Play Dead (D.I. Kim Stone, #4)(81)

He had moved behind her and yanked her head back so quickly that Tracy thought her neck would snap. Her mouth had fallen open with shock and that had been the only advantage he’d needed.

She could feel the drug travelling around her bloodstream, injecting its lethargy into her flesh. The muscles in her body felt as though they were dissolving away from her bones. Every ounce of her strength had been zapped, and she could barely lift her head.

Through the haze she heard the bang of the door above. Her heart hammered in her chest. She knew she couldn’t fight him with her muscles melting away.

She wondered if she could find the strength to talk to him, beg for her life. Had Jemima begged for hers?

Tracy wanted to scream out that she had tried to help, but knew he would answer, Not quickly enough.

And he would be right.

The tears were hot and salty as they fell onto her cheeks, and she knew she was crying for both of them. They’d been children, stupid little children who could never have imagined the repercussions of their actions. That their one act of mindless cruelty could impact him so heavily, that the jibes and laughter could shape the person he would become.

And yet they had done the same to her.

But she had been the one, the only one that had tried to help him. She had understood him even then, had known how it felt and had wanted to end his pain.

The injustice of the situation added bitterness to Tracy’s throat. She knew she was still going to die.

She gulped back the tears. She knew that she shouldn’t displease him. The expression on his face and the rage that had exploded from his pores were not things she wanted to see again.

The door opened and the light went on. There were no windows in the room, which suggested they were underground, but she had no idea where. There were no sounds other than the bang from above that signalled he was on his way.

She saw that he carried a bowl of water and a small cosmetics bag over his arm. If only she had the strength to raise her legs, she could kick the contents of the bowl in his face, offering her a moment to try to get herself free. But she couldn’t even wiggle her toes.

‘It’s time to get you clean and ready,’ he said, sitting on a stool in front of her.

Ready for what? she wanted to ask, but it was clear that the affable mood had returned, and for the moment she was thankful.

He placed the bowl on the floor and opened the bag. He took out a cloth and bottle.

He dipped the cloth into the bowl and gently dabbed at her feet. He rubbed a bar of soap onto the cloth until it began to lather.

He took her left foot in his other hand and began to soap it.

His touch was gentle, and she suddenly wanted to cry. She felt every part of her foot being cleaned before he rested it gently on his leg.

A tear slipped from her eye as he dabbed gently at her toes. The smell told her he was using nail polish remover to take the red stain from her nails.

‘Don’t cry, Tracy,’ he said, smiling up to her. ‘There’s nothing to be upset about.’

He took a disposable razor from the bag and ran it up and down her leg. The blunt blade pulled and tore at the short stubble protruding from her skin.

He reached into the bag again and removed a pack of baby wipes. He ripped one from the packet and another sprang up. He grabbed that one too and placed them together.

He pushed back the pink plastic chair and moved towards her, standing between her chair and the miniature table.

First he wiped gently at her forehead. Slow movements across her brow and then tender circles, small ones growing bigger.

‘Close your eyes,’ he said and she did.

She felt the damp wipe move across her eyelid, gently. Not enough pressure to hurt but enough to lift the stale eyeshadow and bitty mascara from her eyes. He repeated the process on her other eye.

‘So much better, Tracy. You can open them now.’

She did so.

He was not looking into her eyes. His gaze was focussed on her cheek as he rubbed in bigger circles all the way down to her jaw. He moved across her chin and then up the other side and over her nose.

Finally he rubbed at both lips together.

He stepped back and assessed her face. One more rub of her lips and he was done.

He reached for the toiletry bag and took out a brush. He moved behind her and Tracy held her breath.

The prongs of the brush touched the back of her head but did not scratch it. He held her long hair firmly so that the brushing motion didn’t pull at her head.

He worked his way from the back rhythmically to the left-hand side, taking care not to catch her ear as he brushed the hair down. Despite the drugs that were attacking her muscles she could feel every touch to her flesh.

He then worked from the centre of the back of her head around to the right. This time he accidentally nicked the top of her ear. Immediately he stopped brushing. She felt his hands on her shoulders as he leaned into her and planted a kiss where he had nicked.

‘I’m sorry, my precious little girl,’ he said tenderly.

Tracy had to work hard not to pull away. Whatever fantasy he was living, she did not want to disturb it.

He completed the brushing and once more stepped to the front of her. She could see that his left hand was clenched closed.

He reached towards her forehead and smoothed away her fringe to the side. He opened his hand to reveal two kirby grips, as her mother called them. But these were white in colour, unlike the plain brown ones that had held her mother’s rollers in place.