Requiem Mass by Elizabeth Corley Read Free Book Online Page B

to the top of the final rise and, with a yelp, ran pell-mell down the long slope to the waiting minibus.
     
    The gentle reminiscences lulled Deborah into a fitful doze despite her acute discomfort. Wherever her skin rubbed against the stinking plastic sheet it was starting to get sore and her lips and throat were parchment dry. The muscles in her upper arms, stretched by the angle at which her wrists had been pulled and tied to the bed were locked in a spasm of pain which no twisting or arching of her neck could relieve. The smell in the room was disgusting. Outside the noise of the gale reached a crescendo. Gusts of air found their way through minute crannies in the window frame, billowing the flimsy curtain into spectral shapes that danced in the dim light from under the door. Howls of wind drowned the fitful animal whimpers of her sleep, providing a fitting accompaniment to her torture.
    At about three in the morning – in the dead zone of night when spirits fail and hopes die – the storm wrenched a slate tilefrom its pins and sent it crashing into the stone yard, waking Deborah. Startled, disorientated, chilled to the bone and conscious only of a desperate thirst, she lay with staring eyes, trying to remember where she was. The room was in pitch darkness. For long moments she remained confused, convinced that her nightmare was continuing. There was now no feeling in her restricted arms and legs, only a slow-burning pain running in rivers from fingers to toes. Then a manic gust sent the curtain flying from its rail, letting in the faintest of storm light to create grey shadows in the room’s darkness.
    She caught a glimpse of the white binding on her ankle, which secured her leg to the bed. The sight brought immediate and total recall. A pathetic scream rose from her parched throat and was forced out through cracked lips. Once it had started she was powerless to stop it. It went on and on, forming itself into cries for help.
    ‘Oh God, help me. Please. Oh Mummy, Oh God, help me, please help me. Help me. What have I done to deserve this? Dear God, have mercy on me, please have mercy on me. Don’t let me die. Please God, don’t let me die. Mummee …’
    He sat comfortably outside the door, relaxed yet alert despite having had no sleep for twenty-four hours. The sounds of her waking distress crept through the keyhole and door frame to his waiting ears. Now he knew he had her. In a few hours he could begin his work.

CHAPTER FIVE
    In Harlden, at number 24 Meadow Gardens, life continued with little amiss until 6.30 and Derek Fearnside’s return home. He was mildly perplexed to find the house quiet and dark in the fine spring evening but reassured to see three messages on the answerphone.
    Beeep … the high-pitched whine always annoyed him. ‘Hello, Debbie, this is Mavis. It’s 5.30. You could at least have called to let me know you were going to be late!’ The tone was amused to take the sting out of the words. ‘The children are starting to ask what’s going on. If you do pop in at home first, please ring to tell me when you’ll be here. Thanks.’
    The bemused tone of Deborah’s friend filled the hall as Derek browsed through the day’s post and the tape played on. He only half listened as it continued, waiting impatiently for the message from his wife he was sure would be next on the machine.
    Beeep …
    ‘Hello, Debbie, this is Leslie. Just thought I’d let you know the trip to the headmaster was a fiasco – you wouldn’t believe it. I won’t spoil the story. Give me a call when you get in. By the way, you did say you’d try to get them to pick me up later. I guessed because I didn’t hear from you, that wasn’t possible. Call soon. ’Bye.’
    Derek stopped reading the latest bank statement and really listened for the first time. Wasn’t Debbie meant to be with Leslie? What did that last message mean?
    Beeep …
    ‘Hello, Debbie, it’s me again, Mavis. It’s gone six o’clock and the children