(2011) The Gift of Death (30 page)

For months – years - afterwards, Cassie couldn’t understand why her mother had left. As a child, she knew her dad had mood swings. He also seemed to stink of something strange. Later, she learnt that her father, a failed writer, suffered from depression and was an alcoholic. Dad tried to cope, but finally looking after two children – her and her younger brother, Robbie – had gotten too much for him. He started to drink more and one day he went into hospital and never came out again. That was the same week she saw her mother again, a woman she said she would hate until her dying day. Cassie didn’t have to wait long – six months later her mom died in a car crash.

As she ran a finger down the sleeve of the blouse she wished that, at the time, she could have felt it in herself to forgive her mother. The older woman had so clearly wanted to be friends. But Cassie had told her where to go. Nice one. And now she was dead. Perhaps it was this sense of guilt that lay behind her decision to keep, and wear, some of her old clothes.

Jesus. How on earth had she let herself get so morose? Only a couple of hours back she had felt so happy and carefree. And tonight she was supposed to be having fun.

She quickly took off the blouse and replaced it with a simple pale grey shirt. She pulled on some jeans, brushed her hair, stepped into some flat pumps. She pressed the talking clock by her bed. It was nearly six. Shit. And she still had to feed the cat.

She picked up the jar of dry food, expecting to hear him trill. She did it again. Nothing. She whistled, trying to keep the sound clear and steady. He wasn’t allowed out. There was nowhere for him to go.

Something was wrong.

‘
Moisie!’ she called. ‘Dinnertime.’

And then she suddenly felt him by her legs, snaking around her ankles.

‘
Gee, you scared me,’ she said, reaching down to stroke his back. ‘What you’ve been up to?’ She listened as he pushed the morsels of dried food around his plate with his nose. ‘You not hungry? Well try and make an effort. I haven’t got time to hang around.’

She grabbed her keys from the bowl in the kitchen, her purse and her white stick. She made certain she double-locked the door from the outside and pressed the button for the elevator. As she waited, she heard another door opening, somebody stepping out.

‘
Hi, Cassie, you going out for the night?’ It was Ron from next door.

‘
Yeah, just over to Kate’s house. But I’ll be back later.’

‘
You need any help getting down?’

‘
No, I’ll be fine.’

‘
And how’s my man? Hope I didn’t turn him queer.’

Cassie laughed. ‘I always suspected he was a bit gay anyway,’ she said.

Just then the bell for the elevator rang and the doors opened. Ron guided her inside, pressed the ground floor button for her and said goodnight. He was such a lovely neighbour, she thought. Who else would have taken in a cat for over five weeks? And he refused to take money for food. In fact, she suspected that he fed Moisie on leftovers. And not just any old leftovers. Leftovers that included prime cuts of beef and chicken from the deli round the corner and good quality yellow fin tuna steak he kept in his freezer compartment.

As the doors opened she heard a cacophony of sounds from the boardwalk. The glide of rollerskates on the promenade. A couple of children squealing in delight. The hiss of a coffee machine. And in the distance there was LA’s eternal base note – the constant hum of traffic.

Then footsteps.

‘
Can I help you?’

It was a man. In his thirties, Cassie thought. A voice, deep and gravelly, not unlike one she had heard once before. Where was it?

‘
I’m – I’m waiting for a cab.’

‘
Courtesy cars. I’m just out front. Do you need any help?’

‘
No, if you just walk ahead I can follow your footsteps.’

‘
Okay. Will do. But just ask if you need my arm or whatever.’

Cassie used her stick to guide her through the lobby to outside. He’d left his motor running. Must be because of the air con inside the car. It was still quite humid, even at this time of day.

She heard a door open and with the edge of her stick caught the bottom of the tyre.

‘
Just a little towards the right and you’re all set,’ he said.

She felt his hand on the back of her shoulder.

‘
There you go,’ he said, as she climbed into the back of the cab. He slammed the door and got in the front.

‘
Where you going?’

‘
Beverly Hills. Just off Tower Grove Drive.’

‘
No problem.’

They drove in silence on the freeway, the journey punctuated by frequent stops and starts as the traffic ebbed and flowed.

‘
Fuck, I’m way out of gas,’ said the driver after about fifteen minutes. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to swear. Would you mind if I just pulled off the freeway?’

‘
No problem,’ said Cassie, even though she did feel a little uncomfortable. Yet Kate had booked the cab. It was a company she trusted. Would could go wrong?

She felt the car swerve as it took the next exit. As she opened her window a little to get a breath of fresh air she heard the sound of passing traffic and the pungent smell of fumes. The driver must have seen her because he started to talk.

‘
I’d close that if I were you,’ he said. ‘Smog. Even worse this year than last, I reckon.’

‘
I was just trying to tell which neighbourhood I was in,’ said Cassie, closing the window.

Nothing.

‘
I said I was just trying to find out where we were?’ There was a pause. ‘Where are we exactly?’

The car braked quickly, forcing her forwards. The seat belt dug sharply into her shoulder. As she reached out to steady herself she heard the central locking system click into action. Then there was the noise of some kind of carport door opening. Then – even worse – the sound of it closing behind her.

‘
What are you doing?’

‘
Just pulling in,’ he said.

It was then she realised. It was the voice. She knew there was something familiar. It reminded her of Gleason’s.

‘
No, no,’ she said, now nearly paralysed with fear. She tried to reach into her bag for her cell phone, but she was too slow. In an instant, the driver had switched off the engine. She heard his door opening, closing. Now he was opening her door.

‘
I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ he said.

Cassie fumbled with the phone. The ridges that marked out the numbers seemed to melt beneath her fingers.

‘
It’s useless anyway,’ he said. ‘There’s no reception. I made sure of that.’

‘
Who – who are you?’ she said, the words catching in her throat.

‘
Don’t I look familiar? Oh, sorry about that. I forgot you can’t see.’

She automatically moved further away from the voice, further along the back seat towards the other door, the one that was not open. She found the handle and with her shaking hands managed to pull it towards her.

‘
You can get out that side if you prefer,’ he said. She heard footsteps walking around the car. ‘Here, let me help.’

As he opened the door she moved back towards the middle.

‘
I get the impression you don’t want to get out. Come on, don’t be rude.’

He reached into the car and tried to grab her. With all her force she dug her nails into his skin. But he quickly bent back her hand so it almost seemed parallel with her arm. It felt as though her wrist was going to splinter, as though her bones were about to pierce her skin.

‘
Come on, bitch,’ he said, pulling her out of the car. She struggled, flipping and flexing every muscle in her body, a caught fish suddenly wrenched on to land.

He tried to clamp a hand over her mouth, but she bit him hard. As she breathed in, the smell of the place attacked the back of her throat. Car oil, burnt car rubber, machinery grease. Was she in a workshop, a car repair garage? But there was something else that lingered in the stagnant air. What was it? It was something putrid, something rank.

He clasped his hand over her mouth and nose. It was then it came to her. The smell. It was decomposing flesh.

She felt herself falling, almost losing consciousness. If she stopped struggling it would all be over so much quicker. There would be no more pain, no more suffering. Just a state of what? Nothingness. Emptiness. Non-existence.

She wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t going to give in. Not now. Not after everything she had been through.

With all her force she managed to wrench his hand away from her. Then she stretched out her arms, her fingers searching the empty space before her.

‘
You want to feel my face, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Just like you did before.’

He pulled her towards him, almost as if he were bringing her to him in a passionate embrace. He grabbed her hands and forced them to his face.

‘
There you go, feel away. See me.’

She could smell his sickly sweet sweat and the stench of cigarettes and beer on his breath.

Cassie ran her hands over the contours of his face, her fingers moving like the arms of an octopus. He had a strong jaw, a square face, a high forehead. Just like – but it couldn’t be possible.

He started to laugh.

‘
I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.

‘
But – but,’ she cried. ‘I don’t understand. You’re the same, but –‘

‘
But what?’

At that moment she forced her thumbs deep into his eye sockets. He screamed in pain, rearing backwards and knocking over a chair. She flailed around, desperate to find something – some shape, object or surface – she could picture in her head. The atmosphere was hot, oppressive. Or was that just fear tightening her throat? She felt like she was swimming, drowning in black tar.

She staggered back to the car. She felt the hood of the car, pulsing out heat. If he had opened the carport doors automatically there must be a remote control somewhere. She dropped to her hands to try and get a sense of the place. She started to trace the edge of the tiled floor – she could feel the ridges, the grouting, the cool surfaces – but then she felt something wet and sticky. She reeled back in panic. Slowly she brought her hands forwards. It was only oil.

She worked quickly, at first moving like a crab across the floor. Then she found the bottom of a table leg. She followed it upwards until she felt its surface. The top was covered in masses of objects – there was what felt like a spanner, a small alarm clock, a box of tissues, a set of keys. If she found the car key she could always lock herself in the vehicle. But what if he had a spare set? Even if he didn’t he could always smash one of the windows. No, she needed to find the remote. She needed to get out of there. Fast.

She heard him move across the room. A violent lurch, then a collision with a piece of equipment. He still couldn’t see. They were working from an equal base now. And she had to remember that even though she was trapped in a strange place she had the advantage. After all, she had spent years heightening her other senses. She tried to take a couple of deep breaths.

‘
Bitch!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you?’

She heard him moving closer, and she silently stepped away.

He threw something – a can of oil, a screwdriver? - across the room.

‘
There’s no place to hide in here,’ he said. ‘I’m coming to find you.’

Then he started to move, slowly at first, banging into things. She heard him swinging something through the air, something heavy. Oh my God. It sounded like a chain.

She felt the air move near her. She squatted down, narrowly missing the swing of the chain. She heard him breathing. He was near now. She tried to steady her own breath. Do not make a sound, she said to herself. Not so much as a whisper of a breath.

She was conscious of the tread of his shoes on the floor, the smell of oil on the ground.

How long would she have before his vision came back? Probably only a matter of minutes. Seconds even.

As she heard him move away – swinging the chain as he did so - she stood up as silently as she could and walked back towards the table. What if the remote was on the key ring she had felt earlier? She knew it was a gamble because as soon as she picked the keys up he would know where she was. She would have to be quick on her feet. And lucky.