Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

He grins. ‘Fighting back this time, are you? You do right, as we Yorkshire folk sometimes say. I like a bit of variety.’

‘Is that why you do the same thing over and over again: tie up women and rape them? You even say the same thing: “Do you want to warm up before the show?” What a ridiculous line.’ I force myself to laugh. Whatever I say to him, whether I’m defiant or timid, will make no difference to what he does to me. He knows how he wants this to finish. No words of mine will affect him either way, because he takes nothing to heart. Realising this enables me to speak freely. ‘You might think you’re adventurous, but you’d be lost without your stupid routine. That stays the same, whoever the woman is, whether it’s Juliet, me, Sandy Freeguard . . .’

The skin round his eyes crinkles as his frown becomes a twisted smile. ‘How do you know about Sandy Freeguard? From Charlie Zailer, I bet.’

‘Or from Robert,’ I suggest.

‘Nice try. Charlie told you.’ Angilley sniffs the air. ‘Yes, I thought I detected the unmistakable odour of female solidarity and mutual empowerment. Do the two of you make patchwork quilts together in your spare time? You must be pretty close if you’ve got her house keys. A bit unprofessional of her, I’d say. Not as bad as doing the deed of darkness with yours truly, though. That’s the sarge’s most serious faux pas to date.’

I try to shift my position to make my legs more comfortable, but it doesn’t work. My feet are starting to tingle; soon they’ll be numb.

‘You do look sexy when you wriggle and writhe like that. Do it again.’

‘Fuck off.’

He puts the dummy mallet down on the table. ‘There’ll be plenty of time to use this later,’ he says. My insides lurch. I have to keep him talking.

‘Tell me about Prue Kelvey,’ I say.

He picks up the scissors and walks slowly towards me. A scream rises in my throat. It takes all my willpower to subdue it. If I show even the tiniest bit of fear, I won’t be able to pretend after that. My act has to be constant, impervious. He lifts the collar of my shirt and tells me to lean my head forward. Then he starts to cut, all the way round the back of my neck. I feel the cold metal of the scissors against my skin.

He throws the collar into my lap once he’s cut it off. ‘How about you answer my questions first? How did my brother end up nearly dead in hospital? The good sarge would only tell me so much. Did you put him there, or did Juliet?’ He sounds less flippant now. As if he cares.

I look at his eyes, wondering if it’s some kind of trick. Letting me see that this matters to him is like handing me a weapon. But maybe he thinks there is nothing I can do to him. He’s tied me to a chair to make sure of that.

‘It’s a long story,’ I say. ‘My legs are hurting and I can’t feel my feet. Why don’t you untie me?’

‘I always do eventually, don’t I?’ Angilley says flirtatiously. ‘What’s the hurry? I should point out that if my little brother dies and if I find out that it was you who tried to murder him, I will kill you.’ He cuts the top button off my shirt.

‘Shall we just have sex and get it over with?’ I suggest, feeling my heart pound in my mouth. ‘There’s no need for foreplay.’

The man looks irritated, briefly. Then his smooth smile reappears.

‘Robert isn’t going to die,’ I tell him.

He puts the scissors down on the table. ‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve been to the hospital.’

After a pause, he says, ‘And? There’s no point being enigmatic and mysterious with me, Naomi. Don’t forget, I know you inside out.’ He winks. ‘You’ve been to the hospital and . . . ?’

‘You don’t want Robert to die, and I don’t want Robert to die. We’re on the same side, whatever happened between us in the past. Why don’t you untie me?’

‘Not a chance, old beanie. So, who does want Robert to die, then?’ the man asks. ‘Somebody seems to.’

‘Juliet,’ I tell him.

‘Why? Because he was taking a dip into you behind her back?’

I shake my head. ‘She’s known about that for months.’

He picks up the scissors again. ‘My patience was wearing thin when this conversation started,’ he says. ‘Now it’s Karen Carpenter anorexic. So why don’t you be a good girl and tell me what I want to know?’ He snips off another button.

‘Leave my clothes alone,’ I snap, as panic rears inside me. ‘Untie me and I’ll take you to see Robert in hospital.’

‘You’ll take me? Why, thank you, Fairy Godmother.’

‘The only way you’ll get to see him is with me,’ I say, making it up as I go along. ‘He’s not allowed any visitors, but I could get you in. The ward staff know me. I’ve been in to see him with Charlie.’

‘Stop boasting before you embarrass yourself. I’ve seen Robert today, as it happens. Just a couple of hours ago.’ The man laughs at my shock, which I’ve obviously failed to hide. ‘Yes, that’s right. I got into the intensive care unit all by myself, like a big boy. It was a piece of piss. There’s a keypad outside the ward door with letters and numbers on it. All I had to do was watch a couple of doctors going in, and memorise the code they were good enough to tap in right in front of me. It makes me laugh, actually.’ He puts down the scissors, pulls the other kitchen chair away from the table and sits down beside me. ‘The trappings of vigilance and security— keypads and alarm codes and the like—all they do is make people less vigilant. In the old days, ward sisters and doctors probably kept beady eyes peeled for unsavoury elements like moi. But there’s no need, not anymore. Now that there’s a digital panel on the door and a code—a code, no less!—everyone can wander around with their heads in the clouds, like sheep on Valium, trusting some paltry appliance to take care of safety for them. All it took was a quick tap-tap and I was in, slipping through the door in a cloud of invisible drug-resistant superbugs.’

‘How is Robert?’

Your brother chuckles. ‘Do you love him? Is this a love sort of thing? It is, isn’t it?’

‘How is he? Tell me.’

‘Well . . . can I be tactful and say he’s a good listener?’

‘But he’s still alive?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s a little better, actually. The nurse I was flirting with told me. He’s no longer—what did she call it?—intubated. I should explain, in case you went to a sink school—no more tubes. He’s breathing on his own. And the old heartbeat was chugging away. I watched it on the screen. The green line went up and down and up and down . . . I tell you what: real hospital’s nothing like a TV hospital drama, is it? I was quite disappointed. I was in Robert’s room for ten minutes or so, and I encountered not one single nurse or doctor who was determined to interfere in our personal business. There was no stern sister instructing me to confront my unresolved issues. I felt a little bit neglected.’

He has forgotten about the scissors for the time being. I decide to try a more direct approach. ‘Graham, I want to go and see Robert. I need to see him. He’s your brother, and I know you care about him, however flippant you are about it. Please will you untie me so that I can go to the hospital?’

‘I’m more concerned about myself than I am about either you or Robert,’ he says, smiling apologetically. ‘What’s going to happen to me? I’ll be arrested, probably, and you’ll tell the police I did all sorts of unmentionable things to you. Won’t you?’

‘No,’ I lie. ‘Listen, I know for a fact that the police have got no forensic evidence against you. No DNA. Charlie told me.’

‘Excellent.’ Angilley rubs his hands together. There is something inclusive about his pleasure, as if he expects me to share it.