The Venus Trap Read online

  OTHER TITLES BY LOUISE VOSS

  To Be Someone

  Are You My Mother?

  Lifesaver

  Games People Play

  CO-WRITTEN WITH MARK EDWARDS:

  Killing Cupid

  Catch Your Death

  All Fall Down

  Forward Slash

  From the Cradle

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Louise Voss

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 978-1477822159

  ISBN-10: 1477822151

  Cover design by bürosüdo München, www.buerosued.de

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014950387

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Day 1

  I am usually awakened by the sensation of a small thumb prising open one of my eyelids, and the plaintive, hopeful word ‘Doors?’

  Megan’s been doing this to me since she was a toddler and it’s one of our family traditions. This morning, however, I slowly open my eyes unhindered—although I have such a shocking hangover that a bit of assistance wouldn’t have gone amiss. It takes me a moment to remember that Megan isn’t here, that Richard’s taken her to Italy. This should be my ‘me’ time, ten days’ respite from bedtime negotiations, smuggling vegetables (‘veggitroubles’) into spag bol, arranging play dates, swirling neon pink icing onto cupcakes.

  I can’t think why I’ve got such a banging headache. Perhaps I celebrated my parental freedom too enthusiastically. The room roils and tilts around me, pulsing to the vibrations of pain inside my skull. Nausea slops and sloshes through my body and I have to lie absolutely still for it not to rise in my throat.

  The headache isn’t helped by the weird noise I can hear. It’s a loud whining, scraping sound, as if a dog is trying to get into my bedroom. There are no dogs in this building—no neighbours, either, since old Hugh downstairs died. My flat is on the second floor, above Hugh’s empty one and a boarded-up charity shop on the ground floor. The cat never makes that sort of racket.

  The heating is on full. In July? There must be something wrong with it—or perhaps it’s the toxic heat that my body is giving off.

  Suddenly I feel scared, although I don’t immediately know why. There is something deeply unsettling about being frightened in your own bed, in your own room. I wonder if it’s just because I’m ill, and I hate being ill.

  But I don’t think it’s that.

  I am lying on my side, drenched in sweat, at the edge of the bed. On the floor next to me I see a metal mixing bowl, the one that Megan and I use for cake mix. It triggers some kind of Pavlovian response and I lift my head off the pillow and vomit into it. Most of it misses. I must have a bug of some sort. It’s bad. I feel fuzzy-weaker and with less form than an amoeba. Groaning, I shove back a corner of the duvet to get up and clear up the sick, but something stops me, as if someone has grabbed me around the ankle.

  With monumental effort I throw aside the rest of the duvet—and stare in astonishment and disbelief at the short chain running between my iron bedpost and the handcuff attached to my ankle.

  What the hell was I up to last night?

  I can’t remember.

  The fear rises harder and faster this time. I flop back on the pillow, which makes my head pound even more, and I think I’m going to be sick again.

  At least I’m at home, in my own bed, I think to myself, probably irrationally. I reach for my mobile on the bedside cabinet—but it’s not there. Damn.

  I don’t understand. I never drink so much that I have memory losses like this. It must have been a major, epic night involving a man—I’d hardly have handcuffed myself to the bedpost. I look down to see that I’m wearing my cream winter pyjamas, which is also odd, as these pyjamas are far too warm and sweaty for this time of year. Sun is blazing through my thin curtains. Definitely not winter PJ weather.

  A horrible thought occurs: I’m chained to the bed, and my phone isn’t where it should be—so how do I get out of this one?

  There is another noise at my bedroom door, a renewed scraping sound, and a worse thought occurs: I’m not alone. The noise ceases. My mind races. There is silence for a few moments.

  Then, to my horror, the door opens and a bulky man appears, holding two mugs of coffee and smiling uncertainly at me. I recognise him, vaguely. His head is too small for his body and his eyes are too small for his face. The shock of an unfamiliar man in my bedroom makes me bite my lip so hard that I taste blood.

  ‘Morning, sleepyhead. I see you’re awake at last. I’ve brought you some coffee. Sorry about the noise—I’m just doing a spot of DIY. I’ve fed the cat, by the way; it seemed hungry. How are you feeling?’

  Suddenly something comes back to me: this man is called Claudio. I know him, but I don’t like him. I’m sure I don’t like him. It seems really unlikely that we came back here last night, had rampant sex involving handcuffs, and now he’s bringing me coffee and doing DIY . . . Did we have sex?

  ‘I feel terrible,’ I blurt, staring at him as he walks into the bedroom and comes towards me with the coffee. ‘Please . . . take this off.’ I gesture towards my ankle. ‘Why is it on there?’

  Claudio looks rueful. ‘Can’t do that, Jo, not at the moment. Maybe after I’ve taken a few security precautions. Oh dear, you do look rough. And you’ve been sick. Let me get you some water and Nurofen.’

  He puts the coffee down on my bedside table and the smell makes me gag. Then he picks up the mixing bowl and carries it into the en-suite bathroom. I hear the splash as he dumps the contents into the toilet and flushes, then the hollow sound of water on metal as he rinses it out. I bite the inside
of my cheeks and swallow hard in an attempt to stop myself being sick again. Panic swirls inside me like the flushed-away vomit, but something prevents it bursting out of me. Did he give me some sort of drug to make me forget? I am dulled, and I’m sure it’s not by illness or alcohol poisoning. There is another layer of something heavy, coating and deadening my brain and my reactions.

  Claudio reappears with the clean bowl and a tooth mug of water. His expression is diffident but there is a steely look in his eyes that makes me shiver.

  ‘What’s going on, Claudio? What are you doing here?’ My voice sounds as thick as my head feels.

  He sits down on the edge of the bed and pats my thigh. I recoil.

  ‘Don’t you remember? You started feeling poorly after dinner last night, so I brought you home. We’re going to spend some time together, you and I. I want to be with you, Jo. We’re so lucky to have this opportunity and I just want to make the most of it. Megan’s away. I have a few days off work. We have time to really get to know one another. Isn’t that great?’

  I blink at him, realization slowly dawning. He stands up.

  ‘But first I just need to finish off a few odd jobs.’

  He walks into the hallway and returns a moment later holding two large sheets of plywood and an electric screwdriver. Apologising again for the noise, he thrusts open my bedroom curtains, pushes one of the sheets of plywood up against the window frame, and deftly screws it on with repeated brief high-pitched whines of the screwdriver. The room is plunged into semi-dark, the only light now coming from the half-open bathroom door.

  Claudio turns to me. ‘I’m going to do the bathroom window now. If you scream, I’ll tie something over your mouth to stop you. Understand?’

  Chapter Two

  Day 1

  That’s when my heart starts thumping with fear, so hard that I can’t breathe properly. It’s as though my whole body is thumping and I definitely can’t think straight—but I now realise what’s happening. Even though I still don’t believe it.

  No no no no no no . . .

  Things like this don’t happen to me.

  I open my mouth to scream blue murder—then remember what Claudio just said. If he gagged me now, I would vomit and choke.

  My breathing is too rapid, too shallow, a percussive accompaniment to the snare of my banging heart. I grab my head in both hands and squeeze, as though that will contain everything, but it doesn’t help. I feel sick again so I grab the cake-mix bowl. Claudio is in the bathroom. I force myself to slow down, calm down. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Think. Hold it together. He can’t keep me cuffed to the bed: I need the loo. I’ll just rip off the wood when he’s gone and scream out of the window.

  I am clutching the bowl, gasping with fear and shock, when Claudio comes out of the bathroom into the dark of my bedroom, electric screwdriver held out in front of him like he’s the Driller Killer we used to laugh about at school. In fact I’m sure I remember Claudio himself talking about it, his skinny sixteen-year-old self obsessed with the banned video nasty. I never liked him. Why did I think he’d be any different as an adult?

  ‘Relax, darling,’ he says, flicking on the overhead light. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Not if you behave.’

  I vomit into the bowl again, but the physical act of being ill doesn’t for a second take my mind off the fear. I have to believe him.

  ‘Oh dear, you really are poorly. I’ll get you some Alka-Seltzer.’

  ‘Just undo my foot, Claudio, please,’ I beg, wiping away a thread of vomity spittle. ‘I won’t go anywhere. I’m too sick to scream, let alone run.’

  He looks hurt. ‘Why would you want to do either of those things? We’re just having a little “us” time, that’s all. Let me get you that Alka-Seltzer. Or would you prefer some Nurofen?’

  He walks over to me and feels my forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Oh dear,’ he repeats, and takes the sick bowl away again to rinse out.

  ‘Alka-Seltzer,’ I whisper. When he hands me back the empty bowl I press the cold damp metal against my clammy forehead and hot cheeks, to remove the feel of his skin on mine.

  He vanishes, returning with one of Megan’s plastic beakers and handing it to me. It’s fizzing, and the smell and sensation of the salty bubbles popping against my top lip as I raise it to my mouth threaten to make me puke again, but I manage a few sips and gradually start to feel very slightly better.

  ‘Claudio.’

  He sits down on the bed again and tries to push my fringe off my face. I bat him away.

  ‘Claudio, I need the loo. You have to untie me. This is insane. You can’t keep me tethered to the bed like a dog chained to a post.’

  I curse my upcycled white wrought-iron bed, although I can even remember the thought of naughtiness with handcuffs crossing my mind when I bought it, on one of my regular forays to vintage antique markets.

  Now I wish I didn’t like vintage. If I had a modern, sleek bed with a built-in solid headboard there would be nothing for him to tether me to.

  He laughs as though I’ve made a joke. ‘Oh no, I’m not going to do that. Of course not. I understand completely. It’s just a precaution until I get the place how it needs to be.’

  I dread to think what he means by that.

  ‘Once it’s safe,’ he continues, ‘then of course I will undo you.’

  ‘Safe?’

  ‘Let me search your room. You will be here for some time, so I want you to be comfortable, and I want to make sure you won’t . . .’

  He tails off.

  ‘Be able to escape?’ I supply, thinking This absolutely can’t be happening to me.

  ‘Well, if you want to put it like that,’ he says sulkily.

  ‘Search it if you want. It’s not like I’ve got a baseball bat under the pillow and a pistol in my knicker drawer.’

  He jumps up with alacrity. ‘OK. I will be as quick as I can, given your . . . predicament.’ By which I assume he is referring to my bursting bladder rather than my involuntary incarceration. ‘I’ll start in the bathroom.’

  I keep all my toiletries in a wicker unit with baskets for shelves, and I hear him dump each one on the floor and sift through it. Repeated thuds and rustles indicate that he is dropping contraband or potential weapons into a bin liner. I hear the gentle swish of what are probably pill packets—must be the strong painkillers I take when my slipped disc plays up—dropping into the bin liner, then the heavier clunk of something metallic, the scissors I cut Megan’s hair with, probably. A few lighter items drop in—I’m guessing things like tweezers and metal nail files. The rattle of matches in the matchbox I keep for the candles around my bath. How long does he think I’m going to be in here for?

  How long will it be before I’m missed?

  Something loud drops into the bin liner. I think it’s my hairbrush. What does he imagine I’d do with that—spank him into submission? In his dreams. Or perhaps it’s my hairspray, or aerosol deodorant. I doubt he’ll allow any aerosols. My comb, the one with the sharp end, is on my chest of drawers: with any luck he’ll overlook that and I can poke out his bloody eyes with it.

  While he’s out of sight I edge down to the end of the bed and yank at the handcuff on my left ankle. It’s futile, so I shuffle back up towards the pillows and finish the rest of the Alka-Seltzer. If he’d put it in a glass I could’ve smashed it and used that as a weapon. His attention to detail is quite impressive, and I wonder if he has been planning this. He must have been—it’s unlikely he’d have two sheets of plywood the right size to cover my windows knocking around in the boot of his car.

  ‘What time is it?’ I call out weakly.

  ‘Twenty past two,’ he replies cheerfully, and more things drop into the bin liner.

  I’m shocked. I’ve been asleep for that long? I suppose he could have gone out this morning for the wood and let himself in again, knowing that
even if I woke up, I was immobilised. He must have given me something to knock me out—that’s why I can’t remember anything. So there must have been at least some planning.

  ‘Did you give me that date-rape drug?’ I call, and I hear him suck in his breath with annoyance.

  ‘I haven’t raped you,’ he replies, sounding offended.

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  ‘Rohypnol,’ he concedes, as though it’s a perfectly normal thing to do. ‘You seem to have reacted badly to it. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would sleep so long or be so sick.’

  I suddenly feel so furious with him that I can’t speak. Fury and fear combined make my head hurt even more. Impotent tears spurt out of my eyes.

  ‘This is crazy, Claudio. You can’t do this.’

  He doesn’t answer. A few moments later he emerges from the bathroom holding my yellow metal bin in one hand and the full bin liner in the other. Damn. That bin is heavy—I could have used it to swing at his head. But he had obviously had the same thought.

  ‘Now will you undo me?’ I wipe my eyes and sniff, and Claudio briefly stops in his tracks.

  ‘Ah, Jo, sweet girl, don’t cry! Let me get rid of this and then you can go to the bathroom.’

  When he opens the bedroom door to put the bin out I see a new, large bolt affixed to the outside of it. His screwing it on must account for the whining noise that woke me up. My door also has a lock, with a key that I usually keep on my side, but the key is missing. The sight of the bolt makes me shiver, and I go from being too hot to feeling freezing cold.

  ‘I need a shower and some clean clothes. I stink of sick.’

  ‘Have a shower, baby girl, while I check your room for you. I’ll clean that sick off the carpet too.’

  Check my room for me? Don’t call me baby girl, you freak. I am planning to bolt myself into my bathroom where at least he won’t be able to get to me. I will prise the plywood off the window with my bare hands and scream until someone hears me.

  He finally extracts a tiny key from his shirt pocket and unlocks my shackles. I try to slide off the bed unaided but I stumble and fall backwards. He laughs and helps me up, and I have to let him, because my knees are so weak. He smells worse than I do—halitosis and body odour.