Before We Met(109)

The surface under the wheels changed again and they came on to gravel. Nick stopped the van and got out, slamming his door shut. The crunch of footsteps and then the back doors opened and she saw him silhouetted against the sky. Taking hold of her lower legs, he dragged her towards the doors and pulled her into a sitting position. He took a Stanley knife out of his pocket and she felt a flare of pure fear, but then he bent and cut the tie around her ankles with a quick upward flick. Taking hold of her by the upper arms, he pulled her to her feet. She struggled, trying to get free and head-butt him, but he tightened his grip and held her at arm’s length.

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ he said, voice neutral. ‘We’re miles from anywhere.’

After the fetid sacking, the cold night air smelled clean and sweet. She sucked it in through her nose, trying to flush the stink of rotting vegetation and petrol from her nostrils. Into her head came the idea that this might be the last time she ever smelled fresh air and she pushed it away, ordering herself to keep it together.

Hand between her shoulder blades, Nick pushed her around the side of the van. Cloud blotted out any moonlight but her eyes were accustomed to the dark now and she saw the front of a large, pale-stone house backed by trees. It was the house from the newspaper picture, the one where he’d been photographed with his sports car.

She stumbled as her foot caught the edge of a flagstone on the uneven path, but he caught her, yanking her backwards, sending another bolt of pain through her shoulder. One hand on the neck of her coat, he unlocked the front door and thrust her inside. Then he shut the door after himself, locked it again and pocketed the key.

Reaching out, he snapped the light on. Hannah blinked. They were in a hallway, polished stone flagging underfoot, a wide flight of stairs climbing away into darkness. There was a series of gloomy oil paintings in ornate gilt frames, and at the foot of the stairs a mounted stag’s head with branched antlers. To their left and right were closed doors. The air was warm but smelled strongly of dust, as if the house had been empty for some time and the heating had only just been put back on.

In front of them, a corridor led towards the back of the house. With a sharp nudge, he directed her forward. They went round a corner, passing another pair of closed doors, and came into a room at the end. In the weak light from the window, she made out a table with chairs and then, at the other end, units: a sink, a stove.

Nick flicked the light on, pulled out a chair and pushed her into it. Going behind her, he tied her wrists to the bar across the back then came round and crouched in front of her. She aimed a kick at his face but he caught her ankle before it reached him. ‘Just don’t, all right? There’s no need to make this any harder.’

Through the gag she made a sound she meant him to interpret as ‘Fuck you’.

For the first time now, she saw Nick at close range. No wonder she’d mistaken him for Mark outside the delicatessen. As she knew from the pictures, he had no mole, and his eyes were larger and even darker than Mark’s, the pupils almost indistinguishable from the irises, but the structure of their faces was the same. The only real difference, she could see now, was in their skin. Though he was forty, Mark could pass for thirty-two or three but no one would take Nick for that. He looked older by ten years, if not fifteen. His forehead and the area around his eyes were scored with lines, and other, deeper ones, the result of years of heavy smoking, radiated out from his mouth. He was wearing the pea coat she’d seen him in before, the one that had reminded her of Mark’s, but his black jeans were old, faded and white at the seams, and his beanie was knitted in a cheap nylon-wool mix, completely different from the cashmere one that Mark had picked up at Barneys on a New York trip last year.

Keeping hold of her ankle, he forced it against the leg of the chair, took another garden tie out of his pocket and pulled it tight. When he’d tied her other leg, he stood up and went behind her again. She felt tugging at her hands and then, to her confusion, she realised he’d cut them free. Pain shooting through her shoulder, she brought them round in front of her and saw deep red welts around her wrists. A moment later, she felt his hands at the back of her head again and he pulled the gag out of her mouth.

She took a great gulp of air that hit the back of her throat and made her choke. She coughed until her eyes were streaming. ‘You,’ she croaked as soon as she could catch a breath. ‘You . . .’

Nick put his hands up, palms towards her. ‘I’m sorry.’

She’d been about to scream at him but his tone pulled her up short. ‘You’re sorry?’