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CHAPTER 62
CONNIE
My body thrashes, contorting into awkward and agonising positions as I do anything I can to throw Paul off me and get his fingers out of my mouth. But it’s not enough, he’s far too strong for me. My tongue darts around like an eel trying to escape a predator but his fingers are long and his pinch is vice-like. He grabs the centre of it between his thumb and his forefinger and pulls it out with such speed and to a length I didn’t think possible. It strains at the root and I think he might succeed in ripping it out instead of cutting it.
A cloud veers from covering the half-moon and illuminates Paul’s face. White, foamy spit gathers in the corners of his mouth. The pleasure he is getting from what he’s about to do to me is immeasurable. And I can’t stop it. For a second, he glances at his wrist before he releases my jaw – no need to hold it open any longer, as I’m not about to bite my own tongue off – and switches hands, gripping my tongue with the recently freed one and taking in the other the knife with the serrated edge.
I’m dizzy again and I don’t know if it’s pain or fear of the inevitable that makes me want to pass out. One thing I do know as I feel thecool silver blade on my teeth and tongue is that this trauma is making me hallucinate. I begin thinking I can see lights flashing in the corner of my eye: perhaps this is my brain paving the way towards death.
‘I won’t be making this quick,’ Paul crows, his voice now less muffled. I’m choking on the blood oozing down my throat from my shattered nose and fear it’ll go to my lungs and I’ll drown. I want to beg him not to go through with this, but with my tongue in his grasp, there’s no hope of that.
There’s another sharp burning sensation as the blade penetrates the side of my tongue. A part of me wants to die right now but the flashing lights are glowing brighter and what’s that? There’s a wailing sound too, and it’s growing louder and louder. It’s like a siren, and only when the slicing stops and Paul’s fingers and the blade leave my mouth do I realise I’m not hallucinating. It’s a siren. Help is here.
My tongue curls up in my mouth, tender and sore, but I can live with that as long as it’s still attached. Paul’s head turns sharply towards screeching car tyres, before beams of torchlight bounce as wildly as the figures running towards us, yelling.
Paul puts his hands under my armpits and hoists me to my feet, then shoves me against the wall with force. ‘Come any closer and I’ll kill her!’ he yells toward the lights. His tone is not as self-assured or as menacing as it was minutes ago. This was not part of the plan. He’s flustered, he’s on the backfoot.
‘I hear you,’ comes a male voice. ‘We’ll stop here, just don’t hurt her.’
Paul must sense that I can barely stand because one hand remains under my arm while the other holds the knife once again at the centre of my throat. I squint at a sudden beam of light.
‘Stay back,’ Paul warns, louder, ‘or I will fuck her up.’
‘We’re not coming any closer,’ the same officer replies.
‘Get back in your cars.’
‘It’s Paul, isn’t it?’
Paul doesn’t respond.
‘I’m sorry, Paul, but you know we can’t do that. We can stay here and talk this through though. Connie, how are you?’
‘Don’t talk to her!’ Paul screams. ‘Focus your attention on me or I’m going to ram this fucking thing through her throat.’
The officer agrees, and as he attempts to keep Paul calm, all I can think is that they’re wasting their time. This is not a hostage negotiation. They don’t know what kind of man they’re dealing with. And if they don’t hurry up and find a way to help me, I’m going to leave here in a body bag.
‘How did they know where to find us?’ Paul growls in my ear. He takes a quick glance at his watch.
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper, but I’m lying. They’re here because of something I did. After Paul murdered Walter, then vanished, Krisha organised for me to wear a new style of panic alarm the force is trialling. It hangs around my neck on a cord, a pendant lying in the centre of my chest. It contains a GPS that, when pressed, alerts police that the wearer needs urgent assistance, and is traceable to within around ten metres of their location. With my hands tied behind my back, I couldn’t press it, so I purposefully stumbled chest first into a fence post in the hope it would send the signal.
‘How can we help you, Paul?’ the officer asks again. ‘What would you consider an acceptable outcome from this situation?’
‘Shut up and let me think,’ Paul snaps. And for a third time, he glances at his watch. Who is he waiting for?
A moment passes before the officer talks again. I assume that he is stalling, hoping for a professional hostage crisis negotiator to arrive who is better trained than him at stopping a psychopath from murdering me in front of them. The others stand behind and are discreetly whispering into their phones. The only words I catch are when one of them says frantically, ‘Make itstop.’ Makewhatstop? This situation? I’m all in favour of that, but it seems it might go without saying. Or is a sniper going to take Paul out?
‘What can we do for you, Paul?’ says the officer. ‘What do you need from us?’
Again, Paul doesn’t respond, and instead stares deep into my eyes. A sudden calmness has replaced his alarm, which puts the fear of God back into me. I wish I could predict the direction his mind is taking now. If we were the same person he thinks we are, then I’d know. I make another attempt to plead my case.
‘Paul,’ I begin, ‘just let me—’
‘Hush now,’ he whispers. ‘I’m not going to stab you. You know that’s not my style.’
Bright, beaming white lights cut through the darkness and appear from a road ahead. I can’t decide if it’s a civilian car or another police vehicle. My ears are still ringing but the increasing noise coming from the engine cuts through.
Paul turns his head towards the police, a grin now spreading across his face. He presses his mouth close to my ear. ‘It’s time,’ he whispers.
