The Sister(67)

‘Hey, it’s 9:30 in the morning, and my day off. I’m not doing anything else. Why don’t you let me take you there, yeah? First I have to go home, you know, freshen up a bit.’ He winked at her. The way he changed from a few moments ago, into someone who now almost seemed friendly, sounded alarm bells. It was a bit too Jekyll and Hyde for her liking. She dismissed the thought, wondering if she might be able to cadge some money from him.

‘Well, what do you say?’

She nodded; she was glad just to be out of the rain. If the atmosphere was strange, it was because she was coming down from last night. She robbed Peter, now she was paying Paul. She’d see what she could steal, do it at the first opportunity and then be gone.

Turning the radio on, he tuned in to a station he thought she might like. It was trance or techno, either way it was too loud. She couldn’t be bothered to say anything.

She shivered. ‘Can I turn the heater up?’

‘I’ll do that for you, love,’ he said.

He cranked down the window a crack, and lit the third smoke he’d had since she’d entered the car. Tiny white flecks floated around, and she realised that the dust everywhere in the car was probably composed almost entirely of ash.

His window was open, but only enough to push out the cigarette end to flick the ash off, which he did frequently; he didn’t seem to notice that most of it came back in.

Apart from the incessant smoking, something else struck her as odd about him. He was wearing sunglasses in the rain.





Chapter 52



Sunglasses in the rain? Eilise didn’t attach too much importance to it. Maybe the light hurt his eyes, or he didn’t want to be recognised. More likely, he just thought he looked cool.

‘Undo those for me,’ he said, handing her a pack of cigarettes.

‘Do you mind if I change the music?’ she asked.

‘No, go for it!’

She found a station playing alternative country music, turned the volume down a notch and closing her eyes, she drifted off. Occasionally, she was aware her head was lolling from side to side, but she was too tired to do much about it, other than rest it up against the window, where it drummed and jarred her into a semi-relaxed state of dreamless sleep, until, on the verge of slipping deeper, a warning whispered in her mind. Something’s wrong.

They had stopped. She sat up, instantly on guard.

He’d parked outside a tower block, behind a row of lock-up garages. ‘Relax,’ he told her. ‘I have to put it away, or we’ll have no wheels when we come back. Kids round here got no respect, no matter who you are,’ he growled.

He left her in the car while he unlocked the garage door.

It had stopped raining.

She opened the passenger door, pushing it wide as she prepared to get out. Her eyes felt bleary; she rubbed them. She leaned in and grabbed her bags.

‘Leave those there, no one will take them.’

‘I’m bringing them anyway.’ All I have is in those bags.

‘Suit yourself,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.

They came round the front, up a wide flight of steps to the entrance. There was graffiti on the brickwork, as far as the artist could reach, above and either side of the doors. Inside, there was a draught blowing right through from somewhere, bringing with it the twin scents of lost hope and despair.

They took the lift up to the seventh floor. Inside the lift was filthy, the smell of stale urine overpowering.

He fiddled with his keys. The door to his flat was deadlocked top and bottom, as well as the night latch in the middle. Turning to face her, he said, ‘You can’t be too careful. These kids round here would be in like a shot, if they had the chance.’

She noticed someone had taken the number off, leaving a faint imprint in the paint behind it. Seventy-one.

Once inside, he shut the door and said, ‘Get out of your clothes.’

‘I’m sorry?’ she said, surprised and indignant at the suggestion.

‘We’ll soon get them dry, yeah?’

Something to do with the way he asked a question, and then answered it for her, made her uneasy, made her think he might have a tendency to be controlling, just like her foster father. She didn’t like the mixed messages coming through her head about him. One thing she knew for sure; she wasn’t going to remove her clothes.

‘They’re already near enough dry, but thanks.’

After the state of his car, she was shocked to see that his house was quite tidy.

Now she was there with him; she wondered why she allowed herself to get into such a vulnerable situation. William was trying just a little bit too hard, and she sensed it.

What made her think he’d be such a pushover? She couldn’t be sure, but maybe she shouldn’t have accepted a lift in the first place. Anyway, she reasoned, what’s the worst thing that could happen?

Her skin was beginning to crawl, the sensation of thousands of tiny insects roaming all over her, started her scratching. She sniffed and wiped a dewdrop from her nose.

He watched her with renewed interest; he’d seen these symptoms before. Her vulnerability turned him on. The look in his eye changed.

A distant voice was telling her to get the hell out of there, but she needed money for her addiction, and it defeated the voice of reason. The itching had spread under her skin; no amount of external scratching would rid her of it. There was only one thing that would relieve it. She needed another hit. The mind that controlled her addiction had won.