Never Alone

  Her voice is hoarse; she can barely hear herself against Will’s grunting as he drags her up the stairs. The wind is rattling the tiles on the roof and howling through the house, but when they reach the top of the stairs she manages a scream, manages to wrench herself free from his grip, using the last bit of strength she has to push him away.

  She doesn’t see his closed fist until it meets with the side of her head and her legs crumple beneath her, and everything goes black and silent.

  When she opens her eyes it is gloomy. She is stretched out like a starfish in bed, in a room that is semi-dark, lit by the glow of some artificial light. Over her head she can see a lampshade that she doesn’t recognise. When she tries to lift her head from the pillow something tightens around her neck, and her head throbs. It takes a second to realise that she is tied by the wrists and ankles to the bed.

  She lifts her head again carefully, to see that she is in the spare bedroom, upstairs. Will Brewer is sitting on the ottoman under the window, the curtains drawn, the bedside light next to her lit. He is leaning back, one knee jiggling an anxious rhythm. He is staring at her, chewing on one fingernail. There is something almost childlike about the way he holds his hand steady with the other hand.

  ‘Why have you tied me up?’ she asks, as calmly as she can.

  ‘You were going to run for it.’

  ‘Well, I won’t. Where can I go, anyway?’

  He drops his hands to his lap, pressing his fingers to his knees as if to stop everything shaking. He takes a deep breath.

  ‘Please, Will. You can untie me now.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I need to go out for a bit.’

  ‘Why? Go where?’

  ‘Things I need to do.’

  ‘Where’s Kitty? Where is she?’

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment and she thinks that he might, possibly, be about to see sense and tell her everything; that he might realise how crazy this all is, how he could get out of it even now if he could only see how stupid it was. And then she remembers the dried blood crusted around the edges of his fingernails, remembers being thrown back into the sofa by the force of him hitting her, his hands around her throat, and she realises he can’t go back. He can only go forward. It can only get worse.

  ‘You’re asking the wrong question,’ he says. ‘Why aren’t you worried about Sophie? Don’t you care about her? Or do you know where she is, and you’re just pissing me about?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know where she is. Will, please just untie this – whatever it is – around my neck. It’s too tight.’

  ‘It’s to stop you moving,’ he says cheerfully. ‘So you can’t strain to pull your hands free. I saw it on a TV programme.’

  ‘Don’t leave me here like this,’ she says, beginning to feel panic rising. If the noose around her neck tightens, how can she loosen it again?

  With a sigh he climbs on to the bed, straddles her. The sight of him above her triggers a memory of his fingers closing around her throat downstairs and she gasps, shrinks away from him. He looks down at her with something that might be confidence, as if he’s suddenly realised that she is completely under his control. His eyes wander from her face down to her chest. He touches her temple with a finger, catches the tear she hadn’t realised she had shed, traces a wet line down her jaw to her throat. He moves two fingers under the ligature, whatever it is, as if he’s checking a dog’s collar for a snug fit. He eases it looser, just a little. Sarah swallows with relief.

  He continues down her neckline, fingering the zip of her fleece, then moving across her chest, finding the bump of her nipple and stroking it until, undesired, unbidden, it reacts.

  Will smiles at this, at his power.

  ‘Please,’ she says.

  ‘Please what?’ he asks. ‘You want me to…? Oh, Sarah. Maybe later. When we’ve got more time.’

  He climbs off her, and, with the weight of him pressing her down gone, the ligature around her throat loosens a little more. She doesn’t move, in case he sees. It’s lying on her throat. She lifts her head a little bit. Will is at the door.

  ‘I won’t be long. A few minutes.’

  And then he disappears.

  ‘Don’t leave me!’ Sarah calls out, because she thinks this is what he needs to hear. He is going anyway.

  Downstairs, she hears Tess’s barks and yelps grow suddenly louder as the kitchen door opens, and then quieten again as Will speaks to her soothingly. Please God don’t let him hurt her…

  A few minutes pass before she hears the front door slam. From outside, a single bark. He’s taken Tess.

  She waits for a few more moments, in case he has just pretended to go, in case he’s still in the house, but she can hear nothing, not even the wind. The house echoes in silence, waiting for her to move.

  She tugs at each binding, but it feels as if struggling just tightens the knot. Still, she thinks there may be one thing she can do: tipping her head back into the pillow, she feels the ligature ride up to her chin. It’s tight across the back of her head, but at least it’s not around her throat.

  By wiggling, pushing her head back, gradually the knot slips up the top of her head and then, quite suddenly, it’s off. Lying across her face is what could be a black stocking. She blows, shakes her head to get it off her face. Is that what he’s tied her up with? If that’s it, there should be some stretch in there.

  At least now she can lift her head properly, turn her head to the side to see what she’s up against. A pair of tights, she thinks, tied around each wrist in a double knot at the back of her hand, and then tied around the iron bedstead. They are tight, but now her neck is free she can stretch one arm tighter to loosen the other, and if she pulls hard she can almost reach round to the knot…

  On the third attempt her fingers touch the knot. But that’s as far as she gets – a touch. Rest for a minute. Think. How can she get out of this?

  Unbidden, Sophie’s face comes into her mind. Sophie, sitting opposite her in the Black Swan. He likes to stir things up, he likes to make trouble… he gets off on it.

  Sophie knew what he was capable of, she thinks. She wasn’t running away from George. She was running away from Will.

  A few minutes…

  The thought of Will coming back gives Sarah a surge of strength and she pulls and wriggles and twists until the ligature on her right wrist slips suddenly over the knuckle of her thumb. A moment later, an almighty tug, and it’s free. The blood surges into her fingers and she sobs with relief. Her hand, in front of her face, looks white and purplish, the fingers swollen. But they are free.

  After a few moments she tries to reach across to the knot on the left side, but it is too far, too high. Instead she tries to squeeze a finger under the ligature at her wrist, to stretch the fabric. It feels tighter than the other side, or maybe her hand is more swollen. The fingers on her right hand have pins and needles. She cannot feel her left hand any more.

  And then she manages to get a finger under one of the layers, and pulls it away, allowing her hand to turn. She pulls and twists and wriggles and then both her hands are free. She cries with the sudden stab of pain in her shoulders, holding both her hands to her chest, rubbing them together.

  She doesn’t have long.

  By bending her knees and edging her bottom down the bed, she manages to pull herself into a sitting position. Her socked feet are tied, with the ligature around the socks. It looks as if it should be easy to work her feet free of the socks, giving her a few millimetres of space to pull herself free. Her legs are pulled so wide apart that she cannot reach either of them without considerable effort, but by pulling and twisting she eventually manages to get both hands to her right ankle.

  A few minutes later, she is free. It feels as though the whole process has taken more like an hour. She sits cross-legged on the bed for a minute, massaging her feet, which are freezing. Every joint aches, as does her head. She fingers her ear carefully, wondering if he tore something when he hit her. It feels bru
ised, puffy, crusted with dried blood.

  When she can feel her feet enough to stand, she goes to the window and moves the curtain aside just enough to see that, outside, the daylight is fading. She wonders why he bothered to close the curtains, to turn on the light; maybe to disorientate her. It has stopped snowing, but outside is all white.

  She walks carefully to the door, listening for sounds in the house, avoiding the floorboards she knows creak. The house is silent. Quickly she runs across the hallway to her own bedroom, to the upstairs phone. She clutches the receiver, goes to dial 999, but the line is dead. There is no tone, no response, nothing.

  I have to get out.

  First thing: proper clothes. Jeans, waterproof trousers over the top, a T-shirt, a different sweater – all done quickly with shaking, numb fingers. Clothes she’s chosen herself – there is something powerful about it. It shows intent.

  She slips down the stairs, keeping to the edge, just in case he is back – but the house is still quiet. Downstairs in the kitchen she glances through the window. The world outside is white, and quiet, the clouds overhead darkening. She can see the cottage, the footprints clearly leading away from the house, past the cottage. Two sets – Will’s, and Tess’s. She goes to the front door to retrieve her boots. They are still wet from the snow but they are the best ones she has; she tucks her jeans inside and slips the waterproof top layer over the top of them.

  She stands up, feeling better now she is prepared. Another glance out of the kitchen window.

  She sees the shape of a man rounding the cottage, white ski trousers. Will is coming back.

  She runs for the back of the house, the utility room, pulling an old Barbour jacket of Jim’s off the peg and pulling it on as she yanks at the door. It doesn’t give. It’s locked, of course. Where’s the key? Where’s the fucking key?

  She pulls at the drawers, looks fruitlessly at the hooks upon which the spare keys the house has accumulated over the years are hung. From the front of the house, she hears the front door open and bang shut. She freezes. There is no time, no time to find the key. How can she get out?

  Then she has an idea. She unhooks another set of keys. She hears rustling as Will takes off his jacket and his ski trousers, thinking that if only she doesn’t move, if only she can keep quiet… he doesn’t know she is here.

  ‘Sarah?’ he calls.

  That’s good, she thinks: he is in the kitchen.

  ‘Sarah, it’s only me. I’m back.’

  Wherever he has been, he has left Tess behind. Sarah hopes her dog is safe, hopes that he has not hurt her in some way.

  She listens as he heads up the stairs, listens to the creaking. As soon as she hears the second creak she moves, fast, trying not to make a sound. Hoping he will be too distracted to listen out for sounds downstairs.

  He is upstairs now, heading down the corridor. Did she leave the door open? She cannot remember. In any case, she has just seconds left. She dashes for the front door, opening it and closing it quickly behind her, knowing he will hear and come running. She fumbles with the key in the deadlock, knowing it’s stiff, knowing her fingers are still a little numb, and just as the lock shoots home the handle turns, the door rattles and he is right there behind the door.

  ‘Sarah! Sarah! Open the fucking door! Open the door NOW! Sarah!’

  She turns and runs through the snow, jumping through his fresh footprints, not looking back.

  It won’t take him long to get out. Maybe two minutes, before he finds a window that opens wide enough for him to get through. Maybe she has less than two minutes.

  She moves as quickly as she can, back behind the cottage and out of sight of the house.

  Whichever way she goes, he will see her footprints. Nevertheless, she has to try.

  The wind has dropped completely and the sky has cleared; the sound of her shuffling through the fresh snow is amplified by the emptiness of the landscape, as are her gasping, heaving breaths.

  She has just reached the gate when she hears something behind her. She stops dead, heart thumping. A wrenching, creaking sound, metal scraping. She wonders what it is and then realises it must be the patio chairs outside the conservatory, scraping against the concrete. He must have got the conservatory door open.

  She has no time to get away. Keeping as close to the side of the cottage as she can, she inches her way round it, glancing around the corner.

  There he is.

  She shrinks back out of sight, not sure if he saw her or not.

  ‘Sarah! Don’t be an idiot! You’ll freeze to death!’

  And then she thinks: the cottage. The cottage has a separate landline; perhaps it is still working. Maybe it’s not down because of the snow; maybe Will cut the wire or something. And, even if the phone’s not working, then there is a knife block in the kitchen; she can find herself a weapon…

  She holds her breath, listening. Whichever way he goes, she will hear his shuffling footsteps through the snow.

  ‘Sarah! Do you want to see Kitty again? Do you?’

  Just for a moment she screws her eyes tight shut. This can’t be happening, she thinks. I’m dreaming, I must be dreaming this.

  She can hear him, shuffling. The sound comes from all around her. When she looks around the corner again, he is gone. He must be behind the cottage now, coming up behind her. Quickly, quietly, keeping close to the wall which has been sheltered from the worst of the snow, Sarah makes her way to the cottage door. It opens smoothly – he didn’t lock it. Thank God he didn’t lock it.

  She closes the door behind her as quietly as possible and runs for the kitchen. The phone should be in here, but it’s just the cradle; the handset is missing. She wants to cry with frustration, her eyes flitting around the room, checking every surface for the phone.

  The bedroom. The door is closed; it must be in there.

  She runs across the open-plan living room and as she does so catches a glimpse of Will through the patio doors. He has seen her. Quick, then, quick, and she pushes open the door of the bedroom.

  Inside is hell.

  The floor, the walls, the bed, everything is dark red. The smell of it hits her and she brings her hand up to her mouth to stop the scream.

  Kitty. Is it Kitty?

  Something terrible has happened here. She takes a step further into the room and that’s when she sees it – a leg, just the foot and some of the shin visible in the space between the bed and the window.

  It’s not moving.

  Aiden?

  Behind her, she hears the cottage door open and close.

  She does not look round. He’s breathing, hard.

  When he speaks, his voice is low, gravelly… oh, God – amused.

  ‘Want to see what’s left of him?’

  She moves so quickly he doesn’t have time to react: she spins and pushes out as hard as she can, catches him off balance. Will staggers backwards. It gives her a second to run, and in another moment she is out of the door and racing as fast as she can across the yard towards the barn, the car. There is no point heading for the gate any more. It’s a long way to the village; he’d catch up with her too quickly. At least in the barn there are places to hide. She ducks down behind the Land Rover, looking back the way she has come. Her tracks are deep and obvious, not only across the pristine snow of the yard but snowy prints all the way across the concrete of the barn, to where she is crouched. She might as well hold up a flag.

  He has reached the end of the cottage, and for some reason – probably the confusing tracks leading to the gate – he carries on without glancing to his right. He is moving quickly, almost jumping through the snow.

  He’s going.

  The snow is deep, but she could risk it in the car. At least she could lock herself in… except the car keys are in the house. Jim used to keep a spare set in his toolbox, back when they had the previous car, the VW Golf that ended up costing him his life.

  And then he reaches the gate, looks down the hill towards the village, then back
to the house. She ducks down behind the car again but he was looking straight towards her. He must have seen the tracks.

  When she looks up again he is halfway across the yard, yomping through her footprints. He does not call out.

  Whimpering, she turns to find Jim’s bright red tool chest, starts tugging at sticking metal drawers, sending spanner sets scattering over the floor. The spanners are tiny, hundreds of them, wrenches, screwdrivers, all of them too small to use as a weapon. She grabs at the bottom drawer, the deeper one, and inside are plastic cases containing Christ knows what. At the back, a small plastic bag with car keys in, several of them, a lifetime’s collection. And a wrench, huge and heavy and rusted.

  ‘Sarah.’

  She spins with the wrench in her hand and hits, connects with something solid, screaming with rage and fright as she does so.

  Will falls heavily against the car and slumps to the floor. He does not put out his hands to break his fall.

  There is a metallic clatter as the wrench falls from her hand to the concrete.

  She stares at the figure sprawled at her feet. He is lying on his right side, his head and left arm behind the front tyre of the Land Rover, his legs crossed neatly at the ankle. He is so bundled up in the ski jacket that she can’t tell if he’s breathing. The hood is still up. Her hand is over her mouth, as if to stop herself screaming. Behind her hand she is gasping and making a keening sound.

  Enough, she tells herself. Pull yourself together. She breathes through the panic, letting it begin to settle. Think.

  She steps over his legs, tugs at the shoulder of his jacket so that he flips over on to his back, away from the car. His eyes are slightly open; blood has trickled from under the black woollen hat across his cheek, his temple and his forehead. Even without getting closer she can see a mist of breath coming from his mouth. He’s alive, then. The hood, and his hat, must have protected him from the full force of the wrench.

  She turns back to the toolbox, to the plastic bag full of spare keys. Even a quick look tells her the Land Rover key is not among them.