The Unseen (16 page)

“Our picnic,” he said, showing her a cool bag. “A little pleasure for when labour is finished.”

Clutching her own yellow plastic bag, she followed him along a path into the wood, feeling the soft pine needles beneath her feet and the gentle pounding of her heart. She wondered who would play the part of Princess Kay-ling, wondered if Crystal would be there. Crystal said to trust Zoby. So peaceful here in the woods with Zoby. When finally he opened a door in a high brick wall, she stepped through. This, she thought, must surely be the place. Not quite what she expected, neither was the hand that began to fondle her breasts. For a moment she stood in utter disbelief, then a blow stunned all her senses.

Zoby guessed her weight about fifty-five kilos, nice size, not fat, not thin. Lifting her bodily, her head and arms trailed downwards as he carried her to the greenhouse. In the chosen spot, he placed her carefully on the ground. He didn’t want her bruised. I have to keep her perfect, just perfect, he thought. Then he went back for her carrier bag and searched the contents. He kept the flash drives as the Colonel had ordered. With no interest in the rest he discarded each item one by one on the greenhouse floor. Standing over her, savouring his power, he began to sweat. Everything in his body was pulsing, trembling over what he intended. Kneeling beside her, he carefully spread her arms and ankles ready to tie. She smelt of sweet vanilla. Her mouth was partially open, her teeth white, one with a filling. He placed a finger on her tongue and felt it moist. He shivered. Once he had her spread-eagled and tied between the four wooden stakes, he adjusted her veil so it framed her unblemished face. He had never felt this excited with a girl before, a nun, a virgin.

“Now for the purest of the pure,” he whispered and lifted the hem of her long, wide skirt, dropping it in a cathedral arch around waist and legs. “Bitch! Goddam bitch.” He stared down at the satin suspender belt and stockings. “Why the fuck do you always spoil it. No nun would wear those.” He switched on his head radio. “Colonel, the prisoner has been classified as a hostile. I repeat, the prisoner is a hostile.”

“Go to it, Zoby. Give the enemy what she deserves.”

Zoby threw off his clothes and stood with clenched fists, his penis and body rigid. When his rage could no longer be contained he came down on her, ripping the crotch of her underwear, yelling in brutality on entering her body. Her eyes opened. Inches away from his face she was staring at him. He saw the disbelief, the pain, the horror and disgust. Her mouth came open, he felt the swell of her body as she drew breath to scream. He slapped his hand down, this was combat, he’d practised, knew exactly what to do as he grabbed the masking tape. She managed only a squeak when he spread the three-inch band from cheek to cheek, slipping his hand away as he smoothed it across her lips.

He got up then to watch her thrash and twist, her eyes wild with terror. He took photographs. Then he cut off her clothes with the scissors, revealing the white skin beneath, her limbs, her breasts, her body. He left the veil. She looked better with the veil. Halfway through she stopped her twisting and just stared at him. He knew it was disbelief, the onset of trauma.

“Hostile has ceased resistance,” he reported over his head radio. When she was finally naked, he prepared himself for a second thrust. She was shivering. He liked that.

He wallowed, letting self-gratification consume his senses. She never moved or made a sound through her gag, just laid with her head to one side, but he knew he possessed her, and in that moment he let himself go. Silence followed, she hardly seemed to breath. He pushed himself up from her white, clammy skin and saw she was crying, her eyes red, her face flushed with long rivulets of tears. Mucus seeped from her nose. She wouldn’t look at him. He smirked, sensed triumph and rearranged her veil. Standing to the side he watched her all the time he dressed; first the overalls and surgical outfit, then the rubber boots. Her face was still turned from him, staring at the green, algae-coated glass. Boy, was he going to get her interest. Kneeling beside her, he unrolled the butcher’s knives. She looked then, eyes wide, her body shaking.

Zoby felt confident about this and knew exactly what he would take from her, but first he needed to discover if she had someone hiding inside. He smiled and made his first incision. “Don’t worry, I used to be a doctor.”

Tongue out over his lower lip he worked on her for an hour. First with his knee on her chest, ignoring the muffled screams, until after ten minutes she became still. Then he knelt beside her. He took photographs throughout. Afterwards he considered what was left and felt it was his best operation; particularly his trophy. Naked once more, cleaning took thirty minutes, much of it spent on his hands and face. He was careful to return all chemical and blood-soaked cleansing tissues along with other equipment to the bag.

Finally dressed in his blazer and flannels he whistled as he left the garden. He wondered who the people saw when he drove away the Mercedes. He knew it wasn’t him because he was hiding in the shadows, hiding where nobody saw him, where nobody could find him. He was disappointed no little girl had been hiding in Katherine.

Behind a sprawling council estate on the outskirts of Dublin, Zoby removed the cool bag from the passenger seat. He poured a flask of petrol over the interior of the Mercedes and another into the boot, then flicked in a match. The walk to where he had left the hire car took ten minutes. He considered it enough distance to avoid connection. Across the fractured air came the incessant wailing of fire engines. He smiled and reported to the Colonel over his head radio.

“Mission accomplished, heading for base.” At the hotel, he showered and placed all clothes worn in the Mercedes to a small zipper bag. On his way to the airport he tossed the bag into a skip.

The flight was no problem. Three hours later he knelt by his mother’s grave to bury a sealed plastic wallet amidst the marble chippings. Inside was proof of mission, flash drives from her computer, a card from the digital camera with photos of the hostile during interrogation, during her execution, of the mess that was left afterwards. Zoby switched on his head radio. “Mission, Clean Cut accomplished, Colonel. Returning to base. Unit ready and combat proficient.” He knew the Colonel wouldn’t answer. The Colonel never answered after a mission, but Zoby was confident he would be back with another. He whistled tunelessly as he walked and felt the sun shine on his day.

When the girls appeared from Camilla’s house dressed in their finest and clutching a bunch of CDs, Sean knew he faced suppressed rebellion. The drive to Brighton took two hours, the car’s speakers blasting incomprehensible pop music while Sophie and Becky bopped and rattled on the back seat, discarding their pristine clothes for jeans and Tshirts. He figured best they let it out in the hope of a quiet weekend.

First sight of Morrison Hotel gave him the impression of a people factory, a big block of a place set back from the sea front, the exterior all shiny and flash. Kids were everywhere. Sean carried Sophie’s bag to reception while she clutched an assortment of teddies and comics. Becky trailed behind portraying “just-flew-in-from-Hollywood”.

In the plush foyer a display of PKL Investment portfolios was prominent, another advertised for sales agents. Sean smiled for the receptionist and received a slick grimace of teeth when he handed over his complimentary voucher. He signed a false address into the book, considering it prudent to stay hidden. The receptionist passed tickets for the games room. Sean let the girls lead to their family room. Once unpacked they headed instantly for Princess Kay-ling.

The place was at full capacity with every hotel guest seemingly playing or queuing. Scores of kids and assorted parents sat with DVD visors wrapped over their faces, their fingers punching on buttons set in the chair arm, their ears clamped by headphones. The constant squeal of children and the amplified music of Princess Kay-ling’s battle hymn blanked all other sound. To enter the room was to enter its heart. Waiting in the queue Sean felt his apprehension fade, these people were having a good time. This was mass, family entertainment. Sophie was already dancing with other kids around her, all doing the clenched fist stomp which appeared the current PKL routine. Becky linked his arm and put her head against him, trying to stay above it while she tapped her feet. By instinct Sean found himself watching people. Their entry and exit was controlled by a short, stocky woman who kept order with two hassled assistants. He felt peeved when she led a pretentious couple to the front and allowed them preference for seats. He hesitated on the verge of complaint. Both stood displaying their privileged position, both wore articles of yellow clothing. Maybe it’s the yellow club, he thought, but sensed the detective twitch.

“You have one hour, sir,” the assistant said, finally guiding Sean to a seat. “After 9 p.m. it’s £10 per session, but over eighteens only. Half price after midnight. Press the right-hand buttons for choice of PKL or Killing Field. Controls are in the arm. Enjoy.”

Sean eased himself into a seat and saw Becky and Sophie doing likewise. Earphones automatically clamped his ears as he pulled down his visor. The screen before him shimmered in colour, then Sean pressed for PKL. In virtual reality, a wide-open desert appeared from nowhere, the sun high over distant mountains. He heard the wind, felt it brush his face and saw it stir the desert floor. He had a sense of being there and heard himself exclaim in spontaneous amazement. Across the desert, dust rose in a long brushed line as a chariot raced towards him. Hunched over the reins a handsome adolescent urged the horse forward. On the chariot platform the tall, graceful figure of Princess Kay-ling stood clad in bodice and skirt, her arm raised to throw a spear. Sean jerked in reaction at the sudden appearance of a monstrous dragon. He pressed what he hoped was the fire button, missed and watched the chariot being destroyed beneath the monster’s feet. When the dust had settled a small elfin figure appeared.

“Hi, I’m Crystal, councillor for the Princess. As a new fighter it seems you need instructions. Obey my commands and eventually you will succeed in reaching the Garden of Serenity. The Princess has her trusted charioteer, Zoby, but she needs your skill and concentration. Listen to my words, and obey me.”

The princess reappeared with Zoby. This time she stood before a target. Zoby handed her a spear.

“Under your left hand you will find a ball control set into the arm rest,” Crystal said. “Swivel this to direct the Princess’s aim. Press the button under your right index finger to fire. Now practise.”

Sean did as instructed and made Princess K hit the target edge. Zoby handed her a second spear. For moments Sean examined his face but saw nothing sinister. The youth was clad in Egyptian style armour, simple and unadorned. His ambiance was honest and appealing.

“You can trust Zoby,” Sean whispered. Zoby paid no attention other than to his princess. Sean achieved a near centre on the second shot and a bull’s-eye on the third. The princess smiled for him and climbed back into her chariot. Crystal, who had been watching, turned to face him.

“Well done, good friend. Let us now journey to the Garden of Serenity. Onwards.”

From across the desert a chariot came racing. A sense of elation hit him when he killed the dragon. Demons followed, then ferocious beasts and warriors. The vision faded in mid picture when his hour was up. Sean lifted the visor. In the chair along side, the man from the posing couple did likewise.

“Get far?” he asked.

“Level 3,” Sean said, the man’s bright yellow shirt hit him like a beacon. “How about you?”

“Level 5.”

Smug bastard, Sean thought and smirked his congratulations. The girls waited out front, Sophie holding up a games voucher.

“Me and Becks won prizes, an extra half hour for high scores. Have to play before nine tonight. Did you win a prize?”

“No chance, just can’t zap ’em like you guys.” He followed them out passed the hotel boutique. Sophie lingered there. Most of the display held yellow clothes. Sean recognised the poser’s shirt priced at £10. Cheap, he thought, looking over the display. All yellow items were cheap compared to other colours. Again he sensed the detective twitch and knew something he should see was staring out at him.

At 7 p.m. Sean led them in to dinner, the girls in best jeans and Tshirts. The room enveloped him with the babble of family noise and the smell of hot plate food. A waitress with plastic earrings guided them to a table. Sean wanted this over quick. The place was a gilded works canteen. The food looked as if it matched. Mr and Mrs Poser sat near, their two kids immaculately dressed, all talking in loud, overbearing voices, all wearing yellow items of clothing.

“Dad.” Becky touched his arm. “It’s not Danielle, but it’s not school dinners either.”

“Brave girl. Let’s wade in.” They placed their orders.