Shaun Hutson - Captives

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he told her. 'Look, I had more to drink than I should have done. I'm sorry about that.'

'Well, it's too bloody late now, isn't it? You can't drive in your condition.'

He smiled that stupid grin again. It only served to make her more irritable.

'It's always the same when you get together with Dean and Richard, isn't it? They keep drinking and you have to keep up with them, don't you?'

'Don't speak to me as if I'm a child, Paula,' he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

'When you're with them you act like one,' she chided. 'Why did you tell them we were going to be in that pub tonight, anyway?'

'I didn't tell them,' he protested. 'That's where they usually go for a drink. It wasn't my fault they happened to come in while we were there. It's a free country, you know. What was I supposed to say? "Sorry, lads, but it's Paula's birthday, we're out celebrating, so would you mind pissing off and leaving us alone?" I work with them, for Christ's sake. They're mates.'

'Well, then, get one of them to drive you home,' she said bitterly.

'We were supposed to be spending the night together,' he said, touching her cheek with one hand. He grinned again.

'A celebratory fuck, is that what you mean?'

'I wouldn't have put it quite like that,' he chuckled, and the chuckle soon became a fully-fledged laugh.

Paula decided she'd rather get her grey suede suit wet than endure any more of his drunken ramblings. She pushed past him and out into the downpour. He tried to stop her but she pushed him away.

'I'm sorry, Paula,' he called after her.

'So am I!' she yelled back, pushing past a couple of young men who eyed her approvingly, one of them whistling as she swept along the road.

The bastard, she thought. The stupid, unfeeling, childish bastard. For a bloke of twenty-six he acted like a twelve-year-old sometimes, she thought, trying to ignore the rain. If his two idiot friends hadn't turned up then everything would have been all right. She would have gone back to his flat, she would have spent the night. A celebratory fuck had been high on her list of priorities to mark her twenty-third birthday. But now there would be none of that. Perhaps this was the excuse she had been looking for to stop seeing him. Over the past four months she had come to realise more and more that Mark Eaton wasn't the type of man she wanted a relationship with. She wasn't sure if she wanted a relationship with any man yet. Not a long term one, anyway. She was twenty-three, for Christ's sake. Her whole life was in front of her; the last thing she wanted was to be tied to one man.

The rain was easing up slightly, she noted with relief, but it had still fallen with sufficient ferocity to soak her jacket and skirt. She cursed to herself, looking up the street for a taxi. One was just dropping off at Wheeler's restaurant ahead of her. She hurried towards it but the driver pulled away, switching his light off as he did so.

She turned and watched him go then trudged on, passing a club called Maxims. There were two men standing in the doorway, both of them foreign, she guessed, from a quick glance at them.

'You want to come inside, darling?' asked one, smiling at her, revealing a mouthful of yellowed teeth.

She ignored him and walked on.

'You've got a nice arse,' the other one shouted after her and she heard their laughter. She felt her cheeks burning but she also afforded herself a brief smile.

Yes, you bastards, she told herself, I have got a nice arse. It's for sure you'll never see it.

You or Mark Eaton.

She'd ring him at work tomorrow, tell him she didn't want to see him again, she decided. Time to be decisive, she told herself. Ahead of her was Dean Street, the lights from the McDonald's at the Shaftesbury Avenue end bathing the street round about. She'd be able to get a taxi outside there without any trouble. They were often dropping off at the hotel round the corner.

Ahead of her some construction work was being done behind the Shaftesbury Hotel. Even in the darkness she could see the outline of a crane nudging upwards towards the rain-sodden sky. The yellow shape of a JCB was also unmistakeable, even in the gloom. Safety lights had been placed at the entrance to the small site as a warning to motorists. She passed by the high boards that separated the site from the pavement, muttering to herself as she stepped in something soft. She hoped it was mud.

Balancing on one foot she reached into her handbag and took out a tissue, wiping the mess from her shoe.

She noticed a taxi pass and saw, with relief, that it was dropping off at the end of the street. She slipped her shoe back on and prepared to sprint after the vehicle.

'Don't pull away,' she murmured to herself, almost slipping over in more of the mud, her eyes fixed on the cab.

From behind her, from the darkness of the site, one hand clamped around her mouth, another tugged at her hair.

She was pulled off her feet.

Swallowed by the blackness.

There wasn't even time to scream.

THIRTY-ONE

Her mind went blank.

There were no thoughts at all, only emptiness. No flood of fearful imaginings as she was pulled to the ground. No terror at what fate befell her.

Paula Wilson's mind had been wiped clean as surely as if it had been a blackboard swept clear of chalk. All she was aware of was the pressure on her face and hair, which suddenly slackened as she was thrown down into the mud. The glutinous muck seemed to close around her, holding her motionless; but what stopped her moving was the absolute terror of her situation. The only thing that seemed to respond was her bladder. She wet herself, urine running warmly down the inside of her thigh.

She felt those hands on her again, tugging at her hair, clamping her jaw shut. She was being pulled behind the partition that separated the street from the construction site, out of sight of any passers-by.

Out of sight, out of mind.

A handful of her hair was torn from her scalp and she felt searing pain. Blood ran in a thin trickle down the side of her face, but even the pain wasn't sufficient to galvanise her into action. Her body and her mind remained as frozen as if they'd been injected with Novocaine.

She felt a great weight pressing down on her chest and stomach and realised that her attacker had knelt on her midriff, driving one knee into her solar plexus. The air in her lungs was expelled rapidly. She felt light-headed, as if she were about to faint, but the coldness of the mud on her face and legs kept her conscious.

Then she saw the knife.

The desire to survive suddenly became uppermost in her mind. Her muscles unlocked and she struck out at her assailant.

Mathew Bryce kept his weight on her torso and slashed at her hand as she struck him.

The blade sliced effortlessly through her palm, opening it in a wide and bloody wound, the edges of which slid back like an open mouth. Blood splashed him, its warmth a marked contrast to the chill of the night.

With one hand still fixed over her mouth he drove the blade forward again.

It punctured Paula's left cheek, grating against teeth as he pulled it free, ripping a molar away with it. The tooth, still fixed to a portion of gum, fell into the mud. She raised her hands to protect herself once more and his next thrust cut through the fleshy part of her thumb. He felt her breath against his hand as she tried to scream in pain and terror. He sliced through the fingers of her right hand, severing the tendons.

She was writhing beneath him now, finding reserves of strength he had not anticipated. He turned the knife in his hand and brought it down in a stabbing action, the blade shearing through her left breast and cracking two ribs. He tugged it free and brought it down again, this time breaking her left collarbone. Blood was pumping from the wounds, some of it spraying onto his face as she waved her hands about in a vain attempt to ward off the killing strikes.