as some bastard hopped over the fence and broke in through the utility room.
Going from room to room, even Brooklyn’s bedroom . . . Then Natasha’s walk-in closet and en suite. Out across the hallway, looking down from the balcony as DS Davis barged into her home and punched her in the face.
Natasha rolled her head away from the screen briefly.
‘Yeah.’ Davis nodded, voice grim. ‘Wait till you see what he does to the others.’
Some more fiddling, then DS Davis placed the laptop in front of her face, another video flickering on the screen.
It was much the same to start with – a secluded rural property, sneaking in through the back door to creep through the house . . . Only this time the footage ended with screams and rhythmic grunts.
Davis grabbed hold of the mask and forced her face towards the screen. ‘You’re not watching.’
She forced a word from her corpse-dry mouth. ‘Water . . .’
‘Not to worry, though – I took care of the perverted wee monster. He won’t be raping anyone ever again.’
The head torch’s light swept across the ground to find the ski-mask again, with its brittle shiny stains and jagged-tooth grin.
‘The question is: what to do about you.’
He dug into a pocket and came out with a little half-litre bottle of water. Twisted the cap off. Sniffed. Then spat into it. Before screwing the lid on again and giving the bottle a shake.
‘Here.’ He tossed it at her head, making the thing bounce off the mask with a thunk. Rolling away.
Water.
Oh God . . .
Natasha wriggled across the dirt floor towards it, fingers fumbling at the condensation-dewed plastic.
It was only when she had the thing clutched in her shackled grip that the truth dawned: he was screwing with her. With the mask’s mouth zipped and padlocked shut, she couldn’t drink it anyway.
‘See, this bastard,’ Davis pointed at the screen, ‘ruined the lives of nineteen women. But you – with your lies and your hate and your spite – how many lives have you ruined? A hundred? A thousand? How many families have you torn apart?’ Looming over her.
‘Those poor migrant kids: their dad’s dead because you whipped up a racist, flag-shagging, far-right mob.
The Scottish Daily Post isn’t a newspaper, it’s a hate crime! ’
He dipped into another pocket and produced a key ring, held together with what looked like a rabbit’s paw. Or it might’ve been from a small dog . . .
Grabbing her face in one hand, he twisted her head around, sneering as he slipped a tiny key into the padlock on her leather mask.
Click.
He pulled the lock free and undid the zip.
Natasha hauled in a great gulp of fresh air.
But Davis didn’t let go of her face. Squeezing.
Digging his fingers in. ‘You can have your water; don’t want you to die too quickly.
’ Running the torchlight over her half-naked skin.
‘See all those teeny-tiny pale little flecks, like grass seed? They’re fly eggs.
Give it two days and they’ll hatch. Hundreds of lovely maggots to eat your rancid flesh.
’ A grin. ‘You’ll want to stick around for that. ’
He gathered up the laptop and the whisky.
‘Make one sound, Bitch, and the padlock goes back on. And stays on.’ DS Davis toasted her with the bottle, then took a deep swig. Hissing out fumes, before scuffing his way from the room. ‘Sleep tight!’
Soon as the squealing door rattled shut, Natasha opened the water and trembled the bottle to her lips.
Spit or not, it was sweet as nectar.
She allowed herself two mouthfuls only, before screwing the top back on. Nice though it’d be to neck the whole bloody lot, God knew when she’d get any more.
And meantime: she had an escape to plan.