Shiver Sweet (5 page)

He set her down and his eyes raked across her face.  More tears streamed. 
Oh, Jesus.  He's going to kill me.

“Where’s the computer?”

Nicola’s heart gave a hefty jolt, snapping her alert.  The man grunted something else, but Nicola’s mind got stuck on the word computer.  Her hazy wet eyes shot to his.  “W-what?” she choked out.  "I don't know what you mean.  W-who’s computer?"  She stared through the wide, ski-mask hole, into the stranger’s steel-hard eyes.  It made her blood run colder.  On the next blink, a fast fist whizzed up into the air. 

“Then you’re no use to me.”

Concrete-hard knuckles slammed into her jaw and spots flashed before her eyes.  She deflated to his feet.  As a black fog swamped her mind, she thought she heard him say the name Sarah.

CHAPTER 7

NICOLA

Nicola wanted to slide back to unconsciousness.  Her whole body pulsed with pain.  She choked and spluttered.  Blood and a tooth came out of her mouth.  She tried to cup her throbbing jaw, but her arm raised no more than an inch before something tugged on her ankles.  Her head swirled and her chin flopped to her chest, everything weak and a blur. 

The only sound reaching her ears was the background gush of water.  No music or footsteps.  Nicola finally prised her eyes fully open and saw... nothing.  She sat in confusing blackness, her back pressed up against a hard wall. 

The man’s dark eyes behind the ski mask returned to her mind, and bits came flooding back.  Shit! 
Sarah.
  He had definitely said the name Sarah.  She jerked on the floor in a frenzied panic, desperate to separate her bound limbs. 
What the hell?
  It was no good.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she tried to connect with her surroundings and honed in on the thin line of light running along the base of the door.  The utility room.  That's where she was.  The place she hoped would provide safety because it had a bolt on the door. 

On hearing the tread of feet and the creak of floorboards, a wave of fright sloshed through her.  Hell!  He hadn't absconded with all their valuables, he was still in the bloody house.  Upstairs.

If this was a burglary gone wrong, then why hadn’t he left?

Frightened, she felt around.  Tape bound her wrists and ankles at the front, secured together with a length stretched between them.  This explained why she couldn’t raise her hands without also raising her feet.  But there was no tape across her mouth.  Why? 

She needed to get out or move and bolt the door.  Now.  Before this asshole came back downstairs.

Struggling to quieten her breathing, she twisted sideways and fingered the floor for anything remotely sharp.  A stiletto?  Not sharp enough to cut tape.  She tried again.  Is that plastic?  A tube or roll of... oh, useless.  Bin liners.  She cast them aside and continued her search.  Some moments later, the gushing bath water stopped, and her attacker stomped down the stairs, one step heavy, the other lighter as though an echo.  Was he injured?  She hoped.  In fact she wished he'd broken his goddamn neck. 

She flinched with every pound.

Then a voice came.  Gruff yet faint.  She struggled to hear.  “Well, you were wrong.  Someone was home.  What the hell were you doing?  You were meant to be keeping a look out.  I’ve taken care of it for now.  I had no choice, she'd spotted me."  A thud.  He must have kicked something.  "This could blow everything."  He paused.  "Well, while you decide what to do about it, I'll keep going.  How we doing for time?”  He paused again, but still, Nicola heard no reply. 
He's on the phone.

He must have entered the kitchen because footsteps grew louder and clearer and... Oh hell.  Nicola's breath snagged in her throat.  He was walking down the corridor toward her. 

A slight squeak sounded.  Light flowed into the utility room.  Fast and swift, she flopped her head and closed her eyes, fighting a whimper while pretending to still be out cold.  Slumped and unmoving, she squeezed every muscle to hide the shakes that would indicate she'd come to.

“Yep.  She’s still out of it.  I hit her pretty hard." 

No footsteps.  He must have paused in the doorway, staring at her.  The bastard.  

"So... what am I to do about...  No.  I’m wearing a mask, but still... If we leave her here then the cops'll come round and they might discover..."  Someone interrupted him, but the words were too faint to decipher.  "Look, I'm not your slave," he fired back.  "Instead of barking orders, get round here and help me out.  It’s all gone wrong.”  He didn't speak again, just heaved a sigh - perhaps cut off by whichever sicko was on the other end of the line.

Nicola ached to cry out.  But one gulp of breath, a whimper or a tear and he'd surely silence her for good.

Footsteps tapped slowly across the room.  The guy nudged her hip with his foot. 

Nicola held herself still.

He then placed a hand on her left breast and squeezed.

Despite the deep urge to scratch his fucking eyes out, Nicola did not move.

Then, clearly satisfied she was out cold, he walked away and turned off the light.  He clicked the utility door shut and walked down the hall to the kitchen, leaving her in darkness again.

She relaxed her tight limbs, but wondered for how long she would be safe.

Nicola recognized the sticky crackle of Christa's cranky old fridge being opened.  Then came the click and fizz of a can of pop. 
You’ve got to be kidding me?

“I’ll sort this one out first," she heard him mutter. 

A chair made a cringe-worthy scrape across tiles.  A faint rattle, soft thumps and other perplexing sounds drifted to Nicola who shuffled on her bottom across the cold floor, fumbling around for something sharp.  And then she found it.  A screwdriver. 

A moment later, the guy said, “Bingo!  Yes, I’ve reached it."  Perhaps on the phone again.  "Jeez, it stinks.  That fucker put a tin of cat food in the air vent.  I don’t know how he didn’t spot the... yeah, okay, okay.” 

The guy trudged upstairs again, still slightly limping, she thought.  Nicola had to act fast. 

She bent her hands inwards and used the screwdriver to make the first punch for freedom on the tape tethering her wrists.  Clanging and creaking came from the bedroom directly above.  Sarah’s. 
What the hell is he doing in her room? 
Frantic, she stabbed more holes in the tape to weaken it, but the screwdriver stabbed the inside of her wrist.  She gritted her teeth against the pain, then continued stabbing until the tape tore apart.

Some minutes later, having done God knew what else in the house, her attacker re-entered the kitchen just as the last of the tape snapped free and her ankles parted. 

She was free.  But not safe. 

"Where the hell are they?" he muttered.  Then a door crackled open and tapping on the tiled floor ended.  He must have gone outside into the garden, his footsteps softened by snow.

Nicola sat rigid, not yet daring to move.  She felt sick in her stomach and was overcome with the shakes.

A second later, the guy cried out.  Something thudded, and then all went silent.

Nicola scrambled to her feet, then turned and vomited on the floor.  She wiped her lips with the back of her hand.  Her head pounded and her stomach still swirled, but she had to stay sharp.  After waiting a minute to be sure he wasn’t returning, she pressed her ear against the door and listened, screwdriver in hand.  Apart from the wind outside, the house sounded pretty quiet.  How to protect herself in her own home was not something Nicola had ever seriously run through her mind before.  Things like this only happened on the news, to other people.  But if he hadn't left, she'd have pushed the washing machine against the door, bolted it... yes, and then squeezed through the window. 

Tense like a spring, she placed her hand on the metal door knob and turned until it clicked. 

She peeked out through a crack into the soft light. 

No movement in the corridor.  Still quiet.  Had he really left?  Keeping against the wall, she tiptoed on jelly legs along the corridor and emerged into the more brightly lit kitchen just as Christa's soon-to-be ex-husband popped his head around the patio door. 

“Oh, my God!” Nicola jerked and stumbled, dropping the screwdriver which clanged on the tiles and skidded away.  “W-what are you doing here?”

John stepped into the kitchen, a few strides away, shaking snow out of his short brown hair.  "Hey... err... What the...  Are you okay?  Why is your mouth bleeding?

Nicola studied him, cautious.

He thumbed toward the patio doors and, all at once, his entire face darkened.  “What the hell happened here?  Who is...?”  His mouth gaped.

She stepped back.  After all she’d been through, she didn’t, and couldn’t afford to trust anyone.  “Nice try, but I'm not falling for it," she gasped out.  John was not wearing the same clothes as the other guy, but then again, in her state, she couldn’t be sure.  "Get back, John.  The cops are on their way.”

“Oh, I should think so, and an ambulance too, but, whoa... what?”  His eyes widened.  “No.  Wait.  You don't think that I...” John spluttered, throwing his hands up defensively, and glancing outside.

Nicola shuffled sideways toward the kitchen table, shivering in the cold and clocking her exits, ready to flee.

“Look, I don’t know what you think I’ve done, but...”

“Stay away from me, you shithead!” Nicola said, trying to force stiff notes into her warbling voice.  She snatched a carving knife from the block on the nearby bench and raised it.  "Move back, or I'll stab you.  I swear!"

His eyes widened.  “Whoa!  Calm it.  You need to put that knife down and call an ambulance.”  He gestured to the patio doors and softened his voice.  “There’s a guy bleeding into the snow.  It's not pretty.  Who is he?  Looks like he’s been hit on the head with a roof slate.  Is he wearing a hat, a mask or something?“

Nicola lowered the knife to waist height, stunned into a stammer.  “W-what?  S-so... who?”  Her jaw flopped down in confusion. 

His gaze flickered to her hand.  "Lose the knife.  Let me help you."

Though it did occur to her that his slow, disarming tone could be for effect, his creased face appeared genuinely astonished.  Was he shocked at what he’d walked into, or just acting that way because he was a part of it?  She stared into his eyes.  Were those the ones behind the ski mask?  Or was there really another guy on the ground outside?

Even though she hated John for being at loggerheads with Christa over the divorce, nonetheless, tension eased across her shoulders being in his company.  Did that mean she could trust him?

“Careful where you point that knife,” he said.

Waving it, she edged over to the wall needing to check if a second man lay outside.  "Move into the corner."  Her mind struggled to come up with questions to fire at John to trip him into admission.  She needed to be sure of why he was here.  Instinct was not enough, not after what she'd just lived through.  John could be an accomplice and convincing actor, the person on the phone.  Perhaps as soon as she dropped her guard, John would strike to finish her off.  She’d witnessed what a bastard he could be to Christa, and knowing that he’d threatened Christa to make her sign the divorce papers... 

Who knew what he was capable of? 

She had to stay strong, though her brave facade threatened to crumble.  “I’m calling the cops.  Back off.”

"Call them," John said, showing her his empty palms, but not moving away from the phone on the bench.  His voice stiffened for a second.  "But tell me what happened here."

The full horror returned as she snatched quick glances around the room.  A chill slithered down her back.  A chair was out of place, cupboards were open, a can of pop was next to the microwave and the chocolate cake was an upturned splat like a pile of animal mess on the floor. 

Two words stuck in her mind; Sarah, computer.

"Why are you here?" she demanded to know.

He hesitated to answer.  "I-I'm not going to hurt you."  He stared, awaiting a response.

Nicola stood stiff and let the silence ride for a moment. 
Why didn't he answer my question? 
Her gaze slid around his face, scrutinising every movement, perfectly aware that he could spring at her in a blink.  "I asked, why are you here?  This isn't your home anymore." 

"That's debateable," he mumbled, then reached out an open palm.  "Look, I'm sorry, but please, put the knife down."

She padded along the wall, stole a peek through the patio doors behind and then whipped back into position.  Oh, crap.  Yes, her attacker was there all right, out cold, face down in the snow.

John's eyebrows flicked up and then he slid both hands into his pockets.  "I came to pick up my motorbike.”

“Your bike?  But it’s been here for months.”

“Yes.  I’ve finally found a garage to store it, and my knee’s on the mend so I can ride again.  I’ve got the trailer hooked to...” he heaved a sigh and motioned around.  “And then all this.”

“But your bike’s in the shed,” she said accusingly, still not convinced of his innocence.  “So why did you come in the house?”

“I wanted to speak to Sarah.”

Oh, crap.  The threat, the secret...

“Christa knows I was going to pop round before the morning.  Is she here?" 

“No!”

“Look, enough questions.”  He glanced out at the guy in the snow.  "That doesn't seem so important right now," he said in a gentle manner that reminded Nicola of how charming he used to be when he first married Christa. 

Was it all an act?  No.  Yes. 

Her thundering pulse was scrambling her brain.  She had to get it together.  Although she suspected John was not here under friendly circumstances, his stricken face suggested he knew nothing of the guy outside.   “Call the police and prove you’re not part of this.”

Then the house phone rang.  John eyed the phone on the counter near the range cooker, but didn't move.  "Go ahead.  Answer it," he said, and didn't even twitch. 

So she went for it.  Knife still pointed at John, she dived for the phone and panted down the line.