‘Please, talk to me …’
Her voice sounded weak and cracked.
‘Why won’t you speak to me?’
The man in the mask ignored her, pulling a duffelbag across the floor towards him. Desolate, Rochelle started to cry, salty tears and mucus stinging her battered throat. She had never felt this bad in her life – it was like she’d been in a serious car accident. She felt dizzy and disoriented and was unable to turn her head without vicious pains flaring up her neck, yet she knew this was the least of her worries. Her abductor had not said a word since she’d come to in this awful place and with each passing second her terror increased.
She had been at home, washing away the cares of an upsetting day, when suddenly the shower screen had flown open. Rough hands had grabbed her and before she could register what was happening, she was on the bathroom floor, her naked legs sliding hopelessly over the wet tiles. Then that awful choking feeling.
The next thing she knew, she was here, swathed in darkness, naked and exposed, her arms and legs bound behind her, feeling the crinkle of that awful plastic beneath her toes. Disoriented, terrified, she had screamed and screamed, but her abductor hadn’t responded, calmly going about his business unperturbed. He was dressed in a boiler suit and would have looked like an ordinary, everyday workman, were it not for the ski mask which concealed his features and his persistent, pitiless silence.
‘Please …’ she croaked once more. ‘Tell me what you want? I’ve got money … my dad’s got money … What do you want?’
The man said nothing, but ceased searching now. Straightening up, he turned towards Rochelle. The room was dark and close, a single paraffin lamp offering a weak light, but still the sight of him chilled her blood. Clamped in his right hand was a butcher’s cleaver. The flickering light of the lamp danced wickedly off its glistening blade.
‘Please don’t hurt me …’
Tears were streaming down Rochelle’s face now. Her captor didn’t react, merely cocking his head to appraise her distress, before moving towards her.
‘I’m begging you …’
She was sobbing freely.
‘Don’t kill me …’
He came to a halt right in front of her. Calmly, he ran the blunt edge of the cleaver down her cheek. The steel felt cold and cruel on her skin.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he breathed.
‘No, no, not at all …’
‘Do you know what I do?’
‘No, I know nothing about you …’
‘Good.’
He raised the cleaver high in the air, preparing to slam it into her skull. Jerking back, Rochelle howled in fear. But to her surprise, her attacker now lowered his arm, chuckling quietly to himself. Rochelle stared at him in blank astonishment, her heart thundering out the rhythm of her terror. In that moment, she’d expected to die. Now she feared something much worse lay in store for her.
Sensing this, the man lowered himself to her level. His nose was almost touching hers. She could smell tobacco on his breath, the sharp tang of sweat.
‘We’re not going to rush this, Rochelle,’ he whispered.
Rochelle couldn’t speak. The malevolence in his voice, the sparkle in his eyes, was too much. She wanted to pass out, for this all to be over, but cruelly her body wouldn’t oblige. She was locked in this nightmare.
‘We’re going to do this nice and slow …’
‘Please, no,’ she moaned.
‘Piece by piece …’
He stroked her arm with the cleaver. Rochelle wanted to vomit – suddenly she knew exactly what was coming.
‘Starting with that pretty little tongue of yours.’