No Way Out Read online

‘What are you staring at?’ Marcus said, suddenly feeling self-conscious in his own house. He pulled back his foot to give the dog a nudge, but the animal ran off. Lisa hadn’t trained him well.

  Sitting in his favourite chair in the library, Marcus took out his phone. He speed-dialled Lisa’s number, but it went to voicemail. Then he tried Eleanor’s, but the same thing happened. It wasn’t like them not to be at home, and Lisa knew how he occasionally liked to spend Saturday night in their company. What was she playing at? If they’d had a last minute invite, she should have run it by him first. He was too tired to go out. He wondered if it was a family gathering, not that there were many of those these days, or perhaps some other event he’d forgotten about. Either way, he was annoyed she hadn’t told him.

  Sighing, he logged into the tracking app he’d put on each of their phones. Location not found was the message for both.

  Marcus reached for the remote control and jabbed a button. The wooden panel above the mahogany partners’ desk drew up, retreating cleverly into a slot below the ceiling. A large television screen was exposed, and he flicked it on to the sports’ channel. His phone beeped on the table beside him.

  ‘About time,’ he said, hating that she’d texted instead of calling, despite him telling her a thousand times he preferred to speak. She clearly had something to hide. But the text was from a number he didn’t recognise.

  I have your wife and daughter.

  Marcus sat upright in the reclining leather chair.

  ‘What the …?’ He stared at the handset, standing up, thinking that would somehow help. ‘What the fuck? Who is this?’

  Immediately, he rang the number. No one answered.

  Who are you? What do you mean? he texted back. He didn’t have time for this. He’d been planning on relaxing tonight, enjoying the meal that Lisa should have prepared. If she were here.

  Nothing came back from the number for half an hour. He’d polished off half a bottle of wine by then, and it had grown dark outside. Rain sheeted against the kitchen window. Several times he’d looked at the text, but it didn’t make any sense. People were idiots, not leaving a name. How was he supposed to know who it was? No doubt Lisa’s and Eleanor’s phones had run out of power, and whoever they were with had done a bad job of passing on a message. It was unhelpful to say the least.

  Bertie lay on the cold tiles, letting out several empty-bellied growls. Marcus ushered him through to the utility room and shut the door. He had a bed and water, and besides, he smelt bad today. Lisa obviously hadn’t taken him to the grooming parlour this week.

  Back in the library, with a new bottle of wine on the table beside him, he swiped open his phone.

  Do as I say if you ever want to see them again.

  Shit.

  Marcus sat up, went rigid as if the act of being concerned would help. He stared at the words, bringing the glass to his mouth and drawing in a long slug of Cabernet. It left a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth.

  Was this serious? He had no idea. And he had no idea what he was supposed to do, either. He thought about calling the police, but decided against it for now.

  Marcus strode over to the window. He stared down the long drive of Drayton Heights. He loved this view, and it was partly this that had sold him the place. That and its remoteness. He half expected the lights of Lisa’s Range Rover to appear between the electric gates a quarter of a mile away. Right now the blue glare of the xenons creeping up the track would be a welcome sight. If she appeared now, he’d still just be able to forgive her this disruption of his Saturday night.

  What was wrong with bloody women today? Molly cancelling on him at the last minute, and now Lisa disappearing without a thought. He was tempted to fuck them all and take the room at The Manse anyway. He’d find someone to join him.

  His phone vibrated on the table beside his armchair again. Marcus lunged for it.

  Smash your car windscreens.

  ‘What the hell …?’

  He grabbed another remote control from his desk and rammed his face up close to the glass, squinting down the drive. A couple of jabs on the controller and the entire front of Drayton Heights lit up like New York at Christmas. The long length of the drive was illuminated with tall lamps ten feet apart, each one flicking on in turn like runway lights. It cast strange, unfamiliar shadows around the library, making him jump. For a second, he thought there was someone else there.

  ‘Smash my sodding windscreens?’ he said incredulously. It must be kids having a laugh.

  No he texted back, gripping the phone angrily.

  But it crossed with another coming in. Both cars. Now. Send pics.

  No! he texted again.

  Fifteen minutes. Or you get a pic of your daughter’s finger. Not on her hand.

  ‘Jesus sodding Christ,’ Marcus said, enraged by the intrusion. He tugged at his thinning hair. Was this real? He had no idea. Who are you? he texted back.

  No reply. He glanced at his watch, checked it against the time of the last text. If this was for real, he’d already wasted four minutes.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit…’

  Perhaps he should call the police, after all. But no, best not to be hasty, he thought, although he would pretend to this idiot that he had. Besides, there was always Roy, an ex-detective he knew from the golf club. He’d know what to do.

  Police on way. Let them go.

  No police. Nine minutes.

  Marcus growled and yelled, thumping his hand against the door as he headed for the utility room. There was a toolkit in there, wasn’t there? Bertie’s wagging tail lashed against his leg as he rummaged in the cupboard for a hammer. He kicked him in the ribs, and the dog yelped, scrabbling through to the kitchen with clicking claws. Marcus stopped, hammer in hand. He was about to go through to the garage.

  Prove you have them, he texted, and two minutes later a picture came back with the words Five minutes. Lisa and Eleanor were huddled together, their faces pale and terrified. Someone out of shot was gripping Eleanor’s hand, thrusting up her bulging red forefinger.

  Marcus dropped his head, then threw it back. A deep wail came from inside his chest, burning up his throat.

  ‘You bastard!’ he shouted, taking the hammer through to the four-bay garage. This couldn’t be happening. What had he done to deserve this? If it turned out to be some joke, he’d kill whoever it was. But he couldn’t risk it, and didn’t stop to admire the sleek lines of the Mercedes; didn’t think twice about bringing the hammer down hard into the centre of the windscreen. It barely shattered. Just a small flower of crazed glass where the flat disc of metal had made contact. He hit it again, and again … over and over until the cracks spread and filled the entire screen.

  Reluctantly, he photographed it before moving on to his other car. The Aston Martin. He reckoned he could claim on the insurance for one smashed screen, but two? He sighed, checking his watch and the messages on his phone again. He rang the number again, hoping whoever it was had the guts to pick up. They didn’t.

  Marcus raised his hand holding the phone, red with rage, as if to hurl it across the garage. But he checked himself just in time.

  Two and a half minutes, came the text a few seconds later.

  Marcus touched the wing of the Aston. He’d had it valeted earlier in the week, all ready to pick up Molly in that night. And what had been her excuse? Some fucking fundraising dinner with Larry. He raised the hammer above the DB9’s windscreen.

  He couldn’t do it. Not the bloody Aston.

  The police are coming, he texted back, and slumped down on the brick step that led back through to the house. He cradled his head in his hands, knowing it was all likely to be a hoax.

  *

  Tom drops down into a wooden chair beside the fire, chucking on another log. Sparks rain upwards, and a puff of black smoke floods the room.

  ‘Are you left-or right-handed?’ Tom says, crouching down next to Ellie.

  ‘Right,’ she whispers, lying.

  Tom takes ho
ld of her right hand and brings it to his mouth. Plump, youthful lips press down on her forefinger, bringing it inside his mouth. I swipe him round the head.

  ‘Get off her!’

  He shoves me back down onto the sofa.

  Tom checks his phone before retreating to his chair beside the fire. He shakes his head. ‘Naughty Daddy,’ he says. ‘Not sending any pictures.’

  ‘What fucking pictures?’

  ‘Do you play the piano?’ he asks Ellie, ignoring me.

  She nods nervously. You insisted she have both piano and drama lessons from the age of five, insisting they would come in useful. Just like you insisted on sending her to that private school. ‘She needs a well-rounded education,’ you’d said. ‘And to mix with the right people.’ I could tell you were disappointed that she wasn’t turning into a child prodigy, but I’d gone along with it like I always did. Anything to keep the peace.

  ‘Bet you hate practising, right?’ Tom suggests.

  ‘Yeah,’ Ellie says, with a barely-perceptible laugh. She looks down, her eyelashes curling almost up to her brows.

  ‘What … bloody … pictures?’ I shout, shivering, even though the fire is belting out heat.

  Tom turns slowly to me, taking a tin of tobacco and a packet of Rizlas from the pocket of his donkey jacket. ‘No need to get arsey.’

  Angry, I pull a face – scrunching up my nose, frowning, baring my teeth – but Tom must think it’s funny because he’s smirking, deftly making his roll-up. I spot the poker beside the grate, trying not to stare at it.

  ‘Let’s see how far he’ll go to save his family.’

  Truth is, you’re stubborn as hell. I can’t see you being told to do anything you don’t want to, whether it’s to save our lives or not. Frankly, I don’t think you’ll even believe this is real.

  ‘Your Marcus has a chap come in to clean his precious cars, doesn’t he?’

  Your Marcus, I think. You’d hate that.

  ‘How do you know?’ I ask, eyeing him suspiciously. He’s right, of course, but I don’t tell him that. Even if you don’t take out the Aston, you still get it valeted once a week. Forty-five pounds it costs, and thirty for the Mercedes, which frankly seems a bargain given the time the poor man spends on them. But then you do drive the Mercedes daily, so perhaps it’s justified. To and from the station for your commute to London, only you don’t always make it as far as the train, do you?

  I followed you once, you see. Inadvertently, of course, while on my way somewhere else. I left the house shortly after you, but you’d been held up at the lights on Bridge Lane where the water main had burst. They spent days repairing it. Even country lanes have traffic jams occasionally.

  You had no idea I was three or four cars behind you; no idea that I saw you turn away from the station, following you on to Halleswell town centre, watching you hop out of the car – hazards flashing on double yellows – and dash into the chemist, then the florist. You emerged gripping a bunch of ugly stained blooms. The receipt carelessly left in your glove box later confirmed the purchase of a pack of condoms, although I’d already guessed as I followed you to Larry and Molly’s place, watched as you turned into their drive.

  As if it wasn’t all bad enough.

  I screamed at you that night. But not because of what I’d seen, or because of the phone call I’d made to Larry, casually asking if he’d been home that morning. No. I’d screamed because you’d lied so easily. As easily as asking if I’d wanted a cup of tea.

  I hear Tom’s voice as he draws on the roll-up cigarette. It wags between his lips. He stares at his phone, shaking his head.

  ‘Give me one,’ Ellie suddenly says, looking longingly at the cigarette.

  ‘Eleanor?’ and I watch, speechless as Tom rolls her one. He lights it for her, and she sucks expertly, as if she’d done it a dozen times a day for years. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ The simple act of defiance seems magnified by our situation, even though it should feel the opposite.

  ‘Surely you know I smoke?’ she says, blowing out at me.

  ‘Time’s up,’ Tom says with a note of regret. He pulls a pouty face and stares at Ellie. ‘Ready?’

  ‘For what,’ she says with woozy-looking eyes. The nicotine has gone to her head.

  ‘To give Daddy the finger, of course.’ Tom grabs her hand, wrenching her upright. The cigarette falls to the floor, and he stamps on it. ‘This, my little darling, is coming off.’

  Ellie screams, thrashing at him with her other hand. I lunge at him, trying to prise her free, but he’s strong and he has her by the arm and shoulders now. He shoves her against the wall, and she slides down to the floor. Before I know it, he’s got me in an arm lock, both hands behind my back, and I’m on the floor too, pinned down by his knee.

  ‘Stupid fucking bitch,’ he spits into my ear.

  I feel my hands go numb as he binds them together behind my back. However much I squirm and thrash, he’s stronger than me. I taste grit and dirt in my mouth, feel the sting of it in my eyes. Moments later, he has my feet bound up, and gives me a sharp kick in the thigh. Ellie is still whimpering on the floor, slumped against the wall, rubbing her head.

  ‘Now fucking stay there.’

  ‘Nooo!’ I scream so hard it makes my throat bleed. I try to wriggle, worm-like, to the door. He drags Ellie up off the floor and marches her out of the room. I hear the thunk-thunk of their steps as they tread upstairs, her pitiful cries as she stumbles after him.

  ‘Ellie! Ellieee!’

  Lying on my front, I drop my forehead to the dusty boards, sobbing. I am helpless. In the room above, I hear Tom’s voice, and Ellie’s breathless, terrified pleas punctuated by cries and whimpers. Then I hear a loud chop right above me, followed by a single piercing scream from my daughter that fills the entire universe.

  Oh my God, Ellie, oh my God no…

  I screw up my eyes and see her as a baby, velvet-blue as she slid out of me. As a toddler, defiant and curious. Ellie the schoolgirl – always getting into trouble, yet somehow sad and aloof. And now Ellie the teen, disfigured and tortured by this bastard.

  It’s more than I can stand, but there’s nothing I can do. I weep for my beautiful daughter. For everything she has suffered.

  Five minutes later, he brings her back to me. She is ashen-faced and clutching her hand to her chest. I hate it that she is leaning against Tom for support. Her entire fist is bound up in a grimy rag as she staggers into the room. She falls down into the sofa, sobbing, tucking her hand under her chin.

  ‘It hurts so … so much, Mummy…’ She hasn’t called me that in years.

  ‘Baby, oh baby, what has he done to you?’ I strain and squirm like a landed fish, trying to get myself to her. Eventually, I make it to her feet. I rub my face against her Converse, kissing the bare skin of her ankles. ‘Show me, honey…’ I say, although I can’t stand to look.

  Ellie shakes her head. ‘It’s too … too sore to touch…’ She falls back against an old cushion, sobbing.

  Tom goes back to his chair beside the fire as if nothing has happened. One side of his face dances with firelight, the other is cast in dark shadow. He leans forward on his elbows. ‘That was just for starters, of course.’

  ‘You don’t need to do this,’ I say, shaking my head frantically. ‘I’ll give you all my credit cards, access to bank accounts. Marcus’s too. You can take what you want. Have the house, the cars, we’ll sign it all over. No police. But please, please don’t hurt Ellie any more.’

  Tom doesn’t say anything for a while. ‘Don’t hurt Ellie,’ he says through a vile grin.

  ‘You bastard, why can’t you just leave us alone?’ Tears of fear, self-pity, and frustration drop onto the dirt when he doesn’t answer. ‘You lazy shit. You’re just jealous of people like us. Go and get a proper job instead of terrorising innocent families!’

  Tom flicks his gaze to Ellie, before reaching for his phone. He taps out another text to you. I imagine you at home alone, drinking wine, wondering whe
re we are, where your dinner is, cursing all these texts.

  Call the police, Marcus … Just call the fucking police…

  But you won’t, will you? Not until you’re certain you can’t handle this alone. You won’t want the police crawling over our lives, trying to find clues in every corner of our existence.

  ‘How about the dog?’ Tom says.

  You never liked Bertie from the moment I brought him home as a puppy for Ellie. She didn’t have many friends, so I thought a dog was the next best thing. It wasn’t.

  Ellie, aged eight, often heard the vitriol you spat my way. I heard her whispering to herself as she played alone in her room – using vicious, sniping words that she’d learnt from you. Later, I found her sobbing in bed, her head buried under the pillow with stones pushed into her ears.

  ‘Why can’t you be like other mummies and daddies?’ she’d asked, weeping, lying on the hospital bed as the doctor worked on her. I blagged a story to him, made up a load of excuses as he discharged us.

  ‘Please don’t make him hurt our dog,’ I say. ‘I’ve offered you everything we have. Just take it and let us go.’

  Tom remains silent, untying my hands and feet, before hauling me upright by the wrist. Blood rushes into my limbs, leaving my head in a rush as if I’m falling.

  ‘OK. Not the dog. Take your clothes off instead,’ Tom instructs. At first I think he’s talking to Ellie, and I lunge at him. But he’s talking to me.

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘Fuck right off.’ Something inside me shudders. It’s what I should have said to you.

  The knife is suddenly at my throat, the cold point gouging into my thyroid. ‘I said, take … your … clothes … off.’ His close-up whisper teases the skin on my face. It almost feels nice, compared to the way you do things.

  Slowly, so as not to force the knife any deeper against my skin, I ease my arms out of my coat. It drops to the floor. Tentatively, I pull the hem of my tunic up my body, exposing my bra beneath.

  ‘Why did you buy that shapeless thing?’ you’d said the first time I wore the top.

  ‘Because I like it,’ I replied, and you slapped me. When you thumped me in the back, I couldn’t breathe.