No Way Out Page 4

  Marcus doubled up in agony as the nerve pain bit through him again. His spine stiffened as he went back to the library, the hammer from the garage in his right hand. He stared at his domain, the place where he’d spent so many evenings holed up, absorbed in the only thing that truly mattered in life. As his shoulders heaved up and down with his laboured breathing, he wondered where to begin.

  It could be a breakin, he decided in a moment of clarity. Perhaps he’d gone out for a takeaway after speaking to Roy and, when he’d got back, he’d found the place smashed up. It would fit – some psycho terrorising the entire family as well as trashing their home. But he’d have to delete the CCTV footage, smash down the cameras. A few items stolen from Lisa’s jewellery box would make it look authentic.

  Marcus set to work on his computer first, thankful that he was a stickler for backing up important files. The incriminating ones, the ones he’d spent years collecting lovingly, would be destroyed as soon as the hard drive buckled. He’d finish it off on the fire just to make sure. The pain of doing this was almost more than his hand.

  Grunts bolted out of him as he worked, going crazy with the hammer, walloping it down on his laptop, the tower of his desktop computer, the furniture, the lamps, the television up on the wall … it only took a matter of minutes to undo a lifetime’s work. Sweat broke, dribbling down the channel of his spine. His forehead prickled and his face reddened with effort and agony.

  Pausing, he turned and stared at the two walls lined with bookcases. Stuffed full of books old and new, some highly collectible and belonging to his father, he yanked them off random shelves, sending them thudding to the floor, imagining what a burglar would do.

  But when one shelf in particular was empty, he carefully felt along the back of the cupboard with his good hand. There – the cloth tag was peeking out between a split in the panel, so he pinched it and pulled, tugging until the rectangle of wood came away. Behind it was a small nook – the perfect hiding place. He stuck in his arm and felt around. It had been a while since he’d seen the stash, and he usually saved up a viewing session until he knew he was entirely alone and could indulge properly. But today was different. He had no choice but to get it all out.

  With his good hand, Marcus pulled out six plastic bags stuffed full of photographs. The urge to look at them was there, of course, but there was simply no time. Then he felt around blindly for the book, eventually pulling it out – a first edition novel by some nineteenth-century author he’d never heard of. His father had passed it down to him, as had several generations before that to his father. He checked inside the front cover, to make sure it was still there.

  The photograph that had started it all off.

  Victorian and faded, the subject in the image was so utterly perfect and young that nothing since had ever compared. When he’d stumbled across it, aged sixteen – Ellie’s age goddammit! – he knew how things would pan out. He couldn’t help himself. It was threaded in his veins; had been stitched through all the males in his family as if a special gene had been passed down the line, just as this book had been. It was their bible.

  Marcus backed away from the shelves, staring at the book. He hadn’t produced a son to inherit it, so it hardly mattered now. This was an emergency.

  Choked and feeling like a failure, Marcus slid the daguerreotype into his back pocket before tearing the foxed leaves from the spine and stuffing them into the fireplace ready to ignite. Then he tipped out the contents of the plastic bags and crumpled them up, catching sight of naked limbs, tiny hands, baby curls, plump young bodies, seductive teens. He began to salivate, drinking down the loss. He could start again once this mess was sorted out. Ellie would forgive him. She always did.

  He jumped, not realising it was his phone ringing at first, answering without looking at the number.

  ‘Roy,’ Marcus said in a voice that sounded far from normal. In return, Roy didn’t sound normal either. Far from it. He said he was concerned that something was wrong, that he was on his way round. And so, he said, were the police.

  *

  The sound of their muffled words retreating upstairs is like fingernails gouging into my heart. Ellie’s sweet, scared little voice next to this monster’s is unthinkable … just as it was next to yours. I used to love your private chats with Ellie, thought you’d got such a special bond with her even after your initial resentment of her. I never minded leaving her in your care, trusted you completely. But things were OK then, or so I thought – tolerable as long as I kept in line, behaved the way you liked. And you’d done right by me, after all – your mousey little secretary who you’d got pregnant – so I owed you. People said it wouldn’t last, that you were mad to marry someone like me, support me, pluck me out of my working-class existence and deposit me into your grand and lavish world.

  Besides, you’d shown me another life, turned my head.

  Then I turned mine away.

  When Tom gets Ellie upstairs, I hear loud noises above me, as if she’s protesting. In my mind, I see her limbs flailing as he tries to undress her, her brittle arms fighting him off. Then there are heavier footsteps – him chasing her, perhaps? Oh God, I wish I’d chopped off both ears so I could be as deaf to this as I’ve been blind to you. If my hands weren’t tied, I’d scratch out my eyes.

  ‘Ellie!’ I scream out, in case it spurs her into action, to defend herself, fight him off. Her young body doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t need anyone else taking what doesn’t belong to them.

  But you didn’t care about that, did you? You thought she was your God-given right. My cries are pure self-pity and I hate myself for that.

  I stop, holding my breath, listening. I’ve heard this sound many times before – the barely-perceptible, rhythmic creak of a bed that had no right to be lain in by you, let alone with our daughter. But now it’s him, and it’s right above me, taking her even further away from me and the protection I’ve never been able to offer. I used to turn the television up louder, take Bertie for a walk, push in my earphones and listen to music – anything to escape the horror of what you were doing right under my nose.

  You knew I knew. You liked that.

  Why didn’t I stop you? Why didn’t I call the police, burst in on you, rip your hairy body off our daughter? Say something.

  For the same reasons that Ellie has never said anything these last ten years, of course.

  Fear.

  The sheer paralysing fear of what would happen, what you would do to us both if I told. For what were our lives without you? Nothing. And besides, no one would believe me – a recovering alcoholic with a couple of police cautions against me when I was a rebellious teen, fighting against my miserable existence. I never told you, never told anyone, but my dad did the same to me. Maybe that’s why it seemed so normal. So comforting. These things run in families, you know. It’s a pernicious disease from which there’s no way out.

  ‘Leave her alone, you bastard!’ I scream up at the ceiling. Bound up, my voice is the only weapon I have. But then I see it. Tom has left the phone on the window sill, thinking I won’t be able to get it. But he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know how I’ve held on, rightly or wrongly; doesn’t know how tenacious I am.

  I wriggle across the filthy floor to the sound of our daughter’s squeals. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was up there with a friend, having a frolic. That’s what I tell myself, anyway, like I did for so many years.

  Did you ever touch her friends, I wonder, as I inch closer to the wall below the window? The thought spurs me on. And don’t think I don’t know about your pictures, your computer sluggish and slow, grinding illicitly with all your child pornography. I discovered your collection a long time ago, but knew my life was over if I reported you. Where would I go? How would I look after Ellie? I had no money of my own, and you’d made me give up my job with your firm as soon as I got pregnant. You wasted no time in employing someone younger than me, someone prettier, while I grew fat and swollen with our baby.

&n
bsp; My head bumps against the rotten skirting. I draw my knees up to my chest and roll onto my front, hooking them under the weight of my body. Above me, Ellie’s shrieks are growing louder, and I can hear a deep and steady grunt coming from Tom as he claims her. I pray she’s detached from herself, beg to God that she can’t feel anything – just like when I saw her with you in the bath. Her eyes were gone; her face dead. She wasn’t our daughter when she was with you. She wasn’t anyone.

  I’m finally kneeling beside the low windowsill. My ankles are bound and my hands are tied at my back. Hitching myself closer to the old sofa, I hook my hands and forearms over the arm of the chair behind me. Arching my back, stretching out my legs in front of me, walking them back in again, I get upright – albeit unsteadily.

  Breathless, I stare at the phone for a moment, before reaching up behind with my hands and pressing the home button. It’s a smartphone and thankfully there’s no passcode, so I turn round and touch the lit-up screen with my nose. The side of my head throbs, and the congealed blood pulls my remaining ear tight.

  Going cross-eyed, I bring my nose down to the keypad, ready to dial 999. In my effort, I hadn’t noticed that the noises upstairs have stopped. Dear God, let her be OK. It’s just as I’m about to dial when I hear the voice behind me.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  *

  Marcus had gone round the house, collecting it all up. It was a lifetime’s work. There was so much of it, more than he realised – some of the material gathered during various business trips around Europe and the East. He shook his head, completely numbed now to the pain in his stumpy palm. It wasn’t the cost involved in obtaining this stuff – literally a bonfire’s worth dumped in the middle of the library – and neither was it the time taken to collect it, although that was a consideration.

  No. It was the thrill of it. The private subterfuge. The secret domain in which he and other chosen men around the world lived. No one understood. No one knew what a blessing it was. It was love in its purest form.

  But he could attend to that thrill all over again, couldn’t he? Nowadays with the internet, it was much easier. And perhaps he would be blessed with better, more unique, material in his new quest once things had died down. With this in mind, he gave a brief nod before striking a match and setting the papers in the grate alight.

  The dry, crisp pictures caught fire swiftly, the flames eating up the paper as thoroughly as Marcus had often devoured them with his eyes. Many were of Ellie, beautiful, loyal Ellie, and, as they burned, he thought of her. Prayed that she was OK.

  But with no time to waste, he shovelled more pictures onto the fire. It was a big house with many secret hiding places, and he just hoped he’d got everything. The fire roared up the wide chimney, so much so he wondered if flames would be coming out the top – a beacon in the night sky.

  He stared down the long drive, terrified that Roy would soon arrive, the police close behind. He’d tried to convince him on the phone that there was no need, that everything was fine, but Roy had been insistent, his training telling him otherwise. ‘I could do with getting out of the house to be honest,’ he’d said. ‘I fancy a bit of a drive.’

  Marcus pushed his bandaged hand under his armpit, clamping it in place to slow the deep, pulsing throb. Every so often, he tipped more photographs onto the fire, but there were still thousands to go. Then the intercom buzzer at the gate sounded in the hallway.

  Shit!

  Marcus walked through to the hall, centring himself, pressing the button to speak. ‘Sorry, Roy, I’ve been having trouble with the gates. I can’t seem to get them open.’

  Roy’s voice came back, urging Marcus to come down and open them manually.

  ‘I’m a bit in the middle of something, mate. Mind if we catch up another time?’

  But Roy was insistent, and Marcus concerned he’d find his own way in. He sighed heavily. ‘Give me a few minutes.’ He dashed back to the library to find that the fire had already died down. There were still sack-loads to go, not to mention the computers. He would go to prison for possessing all this stuff. Ellie or Lisa would finally blab, and his life would be over.

  ‘Fuck!’ he roared, striding off to the garage. They’d left him with no option.

  He returned with a jerry can full of petrol. Holding it with his good hand and his bandaged stump, he doused it around the library, splashing it up the walls, the thick curtains, the furniture, and all over the piles of photographs. Then he drenched his desk, and left a trail to the doorway.

  For a second, Marcus stood there, staring at the scene. Then he struck the match and chucked it into the room, fleeing to the front door as fast as he could.

  By the time he got down to the gate, he’d calmed himself; had had a couple of minutes to think things through. But Roy wasn’t calm. As he drew near, he was yelling out.

  ‘Marcus! The house … look! It’s on fire!’

  Five minutes, he reckoned. That’s all it would take to gut the library. Hopefully by then the fire brigade would be here to save the rest of the house. Two minutes down.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Marcus called out, squinting back to his house. Then, reluctantly, he pressed the button to release the gates and Roy drove through.

  ‘Get in,’ he called through the window. ‘I’ve already called for help.’

  Marcus threw himself into the passenger seat and saw Roy staring at his hand.

  ‘I tried to put it out, thought it was under control,’ Marcus said, choked. He added a few coughs. ‘But I burnt my hand badly.’ Then, before Roy could reply, the luminous blue tick-tick of police lights was behind them. The cars sped down the drive in convoy, skidding to a stop in front of the house. Before they had a chance to get out, two police officers were already running up the front steps to the open front door.

  ‘Anyone inside?’ Marcus heard them yelling repeatedly from the doorway. He wasn’t worried. The fire would have done its job by now, and no one would be able to get through the inferno. Although … as he looked at the front windows, he noticed the library window wasn’t as fiercely aglow as it had been. Not at all, in fact. And the police had foolishly ventured inside. He and Roy got out of the car, following them to the door.

  ‘Looks like it’s going to be a mess,’ Roy said, pulling Marcus towards him in a manly embrace. ‘I’m sorry this has happened.’

  Marcus could only manage a small nod as one of the officers came back out, holding a bunch of photographs. He gave a few coughs.

  ‘Is this your property, sir?’ he asked, approaching them. He was only young, perhaps with little kids himself.

  Marcus offered another nod, but then he shook his head. He didn’t know what to say or do. Suddenly, he felt like a kid himself, trapped inside denial. These weren’t his photos, and it wasn’t his computer. He didn’t have to say anything if he didn’t want to.

  ‘It’s a good job you’ve got a good sprinkler system. Wouldn’t want all that evidence destroyed, would we? We couldn’t get into the room properly, but these had been blown out by the heat currents.’ He came up to Marcus, flapped the pictures in front of him. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of possessing child pornography. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention…’

  But Marcus didn’t hear the rest, barely felt the handcuffs latching his wrists together, didn’t say a word as the officers bundled him into the car. All he saw was the ghost of Ellie’s face pressed against her bedroom window, watching as he was driven away.

  *

  ‘You raped her, you fucking bastard!’ I scream at Tom, turning back to the phone, butting the screen with my nose. I pray I hit at least two of the nines in order to connect. Then I swing around again to see Tom coming close, the scent of sex smothering him. His top half is naked and the button and fly of his jeans are undone. The leer spreads across his face in a waft of pleasure.

  Suddenly, Ellie is behind him in the doorway. She looks pale and ashen, naked apart fro
m Tom’s donkey jacket pulled around her like one of those provocative fashion adverts. Her eyes are dreamy and dark, her make-up smudged, her lips cherry red.

  ‘I’m going to kill you!’ I scream, hurling my tied-up body at him, spitting down his chest. Tom jumps back, avoiding it. He draws Ellie in from the doorway, pulling her close, nestling her under his arm.

  ‘Get the fuck off her. I called the police. They’re coming!’ My voice burns with rage.

  I wish I’d saved her before.

  I don’t care about my ear, or Marcus’s fingers, I just want to take time back to that day when she was in the bath. Make everything right again. The tears fall from my eyes, hot and thick as if it’s blood gushing out of me. It might as well be. I want to die, to bleed to death, to escape the guilt. I fall down onto the sofa, giving up, sobbing piteously for all of us.

  Then I hear her voice. Right next to me. She is kneeling down beside me.

  ‘Mum,’ she says. ‘Mum, listen. Stop.’

  My face is pressed into the stinky cushions. I lift my head to look up at her, snivelling. I try to get close, perhaps give her one last kiss before Tom kills us both, but she backs away, fitting herself within his arms again.

  ‘I love you, Ellie,’ I say to her, hoping she’ll believe me. I’m shaking, waiting for Tom to make a move on one of us.

  ‘I said stop, Mum.’ Ellie pouts and looks up at Tom. ‘You and Dad needed to be taught a lesson.’ She’s perfectly calm, shaking her head. ‘I wanted you to feel some of my pain, my fear, even if only for a few hours.’ She hugs herself within the big coat. ‘Imagine living like that for your whole life – in terror, misery, anxiety and despair. There was no way out for me.’ Her eyes narrow and her pale cheeks flush. She looks disgusted with me, yet at peace with herself.

  ‘What?’ I say, struggling to sit up. I end up in an awkward foetal position, my arms trapped, my neck bent back. My damaged ear must be distorting what I’m hearing. ‘What are you talking about?’