Camellia (25 page)

She paused for a second under the black and white club awning, looking out for a taxi. Davies Street was unusually deserted. For a second she thought of going back inside to phone for a cab, but Oxford Street was only a few minutes' walk and she could hail one there.

Two days ago warm sunshine had heralded summer, but May was an unpredictable month and it had turned bitterly cold again. She was glad she'd decided to wear her white rabbit coat. Turning up her collar, she began to walk. To her delight a taxi was coming down from Oxford Street, pulling in some fifteen yards from her as if to let out a fare. Clutching her bag under one arm, she ran towards it.

But as the passenger door opened and a big leg in familiar checked trousers slid out, Camellia froze. It was too late to turn and run in the opposite direction. The rest of him was now out on the pavement and he'd spotted her.

It was only polite to make some sort of apology; besides she wanted his cab.

'I'm afraid I couldn't wait any longer for you to come back,' she said as he paid the driver. 'My flatmate is sick and I have to get home.'

'Could you take me to Chelsea please?' she said to the driver, insinuating herself between Hank and the cab.

'But I came back for you,' Hank said, his fat face slumping with disappointment. Camellia got into the car, but Hank held onto the open door, looking in at her. 'I didn't think you'd be this long,' she said weakly. 'Go on in the club, someone will look after you. I must go.'

The cab driver turned to look back at them, his expression irritated.

Camellia reached out for the door but Hank pulled it open further and began to get in.

'I'll see you home,' he said, his bulk filling the cab.

'That's not necessary,' she said, a little afraid now. 'Besides it's a long way.'

The driver cleared his throat. 'Look sir,' he said testily. 'I'm taking the young lady to Chelsea first.

If she doesn't mind I'll drop you off afterwards. All right with you, love?'

Short of making a scene, Camellia could only nod in agreement.

'The ABC in Fulham Road,' she said quickly so that Hank wouldn't discover where she lived. It was only a short walk from there to Oakley Street.

But the moment they drove off towards Piccadilly, Camellia regretted not having been tougher. He slung one big arm around her shoulders, and tried to force her face round to kiss him.

Just the mere thought of his slobbering lips on hers made her feel nauseous. 'How dare you?' She wriggled away as far as possible from him. 'Don't touch me again or I'll ask the driver to go straight to the police station.'

'You fobbed me off didn't you?' he sulked, slumping over against his window. 'Took my money and got rid of me.'

Camellia willed the driver to get a move on, wishing now she'd told him to drop her in Knightsbridge. 'It was you who decided to go for a meal,' she said snootily. 'I waited over an hour before I left. I could only assume you weren't coming back.'

It was so tempting to tell him what a fat, stinking bore he was. But she wasn't that brave.

The atmosphere grew heavier by the minute. Camellia stared out the window, and counted the landmarks. The Scotch House, Harrods, the turnoff to Fulham Road, the Michelin building–it wasn't much further now.

'I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in England,' she said stiffly as she saw the ABC cinema up ahead. 'This will do nicely,' she called through the glass compartment to the driver.

He didn't say goodbye. Camellia was barely out of the taxi before it pulled away and turned left up Beaufort Street towards King's Road.

She paused to light a cigarette, letting Hank get well away. She had always liked this bit of Chelsea: it wasn't as smart as some parts, but it was intriguing, almost like a cosmopolitan village. She was standing in front of Tully's brightly lit windows. Opposite was the Baghdad House, its Arabic-shaped windows alight with jewel-encrusted lamps. She could hear a faint hum of music and wondered if they had a belly-dancer performing inside. Beyond the cinema, now in darkness was Finch's, and the Hungry Horse cafe. She was shaking a little, unnerved by the big man. In all her time at the Don Juan, she'd never met anyone quite so unpleasant.

Shouting and a bright light spilling out onto the pavement opposite made her look up. A group of student types were coming out of a doorway next to an antique shop with bottles in their hands.

'Want to come to a party?' one of them called out, waving his bottle. 'It's only down in Finborough Road.'

Their cheeriness banished her shakes. Tucking her bag under her arm, she turned into Beaufort Street.

The road was deserted. Up ahead cars passed in King's Road but here all the residents were in bed.

This was the road she and Bee aspired to live in. Once at Christmas they had peered in at one of the elegant town houses through its wrought-iron gates. The front room was lit up, and the table laid for dinner, with silver candelabra, red napkins and flowers. A maid in a frilly apron was putting the finishing touches to it all. Enviously they soaked up the whole picture: a tree strewn with coloured lights in the garden, a holly wreath on the door, a silver Mercedes parked outside. Upstairs behind closed curtains the mistress of the house was probably zipping up a Bond Street evening dress.

There was nothing to see now. The windows were all in darkness. She could just make out the glint of glossy paint on front doors and a canopy of cherry blossom in the gardens.

A creaking noise startled her. She stopped, looking all around, but she could see nothing. Dropping her cigarette into the gutter, she walked on, assuming she'd imagined it.

She felt his presence split seconds before an arm locked round her neck. Before she could even scream a hand was slapped across her mouth.

It happened so swiftly. One moment she was walking, the next held captive. Her bag fell with a clatter to the pavement, scattering the contents. A whiff of foul breath told her it was Hank even before she saw the checked material on the arm holding her.

'You thought you were such a smart arse,' he hissed. 1 knew you didn't live back there, you said earlier you lived near the river. Took me for a sucker, didn't you.'

She struggled to free herself from his grip, but he held her too tightly.

'Do you know what I'm gonna do to you?' His voice was husky with menace. 'Would ya like me to spell it out?'

She couldn't reply. She tried to get her mouth free enough to bite him, kicking out backwards at his legs, flaying her arms around trying to get a grip on him.

But the more she struggled the more firmly he held her, pulling her head right back till it felt as if it would snap at the neck. He was using his knees to push her through an open gate, into the pitch darkness of a garden.

A flash of intuition told her that if he intended to rape her he would have to turn her towards him. She stopped struggling, allowing him to move her forward, waiting for her chance.

As he took his arm way from her neck and momentarily let go of her mouth, she screamed at the top of her lungs, turning and bringing her knee up to his groin. But the scream didn't frighten him and he side-stepped the knee. In a flash he had her by the throat, squeezing her windpipe till she could feel her eyes popping out of her head.

'I was a marine,' he snarled at her. 1 know at least ten ways to kill you, but that ain't what I got in mind.'

Her chest felt as if it would explode as he squeezed her throat still harder. She was growing dizzy and could no longer see. All at once she felt rape would be better than death. He continued to hold her by the throat, yet kicked her legs from under her so she fell back to the ground. Still holding her, he followed, his knees either side of her.

'I had my bellyful of English girls during the war,' he croaked, one thumb right on her windpipe. 'Sucking up to us, asking for nylons and tins of food then laughing at us behind our backs. Nothing's changed, though we won the war for you. Still so goddamned arrogant.'

The oddest things sprang into her mind as he leaned forward onto her, using his entire weight to subdue her: Bee at home wondering where she was, the twenty pounds tucked in her bra, her lovely coat lying in mud. All so unimportant compared with rape or death.

He fumbled for something in his pocket. Holding her windpipe with just one hand, he thrust some material in her mouth, pushing it back till she retched.

Now she could only plead with her eyes. One of his knees held her firmly to the ground; each time her arms moved to fight him off he squeezed her neck tighter.

'You understand at last?' he whispered as she became still. 'Now I'm gonna truss you up like a turkey at Thanksgiving.'

Something white and long appeared in his hand. He had a noose over her head in a second, pulling it tight round her neck. Then he grinned, and somehow that was even more terrifying than his scowls.

With one end of the cord he made another slip knot, putting her wrist inside it. But as he reached down behind him, yanked off her shoe and grabbed her ankle to add to the wrist, she saw what his intention was and knew that she was going to die, slowly and painfully.

Camellia put all her strength into struggling to get free.

Once he'd tied one wrist and ankle, then pulled the cord tight to fasten the other side, she would strangle herself if she moved.

She bucked her body under his violently, lashing out each time she felt him loosening his grip on her still free arm, but his weight was crushing her like a tank, and the rope merely tightened more round her neck.

As he pulled on the second leg to attach it to her wrist, it was agony. A sharp crack rang out like gunshot and she knew he had broken it.

Pain obscured everything now–the wet grass beneath her, his foul breath, even the expected rape. She was entirely helpless, any movement tightening the noose round her neck. She felt tears turn cold on her cheeks. Her attempted screams gurgled in her throat, inaudible to anyone but herself.

'I saw some guys do this to a nigger,' he said almost casually, pulling her skirt up above her waist. 'If you lie still you just might live, struggle and you'll die.'

She was shivering and burning up at the same time. Her whole being centred on the pain in her leg and on stopping herself from trying to lower it. Even so she saw his hand move to open his fly as he kneeled between her splayed open thighs.

'Let's have a look at that pussy you wouldn't sell,' he said, reaching forward and snatching at her tights. The ripping of the nylon jarred her leg again, bringing a fresh wave of agony. Next came her panties, his fingers digging into soft flesh and yanking away the crutch. The cold breeze told her she was exposed, but that was nothing compared with the excruciating pain.

He knelt before her, his face in shadow. His jerking elbow was silhouetted in the faint light from a street lamp beyond the garden wall. Why didn't someone come along? How could the people in the house sleep while this was going on right under their windows?

He grunted, pausing for a moment, then the jerking movement started again.

'You bitch,' he spat at her suddenly, the sound of his zipper like a wasp in the darkness. 'You've even robbed me of that.'

She didn't see his leg move back as he jumped to his feet, just felt the blow as he kicked her with all his force right in the crutch.

'I think someone's trying to break in.' Diana Wooton nudged her sleeping husband into wakefulness. 'Gordon, wake up, someone's down in the garden, I heard the gate squeak.'

Gordon Wooton sat up, listened and scratched his head in the dark. He couldn't hear anything, but Diana would insist he checked.

'Okay,' he sighed, reaching for the switch on the bedside light.

'Don't put that on,' she whispered fearfully. 'If they see it they might hurt us. Just creep down in the dark and look. If there is someone there, call the police.'

Gordon fumbled in the dark for his dressing gown. By day in his office he gave the orders, and his staff jumped. But at home, and particularly at night, he obeyed Diana to the letter.

He crept into the sitting room first and opened the thick curtains just a crack. The arched wrought-iron gate was open, but there was no one in the garden. He went back into the kitchen and peered out of that window too.

Nothing but the glimmer of white blossom against the dark of the lawn.

'A drunk having a pee in the garden,' he muttered to himself, then groaned as he stubbed his bare toes against a box of wine he'd brought home the night before.

The squeak of the front gate in the wind halted him just as he was about to go back upstairs. Diana would lie awake for the rest of the night if he left it like that.

He walked cautiously down the brick path to the gate. Drunks had been known to do a great deal more than pee in their garden before now and his feet were still bare. He shut the gate securely, but as he turned he saw something white on the lawn, right up by the side of the house.

For just a moment he thought it was a swan, curled up with its head beneath its wings. He blinked, then looked again, then hurrying back to the house he switched on the porch light.

'Good God,' he gasped, hardly able to credit that what he was seeing was real. 'Diana,' he yelled at the top of his lungs. 'Call the police. And an ambulance.'

Camellia felt light rather than saw it: a pinkish glow which wouldn't clear. She tried to raise her hand to rub her eyes, but it was too heavy to move.

'Hullo,' a male voice spoke close to her. 'Can you hear me?'

She couldn't answer. She could hear questions shaping in her mind, but her mouth couldn't form them. She managed a croak, but nothing more and lapsed back into sleep.

The next thing she was aware of was a hand on her arm and the sound of pumping air.

Opening her eyes she saw a nurse in a blue and white striped dress.

'Welcome back,' she said. 'You've been out a long time. Are you feeling any pain?'

Camellia couldn't say: she was confused even by the question. The band round her arm was tightening, and she looked to the nurse for explanation.