‘You could go out with Alex now,’ his son said, as if somehow this was the right thing to do. His mum was OK, so now his dad could be too.
But only fairytales had happy endings. They weren’t for murderers or the policemen who chased them.
He realised he’d just thought of her as a murderer for the first time and felt a coldness go right through him. Was it possible she had killed Fiona Woods? He closed his eyes tightly as he saw the dead nurse in his mind and hoped she was unconscious when she was squashed and stuffed into that steel box. She had been left to die in the darkness in a space not big enough to even raise her head, and she may have felt or even heard the hiss of her own blood spurting on the walls enclosing her. It was a cold and heartless death, and only a ruthless killer could end someone’s life that way.
Was it possible Alex Taylor was such a person?
*
Alex opened her eyes and had to quickly shut them again because the overhead lights were blindingly bright. Her head was pounding and the slight movement she made was making her feel sick. A strap across her forehead prevented her from turning her head sideways and she was afraid to vomit in case she choked.
Where are you, Maggie? Please be here to save me.
Risking the glare again, she squinted up at the light, made out the circular outline and knew she was back in the same theatre as before. She took no comfort in having it confirmed that it never was just in her mind. She had been to this place before, where she thought she was going to die, only to awaken later as if nothing had happened. But now she knew who it was that had abducted her. Oliver Ryan.
Steeling herself, she focused down on her chest and saw the green theatre drapes covering her. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the shape of her raised bent legs. She was in the lithotomy position again – her calves supported on knee troughs and her ankles held in stirrups – and from the cool air touching her skin beneath the drapes she knew she was naked.
In the background she could hear the sounds of instruments – steel being placed against steel – and the urge to vomit was imminent as she shook with fear. He was close by, getting ready to deal with her.
Holding her breath and grinding her teeth until her jaw went rigid, she tried to quell the rising terror. She had to be strong and think of a way out of this situation. She had to believe she could be saved.
Trying to keep as still as possible and not alert him to her being awake, she tried to work out how tightly tied down she was. If he had secured her with only Velcro straps there was a chance that she could work them loose and get free.
Her arms were resting on supports, but she couldn’t see what banded them because the drapes covered them as well. She moved both arms at the same time and felt no give whatsoever.
A monitor close to her ear suddenly started beeping and her terror escalated as she heard the sound of her own panicked heartbeat. It was thumping loud and fast, which panicked her even more because this would tell him she was awake. He had obviously switched it on for this reason and was now toying with her.
Please, God, make it go slower. Make him not realise I’m awake.
It was a pathetic prayer, but ironically her heart did slow; her teeth bit right through her lower lip as he suddenly leaned over her. His head and shoulders were out of view, but the blue surgical gown and the purple gloved hands were right in front of her face. He reached across her and hung a bag of fluid on a drip stand.
‘Please don’t hurt me, Oliver,’ she pleaded through chattering teeth. ‘I beg you.’
He didn’t answer. Instead he moved away from the operating table and a second later she heard him at a metal cupboard. Drugs. He was getting out drugs.
Her bladder emptied and hot wetness gushed between her buttocks.
Her enraged screams filled the room, and for a few precious seconds she felt in control. Someone would hear her. Someone would come running. They would hear her screams out in the corridors. A doctor or a nurse, a porter or even a visitor passing by would hear her. She wouldn’t, wouldn’t give in to him this time. Tasting the blood in her mouth she spat in the direction of where she thought he was standing. ‘You fuckhead. You coward. You piece of shit. I’ll kill you, you fuckhead.’
An uncontrollable rage consumed her, sweat bathed her face and chest and the desperate need to fight back gave her strength. She heaved her body up as high as she could go; her chest and abdomen lifting several inches off the table. Her head strained against the unyielding strap. Pain shot up her thighs and into her groin as the stirrup straps tightened and metal dug into her ankle bones. Her wrists and forearms were burning as she wrenched and rubbed against the restraints, trying to break free. She was using every muscle in her body, every ounce of energy, twisting and turning in the hope of something loosening or breaking and setting her free, but it wasn’t happening.
Finally, exhausted and panting, she had to admit defeat. The band across her forehead was as secure as ever, her arms and legs still trapped in the supports and stirrups.
It was hopeless. She was as helpless as a baby and he could do to her what he liked. Nobody would come running.
Oh, Maggie, please don’t be dead, she pleaded in her mind. Please come quickly and don’t be dead.
Chapter forty-four
Greg sipped the strong black coffee, his mind trying to catalogue all the events over the last few weeks that Alex Taylor had been involved in: her allegation that someone had abducted her, her presence at the death of Amy Abbott, her presence at the death of Lillian Armstrong, her presence when a near-fatal drug error was made.
Alex Taylor was present for all it. Was Laura Best correct in her thinking that Alex Taylor was the only person responsible?