Perfect Kill. Helen Fields

ever growing new housing estates. Perhaps he was in a factory then, in a room high above the machinery. That made sense. The low-level growl of metal and the lack of sharp sounds from the outside world. He pressed himself closer to the wall and began yelling afresh.

      ‘Hello! Anyone! Can anyone hear me? Help. I need help.’ His cries got louder, his voice higher. He banged on the wall first then the floor between phrases, punctuating his cries for assistance. His cries became screams. Bart had never heard himself scream before. It was terrifying. Then he was hammering on the wall and stamping on the floor at the same time as he screamed. Just make noise, he thought. Someone would hear him. Someone would come.

      But what if it was the wrong someone?

      No, he told himself. Not that. Those thoughts were what would stop him being rescued. If all he had was a short window of time before whoever had chained him up was due to come back, he had to make all the noise he could right now. He took some steadying breaths. Think. The chain on his ankle allowed him limited movement. He walked along the wall as far as he could, tapping as he went, feeling for the edge of a doorway or handle, listening for a place where there might be an exit. Nothing. Then he walked the other way along the wall. Tapping all the time.

      A crash at his feet made him leap backwards. He tripped and fell, scrabbling away. The darkness made everything nearer and louder. He’d never considered what a threat the lack of light was before. Everything was alien. His sense of distance and direction had completely gone. As the noise faded, he reached out tentatively, groping the floor for whatever it was he’d hit. His fingers found the bucket a couple of feet away on its side, still rolling gently to and fro. He grabbed the handle and pulled it closer, exploring its edges, neither brave nor stupid enough to put his hand all the way inside. The smell coming from in there was its own unique warning. Human waste was remarkably distinctive. Neither cat, cow, dog nor pig excrement came close to replicating its odour. Bart contemplated what it meant. The bucket’s edge was rough with what could only be rust. Its outside was dry and there was no liquid slopping anywhere. Not recently used then. Yet it was there for a reason.

      ‘It’s here for me,’ he whispered, not liking the rawness in his throat from all the yelling. He’d lost track of the time he’d spent calling out to apparently absent listeners. He’d be lucky if he could speak at all within the hour.

      Setting the bucket down, he took stock. There were two options left. Sit down, huddle, wait it out. Someone had delivered him there, yet he had no idea how that had happened. His new girlfriend, if he could even call her that so early on, had met him in the restaurant as he’d finished his shift, and he’d been about to go back to her place for a while. After that was a steady blank in his memory, but his situation couldn’t be accidental. His captors would be back. If he chose not to simply wait, he could assess the situation, explore his surroundings, try to figure out the state of play. That was a phrase he remembered his father using on his infrequent trips home from active duty. He summoned whatever genetic courage might inhabit his DNA. What he learned was that bravery was a myth.

      In the end, fear was a more generous motivator. If Bart waited, things could only get worse. He could think of no earthly reason why anyone would want him. Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity by some chancer who thought he was from a wealthy family able to pay a ransom. Maybe it was some sort of bizarre terrorist event. And they were the better options. More likely – much more likely – it was some sick fuck who wanted to rape then kill him. He wasn’t sitting on the floor and waiting for that.

      Forcing himself to get to his feet, Bart checked his pockets. His wallet was gone, not that he’d imagined it might still be there. The only item still on him was the photo of his father that he carried everywhere, his dad in full uniform, carrying his baby son in his arms. On the back his father had written the immortal words, ‘Bart, I may not always be by your side, but I will always come back to you. Love Dad xxx.’ He clutched the photo for a moment then shoved it securely into his pocket again. Whatever else he’d lost, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing that too. He felt for the wall, arms stretched out so that only his fingertips were touching it, and tried to measure the space. Four walls, rectangular, maybe twelve foot by twenty. Then he followed the length of chain and found that it was attached to a central metal loop in the floor and secured with a hefty padlock. No discernible door. Five other objects turned up as he searched the floor on his hands and knees. A coarse blanket that reeked of damp and sweat. He bundled it up and kept it close to his chest, as much as a comforter as for warmth. A woman’s shoe, its high heel snapped and hanging half off, lay on its side in a corner. A large container of water that smelled fresh enough. A box of food – packets of crisps, biscuits, and chocolate, he decided from the smell – all junk, nothing fresh, but it would keep him alive for a couple of weeks. The thought that he was supposed to stay alive quelled his immediate panic. The cell was part of his journey, not his final destination. He had time to take stock and prepare for whatever lay ahead. Finally, standing, he bumped into something dangling from the wall, also chained, that squeaked back and forth when he knocked it. Reaching out, he identified its hexagonal shape, felt the chill of glass around its sides, then his fingers found the dial. He turned the metal cog.

      Light, enough to barely illuminate a one-metre radius, spilled from the lamp. Bart let out a soft coo. Amazing how such a simple thing could suddenly mean more than all the money in the world, given an appropriate degree of terror. The colours it shed were dappled. A sickly yellow nearer the top from the old bulb, graduating into a dull pink in the middle, then brown at the bottom. Bart stepped closer, letting his eyes adjust. It wasn’t that the glass panes were coloured, he realised. Nor that a special effect had been used on the bulb.

      The outside of the glass had been spattered red. He reached out his fingers hesitantly, wanting to know, not wanting to know. The lantern’s panes were bloodied with delicate streaks, settling at the bottom. Different layers. Subtly varied shades. A mixture of very old, crackled blood, like a glaze on an antique vase, then newer congealed blood. A single blob came away on his finger. Congealed but not yet fully hardened.

      Bart sank to the floor in the small circle of light, an actor mid-stage in a spotlight with no audience to appreciate the beautiful tragedy being played out. Then he pulled the blanket around himself, and wondered how long both the lamplight – and he – would last.

       Chapter Two

      Elenuta ran.

      Three flights down the staircase, she headed for the exit onto the street, hoping no other door opened as she passed it. Each of those other apartments was as dangerous to her as the one she had just escaped. Dressed only in a tattered halter-neck top and Lycra miniskirt, no underwear, no shoes, she raced downwards, jumping the last three steps, praying her ankles wouldn’t sprain. She needed to be able to run. Looking upwards, she checked the situation. No one was following. Yet. It would only be sixty seconds or so before they realised she was missing, though.

      Forcing herself not to barge through the outer door and have it slam, she moved carefully, slipping out into the night air. Dumbryden Gardens was still unfamiliar after the month she’d lived there. Inevitable, given that she hadn’t been allowed out of the flat. Planks over the inside of the windows meant she couldn’t even assess the terrain from above. She’d wondered why the police hadn’t become suspicious. Windows covered from the inside were never indicators of lawful activity. One of the women who’d been held in the flats the longest had explained.

      ‘Looks perfectly normal from outside. Kids’ curtains, flowery curtains, princesses, bullshit rainbows and hearts. They put the planks on with the curtains still up.’ A week later, the woman had disappeared, never to return. None of the other girls knew a thing about it. There were hypotheses and horrified speculation, but nothing solid save for one scrap of information that had got Elenuta where she was now. Perhaps a client had got too rough and killed her, was the most popular opinion. Then there was the option that she’d contracted a disease that would render her useless for sex trafficking purposes. Finlay did his best to keep his girls clean – not for their sakes, but so that his punters kept coming back for more. No one was going to do that with their dick resembling a root vegetable and leaking