Perfect Intentions: Sometimes justice is above the law (3 page)

Her meeting with Dean had thrown her, and she was still smiling when Hannah arrived.

“All right, hon, what’s got you smiling all of a sudden?”

“Nothing, just pleased to see you, is all.”

Hannah wandered past her, looking somewhat unconvinced.

“I have a couple of bottles of wine, a takeaway, and
Dirty Dancing
on DVD—what more do you need for a perfect evening?”

Clare followed Hannah through to the kitchen.

“I stuck the oven on twenty minutes ago, so it should be warm enough. Stick the takeaway in and I’ll grab us some glasses.”

Clare wandered over to the cupboard to get the glasses. She considered telling Hannah about Dean, but given her knack for overreaction, she decided that it might be a good idea to keep the information to
herself for now and see how Saturday panned out first.

The front door to Matt’s apartment was opened quickly and silently, the intruder slipped in and the door was closed once more. Moving swiftly and silently from room to room, the intruder checked for any signs of life. There shouldn’t be—Matt’s routines were just that: routine. He wouldn’t be home until five, leaving more than enough time. Locating the packet of Temazepam in the bathroom cabinet, gloved hands quickly popped the tablets into a small plastic bag and using a can of deodorant crushed them. Taking the bag of ground temazepam into the kitchen, its contents were then emptied into the coffee machine filter. Scanning the surfaces to ensure no evidence remained, the intruder slipped silently out.

Three hours later the intruder returned, and, as expected, all was quiet. Walking through into the lounge, the figure noticed that Matt was slumped over the dining table, the coffee cup on the floor trailing the remains of coffee and Temazepam cocktail. Moving quickly, the intruder secured Matt to the chair he was in.

Forty-five minutes later, Matt awoke. Looking up, he saw the masked and cloaked figure staring back down at him.

Matt watched as the intruder moved slowly across the hard wood floor—
his
floor in
his
apartment, supposedly his haven. It felt far from a haven now.  Looking around him, he wished he hadn’t bothered working so hard to achieve the minimalist look because this clinical atmosphere he had created was far from comforting; it was like the intruder had chosen the room for its foreboding atmosphere.

The footfalls were loud on the bare floor, which brought Matt’s attention back to his predicament.

When he had first woken up in his apartment and had found himself duct taped to one of his dining room chairs, he’d thought it was a prank, courtesy of one of his rugby mates. Then he had realised that he had no recollection of the last few hours after he had gotten home from work. He had come in, made himself a coffee, sat at the dining table to sort through the post, and that was it—after that he had nothing. And yet, here he was, bound, gagged, and sitting in his candle-lit lounge. He had been the one to put the candles out; he was going to propose to Helen tonight, but somehow he didn’t think that would be happening now. Watching the intruder, his panicked mind flickered back to the news he’d heard earlier on his way back from work.

A body had been found. His mind grappled with the idea that the perpetrator might be the man in his apartment.

The intruder was watching Matt with interest as differing emotions flickered across Matt’s face. The first victim’s discovery had been the mainstay of all news reports for the day, and Matt was clearly wondering, and quite correctly, if he was to be victim number two.

The intruder turned and headed toward the bedroom door, Matt was still staring, finding it impossible to look anywhere else. The figure temporarily disappeared from sight into the bedroom. Matt shifted uneasily in his seat. Within minutes, the figure reappeared with a large box in hand. After a moment, Matt recognised it: his toolbox.

It had been in his bedroom for a while now. Helen had wanted some bookshelves putting up. It was a job he was continually putting off. Up until now, his avoidance of the toolbox had become a standing joke. Helen had taken to leaving it by the side of the bed in the belief that if he kept stubbing his toes on it, he would just get the shelves up, to save crippling himself every morning. Now, however, it couldn’t be further from amusing; it looked dark and sinister in the half-light, casting long shadows across the floor that nearly touched his feet.

The intruder gently laid the box down on the floor in front of him, and he felt an icy cold hand clutching at his bowels. A bead of sweat released itself from the back of his neck and snaked its way down between his shoulder blades and into the crevice of his buttocks.

The intruder sensed his rising panic and started to move slower and more deliberately.

Looking sideways at Matt, the intruder stooped down and reached around inside the toolbox. Matt’s eyes were glued to the figure, as he watched a gloved hand reached into the toolbox and pulled out an electric drill. A muffled squeal escaped Matt.

Eyes never moving from the drill, Matt began struggling with his bindings, causing the chair to sway.

“In a minute I shall untie you, and you will have five minutes to escape.”

Matt suddenly felt a brief moment of relief; he knew that within thirty seconds of being released he could be out of his apartment and back in the safety of his car.

“Do you understand?”

Matt nodded.

“However,” the voice continued.

“Perhaps I should mention that when—or should I say
if
—you make your escape, you’ll be doing so with holes through both your ankles.”

On cue, the drill screamed into life.

That was when Matt passed out.

Going through to the kitchen the intruder filled a glass with water and taking it back to the lounge threw the water in Matts face.

Coughing and spluttering Matt awoke. There was soft music playing in the background. Then reality crashed down on him as a familiar voice reached him from across the room

“Ok, Matt, I can see you’ll need a little help, so I have generously decided to administer you a little anaesthetic to stop you passing out from the pain.”

Matt wasn’t sure what worried him more, the content of the statement, or the jovial, conversational tone that had been used.

All of a sudden, the intruder was upon him. Matt barely had chance to react, and the needle pushed easily through the flesh and found its mark. As the plunger was deployed, he felt the sickly, cold feeling of the condemned man.

The intruder headed back to the toolbox to collect the necessary instrument, and Matt started to feel a little light-headed. By the time he had returned, Matt had convinced himself that he wouldn’t feel a thing, but as the drill sparked into life and made its way toward his right ankle, all he could think was that he’d never play rugby again. He briefly wondered if he’d live to see his unborn child—the child that had been the catalyst for his impromptu proposal.

As the drill ripped straight through the skin and hit the bone, he felt pain so acute he threw up. The gag prevented the vomit leaving the confines of his mouth, and he swallowed it back down. He willed himself to pass out. But the anaesthetic and adrenaline coursing through his veins was making it impossible for his body to switch off.

After what seemed like a lifetime of pain had been administered, the drill finally fell silent. Taking a penknife the intruder approached Matt once more and cut through the binds of his hands and what remained of the ones around his ankles. Somewhere in the back of his mind Matt was aware that the grinding had stopped, and he forced himself to look down. He instantly regretted the decision. Flesh and blood made up most of the floor space around him, and white flecks of bone shone within the blood. The intruder had set a little table in front of him, and on it was an alarm clock set for nine twenty-five—exactly five minutes from now.

“You have until the alarm sounds to escape.”

Matt slumped onto the floor, painfully aware of the fact that his ankles could not even begin to support his weight. He glanced at his attacker, and upon doing so felt another surge of adrenaline pump through his body. He felt terror, but most of all anger. He was dully aware that at some point he must have soiled himself, as his trousers were wet and heavy, which only incensed his hatred.  He slowly started to try and lean his weight forward onto his arms and upper torso and started dragging himself toward the hallway, the front door, and what he hoped would soon be safety.

His progress was painfully slow, but upon inspecting of the clock again he believed he could make it. His attacker was now sitting serenely on the opposite side of the room watching him. His breathing was coming in laboured gasps and his lower legs were screaming at him, but he continued to drag himself slowly across the floor. Again he was aware of the hard floor; it had become friendly once more. It was now aiding his escape, easing him across the floor, lubricated by his own blood.

Almost in the hallway now, there are only five feet between him and the front door—he was actually going to make it. From his position in the hall he could no longer see the clock, but assumed he must have about two minutes left. He felt relief that his door didn’t have a Yale lock. Spurred on by the thought of imminent escape, he put in extra effort and suddenly found himself at the front door. Supporting himself on his right arm, he reached up with his left and found his mark.

From the shadows in the lounge, the tormentor had watched Matt’s progress with satisfied amusement. The vanity of the human condition was amazing. People honestly believed it could never happen to them; that these atrocities they heard about every day and didn’t spare so much as a second’s thought for couldn’t ever happen to them, that they were somehow out of the circle. So really, the tormentor reasoned, that this was a public service, bringing people back in, making life
real
again. Because the cosseted world they’d surrounded themselves with had made them numb, numb to the pain they inflicted without empathy.

The intruder was brought back to Earth with the pulling of the door handle, back to the task at hand.

Matt pulled at the door handle a second time, nothing. It wasn’t budging. It was locked. The realisation took exactly thirty seconds to filter through his conscious mind. Trapped.

“What’s up, Matt? Door’s locked? If only you’d thought to pick up your keys.” Once more the intruder’s voice was soft, almost lyrical, then it changed again, becoming hard and sharp, like a razor striking his face.

“But that’s the problem with people like you,
Matt, isn’t it? You don’t think, you just do, and to hell with the consequences. Well, finally the consequences of your actions have caught up with you.”

Matt hadn’t stopped to think that it would make absolutely no sense for his captor to release him, but now he knew for sure he was looking at his last day on this Earth. Surprisingly, he felt calmness spread through his body as he resigned himself to his fate. He hoped it would be quick.

With that the intruder came striding toward him, electric drill in hand and a maniacal glint in his eye.

Once again the darkness came, and this time would be the last.

At her front door, Clare was struggling to find her keys, rifling through the bottom of her bag. She heard the familiar jingling and made a grab, extracting her keys and opening the door.

Walking through her apartment, she flung her bags down on the sofa and went through to the kitchen to switch the kettle on.

It was only half past three; she had plenty of time before Dean arrived. She could have a cup of tea while waiting for the bath to run. Going through to the bathroom, she turned the taps on full. On her way back to retrieve her shopping bags she’s interrupted by a banging at the door. Realising it could be Hannah she hurriedly stuffs the bags behind the sofa. If it
was Hannah, she’d want to know why she’d been spending money on non-essentials when she consistently pleaded poverty. As she opened the front door, she realised she had been quite right to hide the bags.

“Hi hon, what brings you round?”

Hannah ignored the question, smiled a greeting, and strolled straight into the kitchen.

“Oh great, I’ll have a cup, too, if you’re making one.”

With a sigh, Clare closed the door and followed Hannah back through.

Hannah had already got two cups out and was generously spooning sugar into one of them.

“So what are you up to this evening?”

“Oh, nothing much. I just thought I’d have a quiet night in, have a bath.”

“Really? So why have you been out buying new clothes, then?”

“What? How did you know that?”

“I saw you in town earlier—you walked straight past me. Something on your mind?”

“No.”

“Can I see what you bought?”

“Why?”

“Bloody hell, Clare, it’s a simple enough question. Unless…” Hannah paused. A look of confusion being replaced with a look of amused shock.

“You’re going on a date, aren’t you?”

“Crying out loud, Hannah.”

“You are, aren’t you? Why didn’t you say something before? I’d have come shopping with you; we could all go out together. I’m meeting up with Mike tonight.”

“And this is exactly why I didn’t say anything to you. I knew as soon as you knew you’d start trying to organise me. It’s not serious.”

“Thank you very much. Well, what’s he like? Do I know him—does he live round here?”

“No, you don’t know him, and yes, he lives quite close.”

“What’s his name?”

“Before I tell you, Hannah, you have to promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“Brownie’s honour.”

“It’s Dean Matthews.”

“Dean Matthews? Why do I know that name?”

“Because he’s Alice Matthews’s brother.”

“What, little Alice? Works in the store at the weekend? Jesus, Clare, how old is he? This is legal, isn’t it?”

“I knew you’d react like this. He’s nineteen, if you must know, and I’ve checked, it’s perfectly legal, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Seriously, Clare, do you really think this is a good idea?”

“Well, I won’t know ‘til I’ve tried.”

“Ok, well, I’ll get out of your way then.” Hannah finishing her tea put the cup in the sink and went to leave. Stopping briefly, she turned to Clare

“A word of advice before I leave.”

Clare sighed.

“What?”

“Unless you’re planning an indoor water feature, I’d turn the bath taps off if I were you.”

Clare fled toward the bathroom.

Hannah shook her head and let herself out.

Luckily Clare made it to the bath in time, switching the taps off. She returned to say goodbye to Hannah, and was rewarded with an empty room. Grabbing the bags back out of their hiding place, she took them through into the bedroom, emptying the contents onto her bed and beginning to sort through them.

Three hours and numerous clothes changes later Clare was ready. She still had some time to kill, so she went back through into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. By the time eight o’clock arrived, she was already pretty merry. Grabbing her bag, she went down to the car park to wait for Dean.

He was already waiting by the time she got there.

“You scrub up well,” Clare said from across the car park.

“Yeah, well, you’re not too bad yourself.”

“Thanks. Right, where are we off to, then?”

“Well, I was thinking the Rose and Crown—it shouldn’t be too busy and it’s not too far to walk.”

“Fair enough.”

As Dean and Clare made their way into the Rose and Crown Dean asked her what she was drinking and Clare went off to find them a table. The pub was busy, but after a few moments she was able to find a table near the door. As Dean fought his way to the table with the drinks in hand she smiled at him.

Dean sat down and passed her
her drink

“Thanks. So good day?”

“Not bad, got to help a damsel in distress this morning.”

“Really? Well aren’t you the knight in shining armour then?”

“I do my best. Anyway, do you come here often?”

“Not really, I’ve been quite busy recently. My mates always trying to get me to go out.”

“So should I be feeling honoured that you agreed to come out with me tonight?”

“Yes I suppose you should really.” She said, smiling at him.

After two hours Dean and Clare decided to leave, Dean had taken it upon himself to walk her home. Clare located her keys and opened the door, gesturing for Dean to go in first. Dean did as he was bid and proceeded to wait for Clare to close the door, before going further into the apartment. He had figured she’d had a few drinks before they met up and he had been right: she’d had three glasses of wine and was now steaming. Now, as he sat on the sofa, he could hear her stumbling around in the kitchen.

“Do you need any help?”

“No thanks, I have everything under control.” Just as she’d finished speaking, there was a crash.

“You don’t take sugar, do you?”

“No.”

“Good.” She was laughing now, and he got up to investigate.

Clare was sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by glass and sugar. She looked up at him.

“Oops.”

Looking at her hands, he noticed she’d obviously tried to clean the glass up and had cut herself. He strode over to her and helped her up, then steered her toward to the sink. He turned on the water, holding her hands under the faucets as he did. As he was cleaning the blood off of her she looked up at him

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches. Have you got a first aid box anywhere?”

“Plasters and savlon?”

“Yeah, that’ll do.”

“Over there, third drawer down.”

Dean left her standing at the sink as he went over to the drawers. As he moved around, he noticed her starting to fall, and he rushed over, catching her and leaning her back up against the sink.

“Can you be trusted to stay there for just a minute?”

Clare looked up at him and smiled her affirmative.

After retrieving the required items, he moved back toward her again.

Working quickly, he dried her cuts smeared on the
savlon and applied the plasters. Picking her up, he took her through into her bedroom and laid her down on the bed. She opened her eyes briefly.

“Blimey, you don’t hang around, do you?”

“Funny fucker, just get some sleep.”

He removed her shoes, and after deciding against undressing her, he pulled the duvet over her and quietly left the room.

He went back into the living room and sat back down on the sofa. Should he stay? She clearly wasn’t in any fit state to be on her own tonight. He took his shoes off and lay back down on the sofa.

In the darkness of her bedroom Clare’s eyes snapped open. She made a grab for her phone. Three o’clock. She cast her mind back to the evening before.

Her head started to scream at her, and when she rubbed her head with her hands, she felt something on them. Switching her bedside light on she saw her hands were covered in plasters and then pulling the covers back, she was relieved to find herself still fully dressed

She decided to go and get some water from the kitchen and as she opened the fridge door a snippet of memory came back to her: she’d been making coffee, something had happened. She looked down at her hands once more and saw that the sugar jar was missing; she could make a guess as to what had happened. Swallowing a couple of aspirin, she decided to watch some TV as the pills took effect. As she opened her living room and switched the light on, she let out a quiet exclamation. There, spread on her sofa, was an unconscious Dean. The light had woken him and he stirred, and wiping the sleep from his eyes, turned to look at her.

“Oh, you’re up and about again, are you?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, it didn’t feel right leaving you here on your own.”

“Umm, right, thanks, and sorry about last night.”

“It’s fine. You’re quite amusing steaming drunk.”

“Oh God, what did I do?”

“Well, you started with a little bit of karaoke— "

“I didn‘t know they had a karaoke machine”

“They don’t.”

Clare started to redden as Dean continued.

“You followed up the Rocky Horror medley with a little dancing…on the table.”

“I didn’t? I’m amazed you’re still here. I’m
so
sorry. I don’t suppose you’ll want to go out again.”

“Why not? You’re a dream date.”

Clare looked at him, bemused.

“What are you on about?”

“I got you into bed on the first date and I ended the evening better off than when I started it.”

Clare looked confused.

“Yeah, your table top exploits earned me a few quid.”  His lopsided grin was back, and Clare had to laugh.

“You bastard.”  Smiling, Clare picked up a cushion and threw it at him.