Page 66 of M for Murder

She vaguely recalled the washroom. The steamed mirror in which she had seen the face.

In the distance she heard laughter and she became aware of a blurred shape a few feet away. Sitting, watching.

It was him. He was getting a kick out of watching her suffocating. His laughter grew louder. It hurt her ears.

Got to get the bag off. Got to get it off before I die.

Beads of sweat rolled into the corners of her eyes. Each drop stung and she longed desperately to wipe them clear. The plastic grew cloudier, her breathing was getting louder and raspier.

Eventually, the noise she was making as she gasped for air drowned out the sound of the laughter.

Then she passed out again.

This time she thought she had actually died.

This was the afterlife and she was on her way to Heaven, or wherever it was that people went. She was glad they had music there. It was kind of tinny, but familiar. Tchaikovsky, she thought.

Her mind struggled briefly with the issue of whether or not she’d been good enough to go on to Heaven, should such a place exist. She was aware of feeling cold, and there was something hard pressed against her face, her chest, and her legs.

Weren’t you supposed to float when you died?

Then she was aware of the pain. The pain in her lip, the pain in her chin, the pain in her chest each time she breathed, and she knew that she wasn’t dead.

So, where was she?

Her head was fuzzy, her throat tight. Sore from whatever had been wrapped around it. She remembered the plastic bag. She remembered how he’d been sitting there laughing and she wondered where he was.

Slowly she tried to lift her head.

The room was dark with shadows, the only light coming from two candles. She was in some kind of tool shop. A workshop, perhaps. Various hammers and drills hung from hooks on the walls and there were several planks of wood stacked up in one corner. The room was small. She could see there was a door, though it was shut and, she guessed from the keyhole, probably locked; there appeared to be no window, so it was possible that she was in a basement or cellar.

She had no idea where she was. Maybe she was still on campus somewhere or perhaps he had taken her to his house. At the moment, all she knew was that she was in a workshop listening to Tchaikovsky.

Looking down, she could see that she was lying on some kind of wooden table, probably a workbench and, to her horror, she realised that aside from a white sheet that had been draped over her body, covering her from the bottom of her spine down to her ankles, she was completely naked.

She didn’t know where her nightshirt had gone or when he had taken it off, but the thought that he had undressed her and touched her made her skin crawl.

This must be where he brings his victims to carve them up.

The thought struck fear into her, but she tried to remain calm, rational. He’d left her down here alone, so maybe he thought that she was already dead. Thinking of the plastic bag and how tightly it had been wrapped around her face, it occurred to Jennifer that she should be dead. But she wasn’t, and that meant only one thing to her. If she was alive, she had a chance.

As thoughts of escape rushed through her mind, the stomp of footsteps on stairs, growing closer and closer, shook her to her senses. Quickly she glanced around. There were plenty of weapons on the various shelves. Axes, blades and saws. No time to get to them, though.

The only thing within her reach was a screwdriver lying on a surface close to the bench. It was small and probably blunt, and if she was going to use it, she would have to jam it really hard. Quickly she grabbed the small weapon and hid it in her hand under her belly. Then she lay as still as possible, her eyes closed, waiting for a chance to make her move.

She heard a key turn in the lock and the sound of the creaking door as it swung open. He came into the room, closing the door behind him and crossed to where she lay.

She was aware of his presence as he stood above her, then the touch of his hands as he lifted her hair, draping it to the side of her head. Fingers that were soft and smooth began to caress her neck. He leant closer blowing warm breath on to the back of her ear. Jennifer tried to remain as still and calm as possible, not wanting to let him know that she was still alive. Any moment now she would turn and plunge the screwdriver into him.

Any moment now.

She just had to pluck up the courage first.

The fingers went away. He went away. She could hear him over at one of the shelves; he sounded as though he was picking up something heavy. An axe or a saw.

Shit! He’s gonna cut me up. Should have spiked him when I got the chance.

He returned to the table. Jennifer could feel her heart beating fast, much too fast, and she hoped that he couldn’t hear it.