Lisa Stone - Stalker

He groaned and swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

‘I think he’s waking,’ he heard a half-familiar voice say.

‘Where am I?’ Derek whimpered, his voice rasping.

‘In hell,’ someone said, and laughed.

‘Who are you? What do you want with me?’

‘All will be revealed in time.’ Paul’s voice. Then a light tapping that he recognized as a computer keyboard.

The fog clouding his vision slowly began to clear and the nausea settled a little. He struggled onto his back. His knees stuck up, the cord that bound them to his ankles making it impossible to straighten his legs. The room was dark like the hall. He remembered now coming to see Paul at 35 Bushmead Close, a run-down deserted block of flats on the estate. But where was he now? Still in the flat? He supposed so, in a room that seemed to be decorated for Halloween. He remembered the ghoul in the hall and trying to get out of the front door, then the sharp pain in his arm.

‘Did you inject me with something?’ he asked, still on his back, his eyes adjusting to the dark.

‘Yes, with a date rape drug, but don’t worry, we didn’t rape you. You’re not my type.’ It wasn’t Paul’s voice but it was followed by more laughter.

He peered into the gloom, then forced his head further to the left and saw Paul with two others, dressed in black jeans and Watching You T-shirts. They were grouped around a computer, concentrating on the screen. Only Paul wasn’t wearing a mask. The ghoul he’d seen earlier in the hall had been joined by a zombie, the mask showing the side of a face slashed open with a row of rotting teeth and congealed blood around the wound.

‘Why are you dressed like that?’ Derek croaked, his throat parched.

No answer.

‘Why are you keeping me here? What do you want with me?’ he asked.

‘Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate,’ the zombie snapped, his gaze on the screen.

Derek struggled, pulled against the cord but nothing budged. It was knotted too tightly at his back. He stared around the room for any means of escape. Terror welled; he needed to get his bearings, but he couldn’t. All the walls and windows were painted black so it was impossible to make out where they were.

‘What is this place? Why am I here?’

‘I thought I told you to shut the fuck up!’ Zombie barked.

‘I need to use the bathroom,’ Derek tried. He did.

‘Tough,’ Zombie replied. He seemed to be the leader; he was the one issuing orders and working the computer while the other two stood either side of him, watching.

‘You have no right to keep me here,’ Derek said, making his voice as authoritative as possible. ‘If you don’t let me go, I’ll tell the police.’

‘Contradiction in terms,’ the ghoul sneered. ‘You can’t tell the police if we don’t let you go.’

Zombie stood, and for a moment Derek thought he was going to release him, but coming over he raised his booted foot and kicked him in the side. A cry escaped Derek’s throat.

‘Now will you shut the fuck up?’ Zombie snarled, and returned to his chair at the computer.

‘Just keep quiet and you won’t get hurt,’ Paul said.

‘Yet,’ the ghoul put in with a laugh.

Derek lay on his left side facing them, his ribs throbbing from the kick. What the hell was going on? What were they doing and why was he here? Clearly he’d been lured into a trap. Paul wasn’t working here and why were they wearing those masks and in a room that looked like Halloween? He really did need to use the bathroom, urgently.

He caught glimpses of the screen between them. It looked like they were tracking using street CCTV, but he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was some sort of sophisticated online game, there were plenty on the market, but that didn’t explain what had happened to him. Zombie and Ghoul could have been the same lads who’d been with Paul when he’d dropped off the second £500, Derek thought. They were the same build and their voices sounded familiar, but he couldn’t be sure. Had Paul told them about the money? Was that what all this was about? Blackmail? If so it would make some sense.

‘Do you want money?’ he asked. ‘Is that why I’m here?’ No one answered; they were concentrating on the screen. ‘It’s no good trying to blackmail me if that’s the reason; the police know everything about me.’

‘What the fuck is he rambling on about?’ Zombie demanded.

‘I’ve no idea.’ Paul shrugged.

‘The police know all about what I’ve been doing with my cameras so you can’t blackmail me. But I’ll give you money, if that’s what you want to let me go.’

‘Shut him up before I do,’ Zombie hissed at Paul.

Paul came over. ‘Be quiet, Derek, do as you’re told.’ He returned to stand beside Zombie at the computer.

It was almost farcical, Derek thought, as if he was caught up in some macabre game or play. But there was no humour in what had happened to him: injected to render him unconscious, then tied up and assaulted. Perhaps they were all mad?

He couldn’t just lie here and do nothing, so he allowed a few minutes and then tried a different tack.

‘My mother hasn’t got any money if you’re thinking of holding me for ransom. And she’s disabled. She needs me. If you let me go I won’t tell anyone I was here. It will be our secret.’ He knew he was babbling but he was scared and he could hear the tremor in his voice.

No one answered; they were all too engrossed in whatever they were watching on the screen. Derek’s anger and terror rose. ‘You can’t keep me here!’ he shouted. Then immediately regretted it.

Zombie jumped up, sending his chair crashing to the floor. ‘I thought I told you to shut the fuck up!’ he shouted, advancing towards him. Through the slits in his mask Derek caught a glimpse of the hatred in his eyes as he towered over him and raised his boot. He cried out in pain and tried to roll away as he kicked him once, twice, three times. Then came a sickening thud to his head and Derek passed out.

When he awoke, the room was empty and with horror and shame he realized he’d wet himself.

‘It always feels hotter in the south,’ Derek’s mother remarked as she climbed out of the cab.

‘Spoken like a true southerner,’ the cab driver returned, taking her case from the boot.

She gave him the fare plus a tip.

‘Thanking you,’ he said. ‘Do you want a lift in with your case?’

‘No, it’s only light. I can manage, thank you.’

‘Enjoy the rest of your day then,’ he said, and returned to his cab.

Front door key ready, Elsie Flint pushed open their garden gate. Taking a cab from the station had been a real luxury; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d caught a cab, perhaps never. Neither had she ever just upped and left before but she’d needed to get away after all the trouble she’d caused. Clearly Derek was still annoyed with her because he hadn’t even telephoned her. But the three days she’d spent with her sister had done her good. She felt revitalized and more confident. It had been a complete change of scenery and mixing with others had helped, although three days had been enough. Her sister had quizzed her about what exactly Derek had been up to, to the point where she’d had to tell her firmly that she didn’t know any more than what had been reported in the news. Added to that, her sister had moved since her last visit and now lived in a block of retirement flats that had a busy social scene: organized activities in the communal lounge and neighbours stopping by for coffee. It wasn’t what Elsie was used to so while she’d enjoyed it, a few days had been sufficient.

Her front door was double-locked so Derek must be out. Elsie let herself in and set down her case in the hall for unpacking later. She picked up the mail scattered across the floor and tucked it on the hall table, again for seeing to later. Derek must have gone out early before the mail had arrived, suggesting he was working again, which was a good sign. Presumably the police had given him back his van, motorbike and computer, so he should be in a better mood when he returned. First things first, a cup of tea, then unpack and catch up on the television she’d missed. There’d been no time for watching television at her sister’s and she didn’t like soaps anyway. Slipping off her jacket, Elsie hooked it on the hall stand and went into the kitchen.