Stalkers. Paul Finch

       Chapter 5

      When Louise came round, she felt ghastly: headachey and sick to the pit of her stomach.

      Initially the awful memory of her abduction eluded her. All she could do at first was puzzle about why she was slumped in a ratty old armchair that smelled of stale urine. But then, when she looked around and realised that she was in a small, windowless room and that the throbbing pain in her right bicep was the result of an injection, everything surged back – and with it, a wild panic.

      She tried to leap to her feet, but was still groggy and immediately overbalanced, her shoeless feet sliding on the white linoleum floor. She fell heavily, landing alongside an open cardboard box, which, when she looked inside it, was stuffed to the brim with lingerie: pairs of lacy knickers, silk stockings, suspender belts. She recoiled from it the way she would if it had been full of snakes. Struggling to her knees, she backed away, only to collide with something else: a steel-framed clothes rack, which again was loaded with garments. In this case they were dresses, camisoles and skirts of various sizes and colours, though in all cases they were slinky, flimsy, transparent, the sort of things glamour models would wear. Again the tawdriness of it both revolted and terrified her – in no way could this be good.

      Heart thumping, Louise tried to lurch back to her feet, but it wasn’t easy. She’d evidently been sedated for several hours, and now felt as if she was recovering from a fever; every quick or ill-timed move brought on a new flutter of dizziness. But there was one thing at least – whoever had put her here, they’d left her unbound. Tender weals were impressed into her wrists, but thankfully the plastic cuffs had been removed, and, small and stuffy as this room might be, it had to be an improvement on the claustrophobic confines of that car boot. She pivoted around, looking for any means of escape.

      The room was lit by a single unshaded bulb and was no larger than a shop fitting-room, but it contained two doors, both made of varnished wood. Louise blundered to the first. It had a lever-handle, which she pushed down. The door opened, but on the other side of it there was only a narrow, white-tiled cubicle, containing a toilet, a wash-bowl and a shower. There was also a mirror, and fleetingly she caught her own reflection – it was so different from any previous mirror image of herself that she jumped backward with a shriek.

      Only after a split second of disbelief did she come forward again.

      Then she started to cry.

      Her face looked like it had been made up for a stage-show of the macabre. Her eyes were red with weeping; her hair hung in rat-tails; what remained of her make-up was smeared and blotched grotesquely; beneath that, her normal healthy complexion had paled to an ashen, almost greenish hue. Even though she’d only been in captivity for a couple of days at the most, she already looked to have lost weight: her cheekbones were painfully prominent. She glanced down at herself and saw that what remained of her clothing was in a disgusting state: stained with engine oil and body fluids. The vile stench of urine was suddenly explainable.

      The shock of all this was simply too much. Louise had tried to maintain her composure, tried to rationalise her way through this entire kidnapping ordeal rather than keep surrendering to panic, but surely she was insane to think that remaining calm would serve any purpose now? Good God, she’d been in these animals’ clutches no time at all, and she resembled a corpse already! Suppose they kept her for weeks, months, maybe longer?

      There was no option. She had to escape from here, any way she could, whatever it cost her.

      She backed into the main room again, turning frantically. She’d been correct in her first impression that there were no windows in here. She glanced up: the ceiling, which comprised bare wooden boards, was only about two feet above her head. She reached up and pressed it; it was unyielding. What she’d been expecting, she didn’t know – that it would lift like a lid? Ridiculous. But for some reason she pressed again, even harder, exerting all her strength, then overbalanced, almost fell.

      At first she assumed that she was having a relapse; that maybe the drugs were kicking in for a second time. But then she realised something bizarre: she wasn’t the one who’d overbalanced – it was the room itself. The floor had tilted. It tilted again and she had to stagger to keep upright. The entire room was swaying – not hugely, but noticeably.

      So what in Christ’s name was this? Where the hell was she?

      Panic once again nagged at her to get out of here, insisting that, whatever this horrendous situation was, she needed to get out – for Christ’s sake, she just had to get out!

      There was still the remaining door.

      Louise had no doubt that this one would be locked. And indeed, when she pushed against it and tried the handle – in this case a brass knob – it wouldn’t budge. She swore under her breath, struggling to suppress whimpers of despair. She tried again, but couldn’t even get the knob to turn.

      ‘Goddamn,’ she moaned, thrusting her shoulder against the wood, but only succeeding in hurting herself. ‘Goddamn it!’ Her voice rose to a desperate cry. ‘Goddamn it, someone please help me!’

      Abruptly, the handle turned in the opposite direction. There was a loud click as a lock was disengaged. Louise retreated. The door virtually flew open, and a man came through, closing it behind him. It was the tall black man in the overalls, gloves and day-glo orange ski-mask, an ensemble he was still wearing. He eyed her up and down. As before, it was not the way she’d been eyed by men in the past. There was no hunger there, no arousal – it was strictly professional; a cool, clinical appraisal. When he finally spoke, she was so astonished by what he said that at first she thought she’d misheard.

      ‘I said you’re size four, yeah? Your feet, I mean?’

      Hardly knowing what to say, Louise nodded.

      ‘Good. These are for you.’

      He pushed a pair of shoes into her hands. With a sense of unreality, she looked down at them: heeled sling-backs, black patent with red trim, evidently brand new. Under normal circumstances, they’d be far too trashy for Louise’s taste. Yet somehow she didn’t think that they were intended as a gift for her.

      ‘And for Jesus’s sake, take a shower,’ he added. ‘You’re stinking the entire place out.’

      She glared up at him, the injustice of the situation finally firing her spirit. ‘Surely that doesn’t bloody surprise you?’

      He pointed to the shower-room. ‘In there. You’ll find a toothbrush and toothpaste in the cabinet next to the mirror, so clean your teeth as well. And freshen your breath.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘You’ve got two hours. Better do a good job.’

      ‘What’re you talking about?’

      ‘Pretty yourself up, you silly tart!’

      Perhaps the fact that they still hadn’t killed her, proving that she was of more value alive, was giving her extra courage. Or maybe, in some basic animal way, she now realised they were approaching the main event and that all bets were off. Either way, Louise was suddenly angry rather than afraid.

      ‘I’m not going to do any such thing,’ she stated.

      The man lurched towards her. ‘Listen girl, you have no say here. You have no opinions. You have no views. You just do as you’re told. Understand?’

      ‘You’re not going to get away with this!’

      ‘No?’

      ‘The police will be looking for me.’

      ‘Occupational hazard for us, darling.’ And he smiled, showing white, shark-like teeth. ‘But I have to say, not much of one.’

      She made a dash to get past him.

      He