HE MOVED THE curtain a fraction and peered through the crack. Earlier on there had been two photographers hanging around. These were the ones hoping for something a little bit extra. The others got what they came for two nights ago: photos of him running from the car, hands hiding his face, scrambling to get the key in the door, the whirr, click and flash of a whole barrage of paparazzi as he slammed the front door closed.
Now the street was quiet outside and there didn’t appear to be any photographers or reporters lurking about. The sky was black with just a faint glimmer of pink from where the sun had disappeared as night descended rapidly.
Even though the last remaining photographer had gone, he was still a prisoner in his own home. The neighbours would have heard all about it. How the hell was he going to get out? He’d eventually run out of food. And drink. He needed a drink now. Christ, did he need it!
First he sent her a text from his mobile. He couldn’t risk phoning, it was out of the question. But in all the time since he’d been released and allowed to come home, surely she could have found time to ring him. So why hadn’t she rung or even sent him a message? Perhaps she believed all of it was true and was cutting him loose.
After he’d sent her a brief text, asking her to call him urgently, he went into the kitchen and poured himself a large single malt whisky, adding plenty of ice. He went back into the living room, sank heavily on to an easy chair and swallowed a large amount of cleansing alcohol.
He surveyed his living room with sadness. He’d been happy here, and enjoyed seeing the house gradually taking shape. He remembered the first time he saw the cottage just over two years ago, how it became love at first sight. It was on the small side, and should have been part of a terrace of similar cottages, but was separated from the terrace by a wide lane and right of way to a public footpath at the back, and was detached. Seeing it for the first time from the outside, he knew at once he was going to make an offer on it, as long as the inside was in reasonable shape.
And the cottage was more than just a residence. It had become their love nest, with afternoons or evenings full of passion, followed by such contentment, never thinking it would end, and often making plans for the future, when she would eventually be his.
Now all that had vanished, leaving him with nothing but empty, negative emotions. His self-pity grew as he sipped his drink and thought about the pleasures of the past. He finished the whisky, returned to the kitchen and poured himself another. Back in the living room, he peered through a gap in the curtains. Everything was quiet and peaceful outside; exactly as it was before the press pack descended. Having got their sensational pictures, the paparazzi had vanished into the night, and the Sunday newspapers had already gone to bed with tomorrow’s scandal.
Even though the nights were quite chilly now, he loved going out to the garden for as long as he could stand the cold. And, as it was dark, he thought he might sit out there undisturbed and drink himself into oblivion without bothering about the temperature.
He never locked the side gate; there was no need in this district. And the reporters and photographers hadn’t attempted to enter the back garden, probably because of the privacy laws, even though the story was considered to be in the public interest.
But for now he could venture outside, perhaps for the last time. Daytime was out of the question, as the public right of way at the back overlooked the garden. Now he was imprisoned, suffering a shameful banishment from society, and would eventually have to move from the district.
The back door was through the kitchen and he picked up the whisky bottle on his way through. He opened the door and stepped outside, breathing the sweet smell of damp grass.
A dark shadow caught his eye, and he was aware of a swift rustling sound and a swish as something painful screeched through his brain, and the bottle of whisky fell from his grasp with a crash.
An intense pain beat in his head as he came round. He wanted to take a deep gulp of air through his mouth but found it difficult to breathe. His mouth was obstructed by something sticky and the plastic smell was nauseating. As he forced open his eyes, with no memory of what had happened, he found he was staring into the face of his captor.
At first he was puzzled. Why was this happening to him? And then he realized he was tied to one of his upright chairs and he was stark naked. Why had he been stripped? He couldn’t understand what was going on. Suddenly, the cold understanding of his predicament stirred the fear inside him and his body began to shake uncontrollably. He tried to speak, but the gag was too tight, and all that he could hear were his own muffled cries of terror.
He saw his captor had a holdall bag at his feet, out of which he took a large metal bar which he placed on the floor. Jesus Christ! He remembered the murders of those men on the news. Beaten to death with a metal bar. And this man thought he was one of them. Jesus! No! If only he could speak. Tell him!
This is a mistake!
Why are you doing this?
The man wore surgical gloves, and his movements were precise, like a surgeon preparing for an operation. Bending over, taking a bottle out of the bag and unscrewing the top.
What the hell was that? Some sort of liquid.
And then he realized what was about to happen, and why he was naked.
Dear God! No!
If only he’d give him the chance to speak, he could tell him. Tell him he was wrong. So wrong. But all he could hear were his own cries of fear, muffled and useless as he tried to signal with his eyes that it was all a mistake.
Moving closer now. Tilting the bottle. Getting ready to pour.
Please, dear God! Please! No!