Nightmares of Caitlin Lockyer

Part 90

90

I finished my toast and sat down to read what Caitlin had given me. It was what I both hoped and dreaded – a detailed description of everything she remembered of her kidnapping, captivity and afterwards.

Every memory was preceded by a line of key words across the top in bold, a chilling summary of what was to come. Names, feelings, sounds and specific injuries.

My heart grew cold as I read, wondering how she'd come to write those lines. As if she'd thought, "I dreamed he broke my fingers and raped me," then searched for those words to add to the memory of breaking and brutality…oh God.

There was far more than I thought she'd remembered and my first instinct was to call her, to start asking questions. I hesitated a moment, before I realised I should read it through to the end before I started asking anything else. I couldn't call her – I didn't know if she had her phone or even if there was mobile access, wherever she was. My questions would have to wait.

One page had her handwriting across the top, above the line of bold words:

Not in the police transcript

Of all the pages, this one I kept returning to, as if rereading the words would somehow change the past they described. I ripped the page free of its fellows and read it again:

Beach – Stars – Sand – Shots – Surf – Chris – Nathan – Numb

I was floating. No pain – nothing holding me down, anymore. Something cold touched my face and I opened my eyes slowly. I recoiled from the dark shape hovering over me.

"It's okay. I'm just washing your face," said a voice I barely recognised.

I shivered in what felt like a cold wind. It couldn't be. I looked around fearfully. I looked up, and saw the contrast of pinprick stars on the darker black of the open sky. "Where are we?"

"We're at a beach, out of there, away from them." His voice sounded different, that was why I didn't recognise it immediately. More abrupt, more certain. More authoritative. "There's something I have to do here."

"You got me out. Thank you, Chris!" I felt a surge of joy well up, bringing tears to my eyes, barely able to believe it was possible.

He was silent, and I looked at him to see the reason for it. I was shocked to see he held my hands in his – I couldn't feel his touch, and they didn't look like my hands – they were twisted and swollen, dark with blood to well past my wrists. As he held my hands, he said, "Can you trust me?"

"Okay." I was surprised that he'd bothered to ask, after all that had happened.

He suddenly turned to face the dunes, looking worried. "Wait here. I'll be back." He got up and jogged off into the dunes, leaving me alone. "...first aid kit..." were the only words I could discern as he took off.

I tried to move, but my body wouldn't respond. There was no feeling left in my legs, and my hands were numb from the wrists down. I tried to call out, to tell him to wait, not to leave me alone like this, but even my voice wasn't strong enough. Just as I started to panic, I heard footsteps approaching me across the sand.

I struggled to sit up, realising too late as I managed it that I was wrapped in a blanket, which slipped off my shoulders, exposing most of my top half to the freezing wind. I clumsily attempted to pull it back up again with my numb, mangled fingers, but failed miserably.

Somehow, I collapsed on the sand again, my head spinning. So cold already, I barely felt him rip the blanket away from me and toss it aside.

I should have fought, but it was like moving through cold water and I was so tired, so tired! "Sadistic prick," I mumbled.

I couldn't even feel the pain any more. I heard a voice, but I didn't care enough to focus on what it meant. I closed my eyes, drifting into sleep.

A sharp pain woke me and I cried out, opening my eyes as I struggled to sit up, convinced I'd been stabbed.

He pushed me back down, his voice an unintelligible sound that I couldn't focus on, but I fought him now, desperate to see if I'd dreamed it.

Then he was gone.

A gun in my hands. I couldn't feel it, had to touch it to my face to be sure I had it.

"End it," I murmured.

A gasp. No.

Tugging, snapping, took it from me. The gun was gone.

Shots.

"Wake up, angel."

Nathan, saying, "It's over."

"Chris…" I mumbled.

"It's all right, he's dead," Nathan replied.