Last Breath

  He gritted his teeth and forced a smile. ‘No worries. So what’re we looking at, 8.15?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m having a bit of a hair crisis…’

  ‘Hair on your head?’

  There was silence. He cursed himself for using a bit of Darryl humour, and apologised. She laughed awkwardly and said she’d see him later, then rang off. He chucked the phone back on the dashboard.

  ‘Stupid, stupid IDIOT!’ he said, slapping the steering wheel. He glanced to one side and saw a man and a woman in a car on the opposite side, the woman in the passenger seat staring. He gave her the finger and put his foot down, accelerating past them.

  * * *

  He’d arranged to meet Beth outside the casting studio where the real Robert Baker worked. It was in Latimer Road, a quiet street in Southwark, next to a huge glass office block. Risky, but meeting her outside here was essential for her to buy into the lie.

  He made his way slowly into Central London, and he reached Latimer Road just after eight. He saw the large, long glass office block, which dwarfed the casting studio of smart red brick beside it. A few dribs and drabs of office workers were coming out of the office block, and when he looked up he could see that the offices were empty. He carried on and turned off into the next street, where he found a parking space in front of a boarded-up row of shops.

  Darryl breathed slowly in and out. As the minutes ticked by the inside windows of the car fogged up, his rhythmic breathing coming out in short bursts of vapour. He wiggled his toes and stretched, not wanting his muscles to seize up.

  He was glad she said she’d be late. He thought of her long hair, how her skin and body might feel. Images of what he was going to do to her flashed into his mind.

  At ten past eight he switched on the engine, and the hot air began to flow, clearing the condensation from the windows. He checked that he had his map and the leather sap in the glove compartment. He checked his reflection in the mirror. He was drooling. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and drove off around the block and back to Latimer Street. He passed the entrance to the office block, and saw Beth waiting outside the casting studio.

  She was leaning on a small iron bollard. She wore a long tailored grey coat, black high heels, and her long dark hair was loose. She had her head down engrossed in her phone. He pulled past her, and parked by the kerb. She was now just a few metres from the boot of the car. The road was empty.

  He leaned down and pulled up the handle to release the lock on the boot. He then got out, holding the sap concealed in his right hand. He made a show of tucking in his shirt and moving to a parking sign, peering, Mister Magoo-like, up at it and stepping back, checking his watch.

  ‘Sorry, I’m blind as a bat,’ he said over his shoulder to Beth. ‘Is this residents’ parking?’

  Beth looked up from her phone and shrugged. She checked behind her, looking at the dark casting office and frowned, then went back to her phone.

  Suddenly, Darryl’s phone began to ring in his pocket. He looked over, and Beth had her phone to her ear. She was trying to call Robert Baker. He scanned the road: there were no cars and no people.

  Just as she looked up in confusion at Darryl’s phone ringing, he moved lightning fast, swooping over and bringing the leather sap down on the back of her head. He caught her as she crumpled, dragging her to the boot of the car. There was an awkward tussle as he tried to get it open with his foot and keep hold of her, and her phone clattered against the back of the car, swinging from its earphones. Just as he got her inside and shoved her phone in on top of her, a woman emerged further down from the main entrance of the office building and began to walk along the pavement towards him.

  He’d wanted to subdue Beth, bind her wrists and her feet, but there was no time. He closed the boot. The woman was moving closer with a clip clip of heels. Darryl knew he had to keep moving, to look like part of the street furniture. With his head down, he went to the driver’s side and got in.

  The woman walked past, deep in thought. She had her hands thrust deep into her trench coat; she was elegant and middle-aged with short greying hair. He relaxed a little. She hadn’t noticed him. Darryl started the engine and pulled away from the kerb.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Darryl drove through the back streets behind Southwark Bridge. He’d worked out a route he could take to avoid the CCTV cameras as much as possible, and at least making it hard for anyone to piece together his movements, but he was flustered and he saw he’d taken a wrong turn. Had that woman coming out of the office seen him? And the road he’d just pulled into, was there a bank of CCTV cameras at the end here? He took a series of turns, and office blocks and coffee shops streaked past in a blur. He found himself on London Bridge, feeling the wind from the river buffeting the car.

  ‘Shit!’ he cried, thumping the steering wheel. He was approaching the junction by the train station which would be chock-a-block with CCTV cameras.

  He had to find somewhere quiet where he could pull over and bind her arms and legs. As he left the bridge, he saw there was a diversion where the construction was happening around the Shard, and instead of being able to turn left he was taken on a looping detour away from the train station.

  He found himself sandwiched between two vans, and either side were temporary rows of plastic barriers. He had no choice but to keep driving. Several minutes went by, and the diversion took him down streets he didn’t recognise. It was all poorly lit; a building encased in scaffolding and green netting, which then turned into abandoned offices, the windows whitewashed, and then the road curved around sharply to the right, spitting him out in a shabby-looking area of houses and betting shops around Bermondsey.

  He drove on, and was going to pull over onto what looked like a piece of wasteland, when a bus suddenly appeared behind him, lights blaring, and so he kept moving. The road took him past a bus depot, which again he was going to pull into but another bus rounded the corner from the opposite direction. He closed his eyes against the headlights and had to slam on his brakes as it cut him up, pulling across him and into the depot.

  He sat for a moment; his hands were now shaking. He was lost. He couldn’t work out how to get back to the Old Kent Road, which would then take him on through New Cross and to the South Circular.

  He put the car in gear and drove on for a couple more minutes until he approached a set of traffic lights, and his heart leapt when he saw it was signposted straight ahead for New Cross. The lights changed to amber then red, so he stopped the car and took some deep breaths. Peering through the windscreen he saw a mixture of flats and office blocks, and next to the traffic lights was a Costcutter food shop and off-licence.

  A couple of people had been waiting at the crossing, and as the green man started to flash, they stepped off the kerb and began to move across the road in front of him. Something about one of the pedestrians’ gait was familiar, but he was too occupied with getting going. He looked in his rear-view mirror, scanning the road behind him, then looked down to check that he had stowed the sap back in the glove compartment. When he looked up again, he nearly yelled out in shock. Standing in the beam of his headlights, and staring through his window, was a familiar figure clutching two full carrier bags of shopping.

  It was Bryony.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  It was dark and cold when Beth began to regain consciousness. The rocking of the moving car reached the edge of her consciousness, along with the sounds and sensations: the tangy warm smell of engine oil, and dusty old carpet.

  She lay on a lumpy hard surface, and she had a thumping headache, but her throat didn’t feel parched. Had it been a big night out? Her body still smelt freshly showered. She flexed her fingers, and her nail polish was still tacky. For a moment, she worked backwards. She was waiting outside the casting studio for Robert. He was so handsome in his photo. In his prime, Aunt Marie had described him. But something odd had happened: he’d said he’d be at the casting studios working late, but the windows had been dark. She’
d phoned him. There had been a funny little man outside, making a meal of peering at a road sign. He’d asked her something…

  And then she realised where she was. Her head was in agony, and even moving caused a jolt of pain. She tried not to panic and shifted her body. Had she been tied up? No, she could move her legs and arms in the cramped space. A thin wire lay trapped under her left side, and she realised it was the headphones plugged into her iPhone. She groped around, reaching under herself with her free hand, feeling for the wire and taking up the slack. It seemed to go on for ever and ever. Had the earphone jack come loose? But the wire finally went taut and as she felt down her hand closed around her phone handset. In the darkness, she swiped at the phone with a shaking finger, and again. Was it broken? No. She had it the wrong way up. When she twisted it round, the screen light activated, illuminating the interior of the car boot: a carpet; a pair of jump leads; a roll of electrical tape. What looked like several pairs of women’s underwear.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ she said, and she almost screamed. She gulped it back, pain shooting up her jaw to her temple. Her vision was blurred and it took a few attempts to remember the pin code for her phone and key it in. It seemed to take her an age to navigate through the phone; where she had been hit was affecting her balance and vision. Finally, she found the contact of her friend, Heather, and pressed call. The sound of the phone ringing set off even greater pain through her head, and when Heather’s chipper little voicemail message kicked in she thought she might throw up it was so bad. Beth left a babbling message, trying to articulate what had happened.

  Then the car came to a stop. She held the phone away from her ear and strained to hear what was going on.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Before Darryl could put the car in gear and move off, Bryony lurched round the front of the car to the passenger door, and pulled it open. She threw her shopping bags into the footwell and climbed in, slamming the door shut.

  He was lost for words. Her eyes behind her glasses were wild and unhinged; her face had a sheen of sweat. She pushed back wisps of hair from her face.

  ‘Tell me you didn’t mean it,’ she said without preamble. ‘Tell me you were doing a joke that I didn’t understand…about you and me and the flour… or that you made a mistake…’ She jabbed her finger into his chest. ‘Please, say it now, Darryl, or God help me, I’ll—’

  ‘Bryony, what the hell?’ he shrilled.

  There was a honk from behind and he saw there was now a line of cars waiting, and the lights were green.

  ‘What you said to me was vicious. I invited you for my special birthday at the cinema. I did things to make you happy. Don’t men like that kind of thing?’

  ‘Bryony, you need to get out of my car.’

  The cars behind honked and revved their engines; an elderly couple waiting on the pavement stared into the car curiously.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why!’ she shouted, locking her door. Her eyes burned with anger, and for a moment it scared him.

  Don’t be stupid, it’s Bryony, the stupid lump from work, he thought. Take her home, get her out of the car. Reluctantly, he pulled away from the traffic lights, and the curious eyes on the pavement.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he snapped.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘I said where do you live? I’ll take you home, and we can talk there… I take it you live close by?’ he said.

  She wiped spittle from her mouth, and nodded, looking hopeful. ‘I’m on Druid Street, it’s about a quarter of a mile along here…’

  Darryl accelerated, the shops and takeaways flying past. Then without warning Bryony started to hit him, landing blows on the side of his head and neck.

  ‘Why? It was a perfect date, wasn’t it? I bought us popcorn! You were nice to me, I was nice to you, and then without warning you were so nasty… WHY? WHY? WHY?’ She thumped the dashboard so hard that her knuckle began to bleed. She put it to her mouth and sucked at it.

  ‘I didn’t mean it… I was just… You’ve hurt your hand,’ he said, trying to soothe her. He put out a hand to make sure she remained at arm’s length, whilst attempting to keep an eye on the road.

  ‘You didn’t mean it? Really?’ she said, tears now running down her cheeks.

  ‘Really. I’m sorry,’ he said.

  He saw a right turn for Druid Street, and took it in fourth gear. Bryony wasn’t strapped in and was thrown against the window, hitting her head against the plastic handle above.

  ‘Ow!’ she whined. Druid Street was a cul-de-sac of small new-build homes.

  ‘Which house?’ he asked.

  ‘The third one,’ she said, clutching her head and looking at him.

  He pulled the car to a stop by the kerb. Most of the street was in darkness, and only one of the streetlights was working at the dead end. Darryl slowed his breathing, working out how to get rid of her.

  ‘Bryony, you go ahead inside and make us some tea…’

  ‘Darryl, please. I love you,’ she said, launching herself at him. He turned, and her mouth glanced off his cheek. She sat back.

  ‘I love you Darryl, I love you so much…’ Blood was oozing from her knuckle, and she squeezed the skin hard and sucked up a little more of the blood.

  ‘And I love you, but I need to talk to you about something,’ he said.

  ‘You love me?’ she said, clasping her hands under her chin.

  A horrible trickling feeling started to run through Darryl: was this normal? Is this how women in love behave?

  ‘What if you go ahead indoors. I can bring the shopping bags,’ he said, looking out at the empty street.

  ‘Yes. I’ve bought food. We could have dinner.’ She smiled. ‘Do you like Viennetta?’

  Darryl nodded. She smiled.

  ‘It’s mint chocolate. Is that okay? I know some people don’t like…’

  A thumping sound from the boot silenced her. She turned to Darryl. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Darryl. There was another thump, and the car rocked.

  ‘Is there someone in the back?’ asked Bryony, looking out of the back window at the boot.

  ‘Course not!’ He grinned.

  ‘Help! Help me! Someone, please! He attacked me!’ cried Beth’s muffled voice, and there was a volley of kicks which shook the car.

  Bryony slowly turned back to face Darryl, and it was as if the face she knew had fallen away. The kicks and screams continued from the boot.

  ‘Why did you have to get into my car?’ he said calmly. ‘Now I have to kill you.’

  Bryony lunged for the door, unlocked it, and got it open. But as she made a dash for it, her foot caught in the seat belt and she tripped, landing on the tarmac and hitting her head.

  Darryl opened his door and walked around the back of the car, scanning the road. The whole car was now shaking, and Beth was loud. He was torn about what to do.

  Then he saw Bryony lying dazed in the road, reaching out for her phone, which had skittered across the tarmac. He went to her and kicked her in the face, then picked up her phone and dropped it down a drain behind the back wheel of the car.

  At the end of the road, cars continued to whip past, and a man stepped off the pavement and crossed over, but he was engrossed in his phone, the wire hanging down from his earbuds. Darryl retrieved the leather sap from inside the car, and went to the boot.

  When he opened it, Beth lashed out blindly. Her nose was bloody, but her eyes were wild, and she tried to fight him. He swung the sap at her head, and there was a nasty cracking sound, and then she was still. He looked up, and Bryony was now lurching blindly across the road towards her house, without her glasses, searching in her bag for her keys.

  He slammed the boot shut, and ran after her, but she was already through the gate and had managed to get her key in the front door. As she got it open, he charged in behind her and they went crashing down on the floor in the hallway. He kicked the front door shut, and there was a strange
sweaty fumble as Bryony tried to push him off, but he climbed on top of her.

  His hands found her throat and he gripped hard, pressing down with his thumbs and squeezing. She grabbed at his hands, scratching his arms, then shoved her knee upwards, crushing his balls. He crumpled over and Bryony heaved herself up, pushing him against the wall as she ran off up the dark hallway.

  Darryl lay curled up in pain, trying to catch his breath. His eyes were getting used to the dark, and he could see he was lying near the bottom of a staircase. Bryony was making strange whimpering sounds, and he heard her fumbling about, opening a drawer. She was in the kitchen, and she was looking for a knife.

  Darryl staggered up, feeling around on the wall, and found a light switch. As he turned it on, Bryony came charging towards him with a kitchen knife, her eyes wide. He stood his ground, leapt to one side and, almost comically, she ploughed into the front door. He moved behind her and slammed her against it, seizing the wrist holding the knife, and banging it against the doorframe until she dropped it. He grabbed the back of her hair and slammed her face into the door: once, twice. She slid down onto her backside, and was still.

  He stood, sweating and shaking, and then spied the landline phone sitting in its dock on a low table. He yanked the cord out of the wall and dragged Bryony back by her hair to the base of the stairs. There was a bloody gash on her forehead where he’d kicked her, and her nose was broken. He started to wind the cord around her neck. She opened her eyes and began to struggle, but he kneeled on her stomach and pulled back, holding the two ends of the cord like reins, pressing his knees into her stomach and pulling his arms up, tightening the cord around her neck. She made some gurgling screeching noises, and her hands scrabbled at the cord. He kneeled harder, felt her ribs crack, and yanked the cord upwards. Her face went purple, she gagged and her feet flailed, and finally, she was still.

  Darryl got up and threw down the ends of the telephone cord. He stood back, breathless. Still in the hallway, he caught sight of himself in a large mirror on the wall: wild-eyed and dishevelled. A clock ticked above the doorway leading off towards a living room, and he saw that it was now 9 p.m. He checked he hadn’t dropped anything, and wiped down the phone cord with the corner of his shirt. He picked up Bryony’s limp arms, dragged her body through to the living room, and left it behind a large sofa. Now if anyone looked through the front door, or the living room window, they wouldn’t see anything amiss.