March 7, 10.22 a.m.
The drive took forty-five minutes in all. Denise sat in silence, ignoring the ramblings of the cab driver. She was unable to explain why she was still feeling so scared. Her therapy wasn’t giving her what she wanted. Tom Harper had made the suggestion about Mac right after her ordeal. It had seemed stupid at the time. It had made her angry. Three months later, still terrified by people at her own apartment and unable to answer her own door, Denise needed to move on.
Tom had wanted to help, not with fancy theories but in a practical way. Denise stared ahead as the cab turned off the street. The out-of-town warehouse in the timber yard was at the end of a pitted road. The car rocked from side to side.
The cab pulled over. The whole place was deserted. There was no sign over the door and no indication of what this place was. ‘This is the address you gave. You sure this is where you want to go?’
Denise pushed a twenty through the glass and nodded. She got out of the car and stood on the rough ground. As soon as she was out, the cab driver put his car into gear and drove away.
Denise watched the car’s brake lights as it slowed at the junction and then headed into the distance. She breathed as she’d taught herself and looked around. It was an open space in the middle of unfamiliar and run-down buildings. She didn’t feel good at all. And there was only one way out – through the unmarked black door. The cab had gone, there was nowhere else to go.
She knew Harper must have felt secure about this place and with that knowledge she started towards the door. The fear was growing inside her, a dark anxiety that had felt so close for months now. She tried to hold it back and looked up ahead.
There was no bell or buzzer, just a sheet of steel in peeling black paint. She pulled it open. It grated on an old metal runner. The sound shot right through her. Metal on metal. She knew that from the dungeon. She held the door and her breath.
There were no lights in the corridor, so she walked in and followed a narrow path around to the right. She stared ahead, where two dim yellow lamps lit the way. By the time she made it to the end of the corridor, Denise’s heart was pounding. She came to another door and pulled it open.
A line of steel steps led down to a large warehouse space. In the strange space, there was a car parked next to a van, a small gym set up on one side, a few concrete stairs leading nowhere and a doorway just like in a house. All around were different scenes that looked like some fire sale from a film set. She looked at each in turn. The mood was strangely foreboding.
Denise descended the steps and called out, ‘Hello?’ Her voice echoed against the huge tin roof. From a door across the room, a man appeared. He looked up at Denise. He took her in slowly.
‘I’m D—’
‘Don’t tell me a thing.’
‘Tom Harper gave me your name.’
‘I said not a thing. You don’t owe me an explanation.’
Standing on the last step, Denise stared back at him. The man was rough-looking. About five feet eight in height, big and strong across the shoulders, hands like spades and a mean look in his eyes. She didn’t like him. He was tattooed across his biceps and neck.
‘Get in here.’
He walked back through the door. Denise stood for a minute. She climbed back up the stairs, took three or four paces and then stopped again. What was she going to do? Sit in the yard and cry? She knew that she couldn’t be in danger. Tom would never send her into that kind of situation. She turned round and felt the steel under her feet as she made her way down.
Across the floor, the door was half open. She opened it and looked in. The short guy with the attitude was sitting on an old pommel horse in front of a group of seven women and one man. They were all hunkered down on the floor. The guy on the pommel horse pointed to the floor. Denise walked across and sat down.
‘First things first. You never trust me, ever.’ The guy jumped down off the horse and addressed his little group. ‘Welcome, victims. I don’t know why you’re here or what happened to you, but I know by looking into your sorry faces that you have ignored your birthright.’
The guy stepped towards the group. They shied away in unison. ‘You, lady,’ he said, pointing at Denise. ‘Stand up.’
Denise stood. This was clearly some kind of self-help group. Not the sort of thing she thought Harper would have been involved with.
‘Where are your eyes, victim?’
‘I don’t understand the question.’
The guy moved two fingers up to her eyeballs. ‘Where are my fingers coming from?’
‘In front of me.’
‘And what if I come from here?’ He moved his hand round behind her ear.
‘I can’t see them.’
‘Here?’ he said again, moving his hand behind her head.
‘I can’t see them.’
‘So tell me, victim, if you were meant to be scared of predators, where the hell would God put your eyes?’
‘The side of my head so I could see them coming.’
‘Fucking exactly. Go to the top of the class.’
‘Can I sit down?’
‘No, victim, you cannot.’ He leaned in close. He smelled of two-day-old sweat and stale beer. Denise veered away.
‘No.’
‘You think a rapist is going to smell sweet? Going to get all washed and put on his best cologne? You better get used to the thing you’re going to learn to fight.’
Denise couldn’t speak.
‘I’m a pig, because that’s what you’ve come to me for – to get rid of that stench he left on you. Am I right?’
Denise stared ahead.
‘I said, AM I RIGHT?’ He shouted hard, close up to Denise.
‘Yes,’ she said and looked down at her feet, her heart thumping.
‘Sit back down, victim.’
He walked around the group, his eyes moving from person to person. ‘We got work to do, victims. A lot of work. But you’ve all come here from something bad and you all don’t like where it left you and I’ll tell you why you don’t like it. You’re not prairie rabbits. You’re not cattle or deer or ducks. You don’t like being victims, people, because you are not made to be victims. You know what you are, people? No? I didn’t think so. You’re predators. Each and every one of you. Predators who have nothing to fear in the world but other predators. And you know what? Predators shouldn’t ever be afraid. That’s why your eyes sit right up there on the front of your skull. Front and center, to measure the distance between you and your prey accurately. You’re made to hunt and kill and cause fear and maximum damage. You’re not made to anticipate attacks and defend yourself. So I’m here to turn you back into predators. You understand? So sit down, listen and learn.’
Mac turned back towards the pommel horse, then stopped and faced the group. ‘People who come here want to learn how to survive. Well, this is the right place. Welcome to Predator Class, victims.’