Turning into Bracewell Road, Shelley scanned the street for Nicole’s blue Chimaera. It wasn’t there. She parked up farther down the road. Stepping out of the car, she shivered. Tomorrow would be a good day, she thought as she gazed up at the red clouds that were populating the sky.
She took the box and her beige case from the boot. She placed them on the pavement while she wrapped herself in her warm coat. Then she walked round the car, counting aloud as she used her hands to feel what she didn’t trust her eyes to see – that it was secure and safe to be left.
Approaching Len’s terraced house, she noticed the next-door neighbour’s lights were on. Through their net curtains, she saw the couple sitting in their front room, watching television. They’d have to keep their noise to a minimum, she thought.
The wrought iron gate squeaked as she pushed it open. She paused to look at the immaculate front garden. She noticed the three red rose pot-plants in front of the bay window that replaced the mess previously residing there.
Her heels clicked on the multicoloured mosaic embedded in the path that led to the front door. Walking up the three stone steps, her heart quickened. When she took the key from her black patent handbag and turned it in the lock, she realised the shaking had returned.
A light shone down the hall from the kitchen in the back of the house. Nervously, she advanced towards it. The germ-ridden kitchen was empty. With boiling water on a tea towel, she wiped down the Formica worktop. On it, she placed the wine and beer bottles. To the side, she arranged a display of the spirits.
She checked the lounge. The same filthy, and possibly flea infested, armchair was still the centrepiece of the dilapidated room. Thankfully, leaning against the ripped wallpaper were her grandparents’ folding chairs, which she’d brought on her last visit for a clean place to sit.
From her case, she took the can of air-freshener. Heading upstairs, she sprayed as she walked. She checked the four bedrooms, which had retained their après-burgled look. Where were her friends? She took her mobile from her bag and checked the time – 8.22 p.m. He was due at the house at half past. If her friends didn’t arrive, she’d have to manage on her own.
Eight minutes to prepare was all she had. She went back down and yanked open the little door under the stairs. The cellar reeked. The fetid odour stuck in her throat. She was convinced there was a dead rat, or two or three or more, somewhere in that room. Her footsteps creaked down the narrow staircase. She switched on the solitary light bulb. There were no dead rats. Maybe the vermin lay above her, under the floorboards in the hall, or perhaps they were among the boxed-in pipes for the central heating; it was too late to do anything about that now.
Returning to the lounge, she unfolded one of her grandparents’ wooden chairs. There was only five minutes until the rapist’s arrival. She needed a chase. If the others smelt anything, she could blame it on the tenants. She shook the paperback to free the silver square from its pages. Then she took the foil tube and her Clipper out of her handbag.
As she sucked in the fumes from her third run on the foil, she heard a knock on the front door. She folded the foil, put it back in its hiding place and stuffed the book and the tube back inside her shiny handbag.
Calmness enveloped her. She wondered if it was not from the heroin, as she hadn’t taken much, but perhaps the finality of the situation.
Approaching the front door, she tried to make out the figure on the other side of the glass. The shape was too long and wide to belong to her friends. It was a man, but was it the rapist? For a moment, fear infused her calmness.
Her hand was on the lock. The ordeal he’d put her through played out in her head. Hot rage permeated her body. She hoped it was him and not a random punter. Her heart pumped in her chest. It was a different feeling to that when she wanted to flee. This wasn’t the flight with which she was familiar. This must be the fight.
***
Shelley stood at the front door, facing the demoniac who’d raped her. In the radiance of the twilight, she smiled at him. To other people he was probably an ordinary looking man: a businessman, a husband, a father with a young family, but Shelley could see the evil in him. She looked past the pretty lashes, disguising the malevolence, and into his dark, sunken eyes. She could see the sickness in his soul.
“Come through. Let me take your coat.” Shelley helped him take off his navy suit jacket. She hung it over the banister.
“Where’s the black girl? I didn’t book you.”
“She’s making herself beautiful for you. She won’t be long.” If he saw the lounge, he might not stay so she led him into the kitchen, explaining they were in the middle of redecorating.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“No thank you. Will she be long?”
“I don’t think so.” Shelley had to get him to drink in order to get him drugged. Although her hair was different, she worried that he might recognise her face or her voice. If he did, he might leave, and either way he might rape her.
“You may as well have a drink while you’re waiting. What do you like, spirits, wine—?”
“I don’t want a drink. Can’t you hurry her up or something?”
Shelley walked to the bottom of the stairs and shouted up to her friend who wasn’t there. While she was opposite the front door, she lingered for a minute, listening out for a car. Where were her friends? Her eyes welled. She took a deep breath to suction the tears back from whence they came.
She returned to the kitchen and noticed his impatient glare. She knew she couldn’t stall him much longer. She poured herself a gin then took the glass round to the fridge. Hiding behind the fridge door, she added the tonic, GHB and pre-crushed Rohypnol. Stirring it, she tried to avoid the teaspoon coming into contact with the glass. The whole thing was risky, but she didn’t see another option.
She closed the fridge and turned to face him. She raised the glass to her mouth and took a sip. “She’s very bad to keep you like this but she’s worth the wait, I promise.” Shelley walked closer to him and undid the top two buttons of her red blouse. “I’ll look after you,” she whispered in his ear and through gritted teeth, she forced herself to kiss his neck.
With both his hands, he grabbed her buttocks and lifted her up on the work surface. “I think you’re the bad girl.” He pulled her hair and pushed his tongue into her mouth. Shelley fought the urge to bite it. She gulped back the vomit that shot up her throat. However much it hurt, it would be worth it.
“Your mouth is dry.” She held the glass of date rape drug to his lips and as she tilted it upwards, he swallowed it down. All of it.