Chapter 57
SCARLETT
‘Shh,’ Phoebe hisses.
The main stable door creaks open, catching on the stone floor. The woody scent of Justin’s aftershave wafts into my stall. He switches on the light, flooding the stables in harsh LED glare.
I shield my eyes with my hand and slowly edge away from the eyehole. The anger I feel for this man has magnified now I know for sure he was responsible for my sister’s death. He enters Phoebe’s stall, which is the nearest to the main door. ‘Good evening, Phoebe. How are you?’
‘I’m good, thank you, Justin.’
‘You two have become acquainted,’ he states, rather than asks. ‘I do hope you both get along.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ Phoebe replies obediently.
He doesn’t seem to care that we’re comparing notes.
This can’t be good.
‘I’ve brought supper. One of your favourites, Phoebe – pesto pasta – along with a glass of lemonade and a jug of water.’ Justin’s voice echoes around the building. ‘You need to keep hydrated. It’s hot out there at the moment.’
The sound of him placing a tray on the ground makes me want to scream: Don’t drink the lemonade, Phoebe.
Don’t drink it. He enters my stall, towering over me and holding an oversized wooden tray.
‘Hello, Imogen. I hope you’re hungry. I’ve got some lovely food here for you. ’ He places the tray on the ground.
I cringe at the sound of Phoebe gulping the lemonade. ‘How am I meant to eat with my hands tied behind my back?’ My attempt at sounding polite doesn’t land.
‘Silly me,’ he replies, mockingly. ‘That won’t do.’ He grabs my shoulders and pushes me over onto my face. A cold blade rubs along my wrist. He must have a knife. Within moments, my hands and feet are free. ‘There you go. That should be better for you.’
I roll over onto my back, rubbing my wrists and wriggling my ankles for circulation.
‘Manners, young lady. What do you say?’
His patronising tone makes me want to lash out. It takes every inch of self-control to restrain myself. ‘Thank you, Justin,’ I answer reluctantly.
‘Good girl. Now, all being well, you can have a bed in the morning.’
I eye the knife and fork on the tray and contemplate grabbing one of them and rushing at him. But now is not the right time. I fear I can barely stand, let alone pick a fight with this monster.
As he leaves the stable, he calls, ‘Goodbye, Phoebe.’ The way he says it makes me shudder. It sounds so final. He turns out the light, casting us back into the semi-darkness with just the fading light to see by.
‘I will say, he does bring good food,’ Phoebe says as soon as he closes the door. ‘That lemonade was delicious.’ I can hear her scoffing her pasta.
I open my eyes and look at the tray of food he delivered for me. If he thinks I’m about to eat or drink, he can think again.
Cutlery clatters against a plate. ‘I’m starving,’ Phoebe says with what sounds like a mouthful of food.
‘I can’t eat,’ I say. ‘I feel too sick.’
‘You’ve got to keep your strength up, Immy.’
She sounds so young. Innocent. Vulnerable.
I huddle into the corner of the stall, thinking about how I’m going to get myself out of this place. My only hope is that the email I sent George finally reached him, and he read it. Otherwise, no one knows where the hell I am.
Phoebe’s tray scrapes along the ground. She’s done.
I glance at the water on my tray. I’m so thirsty, but I daren’t drink it.
To prevent any moment of weakness, I take the two glasses and pour the contents into the bucket in the corner that I had no choice but to pee in earlier.
Then I bury the basil-heavy food amongst the rotting hay.
I need to keep alert here. Keep fit. I circle the stall, my feet lifting the hay. ‘Have you ever been allowed out, Phoebe? You know, to walk the grounds.’
‘Not since he put me in here,’ she replies. ‘It’s really nice to have someone to talk to again, you know.’ She gives a loud yawn. ‘I’m really tired now. I need to sleep.’
She’s out like a light, her breathing faint and hurried.
I lie down and close my eyes. But I can’t rest. It’s just too damn uncomfortable. Time elapses. I must find a way to keep track of the hours, or at least the days, and heaven forbid, weeks or months.
I don’t know how many minutes pass before the door opens again. Quieter this time. Petrified, I cower in the corner, worried he’s going to somehow guess that I haven’t eaten my food.
The door opens to Phoebe’s stall. The heavy clank resonates around the building. As quietly as possible, I inch towards the hole in the wall to try to see what’s happening. Perhaps Phoebe is finally being released. And that might not be a good thing.
From what I can make out through the hole, Justin is standing over Phoebe sleeping on the mattress. He looks smaller, somehow. Phoebe doesn’t move. She’s been drugged. I’m sure of it. He’s got his back to me, so I can’t see what he’s doing.
But I hear it.
He’s choking the life out of Phoebe’s tiny figure.
Phoebe awakes and struggles, but she’s incapable of fighting back.
I turn away, my hand to my mouth, stifling the urge to scream. A fleeting thought begs the question: is this what he did to my sister? It fills me with utter despair, until I reassure myself that there was no sign of physical abuse from the autopsy.
I force myself to take another look. A light has been switched on.
I fight the urge to scream. It’s not Justin’s hands wrapped around Phoebe’s neck.
It’s Beth’s.