Cry Baby (13 page)

5.57 AM

If she slept, she’s not aware of it. Perhaps a couple of minutes – nothing more. It feels like there’s just too much adrenalin in her system. As though there’s a drainage point that’s blocked somewhere so that there’s nowhere for the hormone to go. It just stays in her bloodstream, circulating. Prodding and poking fatigued organs into staying alert, just when they’re on the point of drifting off. Her brain especially. All those thoughts flashing through with reckless abandon. Giving off sparks as they collide and combine and turn into surreal images and suggestions and fears. There’s an ache in her chest, and she puts that down to the adrenalin too. The anxiety has tightened all her muscles until her ribs feel they could snap under the pressure. She dreads to think about the strain her heart is under. That’s a muscle too, right? Why should that remain unaffected? Could it be at breaking point? Is it on the verge of exploding in her chest, just as that man’s blood seemed to explode outwards, firing from his throat like some alien creature’s biological weapon?

Here we go again. Back to that episode in the car. Back to the slow-mo replay of her repeatedly plunging a stainless steel blade into flesh. Feeling each puncture as it travels through her hand and up her arm. Hearing his screams trying to compete with cries of bloodlust coming over her earpiece, but not really hearing either. It’s all just noise, just high-volume static as she does what needs to be done. And then the look in his eyes – that expression of incomprehension and terror as her gaze finally meets his. That profound questioning and pleading as she shows him the sharpness in her fingers, just before she flashes it across his neck and opens up his fountain, sets it free in a glorious spray of Technicolor – everyone go ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’, folks, because you don’t see displays like this too often.

Did I really do that?

She did. She knows she did. But it could have been a dream. It could have been another
existence. It could have been something she was only told about. She could believe that. If she were on a psychologist’s couch and the shrink told her it was all a figment of her fervent imagination, she could accept that. She could never do such things in reality. She’s not that kind of girl. What, me get into a car with a complete stranger? Heaven forfend! Flirt with him? Get him aroused? And then – what’s that you say? – stab him to death with a kitchen knife? Oh, no, no, no. You’ve got the wrong person entirely. That’s not the way I was brought up. You need to look elsewhere if it’s murdering prick-teasing scumbags you want.

While we’re on the topic of prick-teasing…

That wasn’t me either. I don’t do that. I don’t take off all my clothes in front of a camera. I didn’t even do that for my husband, let alone a baby-snatching insane person. I don’t put on shows like that, because if I tried I would feel self-conscious and embarrassed and I would just come across as an awkward, fumbling amateur who doesn’t even have the body to make up for it.

She cringes. Yes, all right, it was me. I did it. I tried to make that man all hot under the collar, even though all I probably did was to make him piss his pants laughing. Excuse me, Mr Nobby Bigcock, while I just bend at the waist in the most unnatural pose ever to retrieve that pair of lace panties I just took off for no reason whatsoever and dropped in a way that suggests I have lost all motor coordination of my fingers. That’s what it must have looked like to him. Absurdly comical rather than alluring.

Okay, so I’m exaggerating. It wasn’t that bad, surely? Was I really that obvious?

Maybe not. But did he betray a glimmer of interest? No. Not a word, not a murmur. Not even an ejaculation, if you’ll pardon the pun.

But just suppose…

Suppose it worked. What now? If my semi-naked form is now permanently etched in his mind, what’s my next step? How do I capitalize on that and move it forward?

She has no idea. She’s not even certain it’s possible to work up a definite plan at this stage. She may just have to play it by ear. Try to sound him out. Throw in a remark here and there. ‘I hope you didn’t make a recording of me in that bathroom.’ Or, ‘I hope you don’t plan on seeing any more of me.’ That kind of thing. And then he’ll say something like, ‘What if I told you I’m very interested in doing just that?’ And then she’ll know. She’ll know he’s taken the bait, and all she’ll have to do is reel him in. Sure, that’s how it will go.

After that internal pep-talk, she suddenly feels more confident about her strategy. I just need to go easy, she thinks. Keep up the sexual pressure. A glimpse of flesh here, an innuendo there. Nothing too overt. Not like, say, pulling my robe open and saying ‘Come and get it.’

Not that he’d see that, of course. The camera’s back in place. He can see only what I see, and right now all that I can see is a ceiling with a big crack in it. Because, Mata Hari though I’m aspiring to be, I haven’t yet gotten around to installing a mirror on my ceiling. So you’ll have to make do with that, fella. That’s the only crack you’ll see tonight, my friend. You’ll just have to—

And then it hits her.

He can’t see me!

Of course he can’t. He looks out from me. Right now he’s probably not even doing that. He’s probably taking a nap himself, or reading a magazine or something. Why would he want to devote a couple of hours to staring at a ceiling?

So what if—

Oh, Jesus!

What if…

She catches her breath, suddenly afraid of moving an inch or making the slightest sound – anything that might betray the fact she’s wide awake.

She wonders how much time she’s got. At some point it will enter his head to give her a wake-up call, reminding her that she’s got corpses to amass. But maybe not yet. He left the ball in her court. She told him she was desperate for sleep and would get back to the killing when she was good and ready. Since then he’s been silent. He hasn’t tried to interrupt her rest, and maybe he won’t for at least another hour.

So…

God, can I do this? Should I risk it?

But her hand is already moving. Sneaking up on her dead-still body as if it isn’t connected to it. Her fingers touch the warm fuzziness of her robe, then slide up to the pocket. They feel the stretched outline of the fabric against the hard box contained there. They continue their way up to the mouth of the pocket, then dip smoothly inside. They plunge slowly downwards – God, this pocket seems so deep – until they touch the hard foreign object there. She takes hold of the box – tight hold for fear of dropping it – then slowly begins to withdraw it. Up, up it comes. It should be such an easy thing to do, and yet it seems the most difficult thing in the world. She keeps her eyes focused on the ceiling, willing herself not to make any sudden movement, fearful of revealing the fact that she is awake. She draws the box along her robe, unsure as to whether it has cleared the top of the pocket but needing to make sure. She brings it up as far as her hip, and only then does she move it sideways and down onto the bed.

It’s done. Phase one is complete.

She feels the need to suck in huge lungfuls of air, but prevents herself. Her heart is hammering against her chest, trying to push what little oxygen she allows in around her system. She feels dizzy and her stomach seems clenched like a fist.

And now for the difficult bit.

Fingers moving again. Back onto the robe. Up, up, up. Keeping them low so there is no danger of them being seen. They touch the swell of her left breast, then the snake of wire. They follow the lead. Careful now, careful.

She can’t risk leaving this to blind groping. She raises her head from the pillow slightly. Just a couple of inches. Enough to look down and see what she’s doing. Her hand is almost there. Just a little more…

She touches the brooch. Gently at first. Then she slides finger and thumb around its outer edge and grips it tightly. Holds it as firmly as she can. There must be no sudden movement.

The pin of the brooch goes right through the lapel of the robe, but she chose not to fasten it behind because she knew it would be there only temporarily. She thanks God now that she made that decision earlier.

Slowly, painstakingly, she starts to pull the brooch upward, toward her face. She slides it along the cloth to keep it steady. At least a minute passes for every millimeter of travel. It’s almost imperceptible to her, so surely it must be the same on his screen?

She loses all sense of time. In fact, she doesn’t want to know how long this is taking. She can’t rush it. It has to be done this slowly.

But Christ it seems to be taking a fucking age to get this pin out!

Maybe it’s already out, but she can’t see. Another fraction of an inch, just to be sure.

Slide it along. There you go. Fingers starting to ache now, neck muscles starting to spasm.

But now it’s out. It’s got to be. It must be clear now.

She lets her head sink back into the pillow. Rest for a minute. We’re almost done.

But he’ll speak soon. He’ll try to wake me up. If we’re going to do this, we have to do it now.

She lifts her head again. Keeps her eyes fixed on the brooch as she slowly lifts it into the air. Not by much – just enough to keep it clear of her body.

There. That’ll do.

With her free right hand she grips the edge of the bed. Starts to pull herself across the covers. Sliding while she holds the brooch in place, her left elbow braced against the bed to keep it steady. She hopes this looks as steady to her enemy as it does to her. Hopes he’s not watching an image that’s bouncing about all over the place, making him wonder what the fuck she’s doing. If the ceiling were completely featureless he might not even notice, but there’s that damn crack up there.

She keeps moving, inch by painful inch. Again it takes a lifetime, but finally she gets her body clear. No screaming in her ear yet.

She licks her lips. Her mouth is so dry. Her neck, still elevated, is screaming at her to abandon this unnatural pose.

But she can’t take her eyes off the brooch now. Not now she’s come this far. She knows as soon as she does, her hand will take its opportunity to do its own thing, like a naughty schoolboy out of sight of its teacher. She has to keep a stern watch on that hand. Keep it in line.

Okay, next step…

She begins to lower her hand. Gently, gently does it. Keep the brooch upright and level. Keep its beady little eye fixed on that crack in the ceiling. Down, down, ever so slowly down.

And it’s there, on the bed. Oh my God, it’s there.

She tries to release her grip, but her fingers have locked in position. Please don’t make a cracking noise, she thinks. Not that close to the microphone. It’ll sound like a gunshot to him.

But she gets them open, and pulls her arm away.

Free! I’ve actually managed to free myself. I did it!

Her heart is pounding furiously now. Practically bouncing off her ribcage. She feels like she’s just run a marathon instead of moving a few inches on a bed.

She’s right on the edge of the bed. She shifts a little more. It’s easier now that both hands are free. She twists her body, drops one leg into space, feels touchdown on the soft carpet. Then the other leg. Then her body. Sinking below the level of the bed like a predatory river creature lowering itself into position to grab the next passer-by. Finally she pulls down her head, her eyes still wide and unblinking, until she is lying on the floor.

She is still wearing the earpiece. She presses on it with her finger, forcing into her ear canal. No voice. No noises at all. He hasn’t seen.

He hasn’t seen!

She takes a deep breath. She can smell carpet and dust. It makes her want to cough, and she has to bring a hand to her mouth to stifle it. She doesn’t know how sensitive the brooch microphone is, but she’s taking no chances. One tiny noise might be all it takes to ruin this.

She looks over at the bedroom door. It’s open – probably enough to squeeze through without opening it further. Things are going her way for once. If she had closed the door, she doubts this would be possible.

She thinks about squirming across the carpet on her belly, like a soldier trying to stay below enemy fire, but is worried that it will make too much noise. Instead, she gets into a kneeling position, her front half supported by her forearms. She can move much more quietly this way, but…

Will he see?

She lifts her head above the parapet that is her mattress. The brooch sits there, staring, watching, waiting. She has no idea what its field of view is, but surely it can’t detect anything this low down?

The ceiling, yes. It will see the ceiling. Maybe even some of the walls. But down here, no. Hell, she thinks, I could probably stand up and walk out of here and he wouldn’t know.

But she’s not going to do that. She’s not going to jeopardize her scheme now after all this effort.

So she stays on her knees. Moves slowly and surely and, above all, silently. A strange, ungainly hunter with its eyes locked on its prey. The door. If she can just get to the door.

A thousand things could go wrong. A million. An unexpected noise, perhaps. Sirens from outside, or the gurgling of a radiator – the heating in this old building makes odd noises sometimes. She could press on the one floorboard that squeaks – she has never noticed the floor do that before, but this could be the one and only time it does. Or maybe her robe will come undone and the belt will catch on a shoe under the bed and nudge it against the bedpost. Or maybe—