April stirred under the thin layer of blanket as the pinprick of light in her field of vision grew. She was slowly surfacing into consciousness, but the horrors of her situation had yet to sink in. For now, she was in a dream-like state, slowly taking in her surroundings without the cumbersome emotions of panic and fear. She had felt it before as a bad trip and presumed such was the case again. Her memory of events was foggy, intermingling with a physical coldness touching her bare skin. She had heard about things happening to working girls – bad things. But never once did she consider that this was to become her fate. So why couldn’t she move her hands?
Her eyes were slow to open, still under the influence of the drugs she had taken the night before. Soon she would wake in a hotel bed, get dressed and carry on with her day. She wriggled her wrists, but something was keeping them pinned down. Her heart skipped a beat as her senses cleared. A shuffling noise rose from the corner, forcing her eyelids open. This was no hotel room. A chill swept across her body, along with a cold realisation: this was real.
She drew in a sharp breath, craning her neck from the padded chair. Her chest tightened as the smell of crumbling brick dust filled her nostrils. Slowly, the memory of her last actions returned. She had squeezed through a gap in the fencing to reach the derelict hospital and had come here on a job. . . But who? A vision of a man in a mask rose in her mind. Worn like a balaclava, it was the colour of thick bandages. The doctor. She remembered the tufts of wispy grey hair poking from the top as he turned to sedate her.
April felt a small pang of relief. She had agreed to this. In a few minutes, he would walk in and let her go. He had asked her to do something special – offering her a wad of notes for her cooperation. April had heard of things like these and knew girls who had taken part. ‘It’s easy money,’ they had told her, ‘making dosh while you sleep.’ But April had seen their bruises and decided that was not the case. Snuff movies were enjoyed by a particular type of client that paid well over the odds; rape, torture, even murder were portrayed in the homemade pornos. Off-screen, the girls were sedated before the cameras began rolling. As they slipped into unconsciousness, the men had their way. April had been offered big money to play such roles and turned them all down. They liked her because she looked innocent, like the girl next door. The very thought of leaving herself so vulnerable and exposed made her flesh creep. So, when the doctor suggested he sedate her before sex, she presumed such was his wish.
He’d appeared horrified, assuring her this was not the case. He was ugly, he said, and he could not perform knowing how she would feel about having sex with such an abomination. Despite her assurances, he gained her sympathy by squeezing out a couple of tears. It would be just minutes, he promised, long enough for him to remove his mask and satisfy his needs. He was a professional; he knew how to control the dose; she would be out for just minutes of her time.
As he pressed two hundred pounds into her hand, she found herself agreeing to his request. Soon she would wake up two hundred pounds better off and no memory of what had taken place. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know him. She found herself feeling sorry for the strange old man so she agreed, and, now she had come around, she wondered where he had gone.
He had said nothing of removing her clothes or restraining her limbs. As she looked around the room, fresh fear found a hold in her insides and squeezed. She had been there for a lot longer than just minutes. The splinters of daylight that had been flooding through the boarded windows had disappeared. Above her, a rusted surgical lamp beamed down. The gentle hum of a generator purred in the background. And the smell. . . potent and sour. She had to get away.
‘Hello?’ she breathed, her words echoing around the desolate room. Craning her neck, she awaited a response.
A shuffling movement rustled a pile of newspapers in the corner. From the confines of her chair, April could still see the headlines of Ellie’s death. The Snow White murder was emblazoned in black and white. Ellie Mason, wasn’t she one of the doctor’s clients too? April swallowed, her throat dry. Her heart was pounding harder now, so hard she could hear the swish, swish of the blood reverberating in her ears. She pulled on the thick leather bindings holding her wrists in place.
‘Hey! Is anyone here? Can you hear me?’ Her words were sharper this time, laced with a panic that was rising in her throat. All that was returned was the rattling of the wind through the battered panes, and the distant rumble of traffic that never went away. Yet she felt the chill of his presence nearby and, as she was caught in the grip of fear, she knew she had made a very big mistake.