Page 27 of The Taskmaster
“I’d love that,” Stacey said with a hint of a smile, and her cheeks flushed. I think she meant it. “But we can’t do it today. Pauline, the house manager, said we have a guest coming tonight. I need to be home for that. It’s best you go home and then tomorrow we can arrange something.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, knowing full well she wouldn’t keep her word. She’d said the same thing to me before to put me off.
“Positive,” she replied. “I know a few of the girls in the home have some make-up we can share. We can do our hair too. I’ve always wanted to learn how to do a French braid.”
I knew how to French braid hair, and I told Stacey I’d do it for her tomorrow, in our lunch break.
That day never came.
I never saw Stacey again, and neither did anyone else. It was as if she just vanished off the face of the earth.
Chapter Eighteen
THE TASKMASTER
Istood in her wardrobe, watching her through the crack in the door. I was supposed to go to Gabriel Tolley’s house tonight, drug him and take him. Bring him in as my next player, and start the games. But despite everything, that hadn’t interested me in the slightest. I wanted to watch her instead. I wanted to be close to her, not observing her through a TV screen. I wanted to smell her, hear the noises she made as she slept, touch her skin, her hair, do whatever the fuck I wanted. That had been much more appealing than anything Gabriel Tolley had to offer. He could wait, but my curiosity couldn’t.
I’d watched her on the monitors, waited until she was in a deep sleep, then I let myself into her apartment. Her handbag was still on the sofa where she’d left it. I opened it and found loads of sachets of coffee, little cartons of long-life milk and packets of sugar, obviously taken from her place of work. Was she really that broke that she had to steal coffee? I guessed so. I’d seen her bank statements and credit card bills. I’d heard her phone call earlier, too.
I heard a quiet groan and glanced towards her bedroom door. Then I pulled out my phone to access the security footage, so Icould see if she’d woken up, but she was still asleep. Tossing and turning a little, but she was out for the count.
I crept over to her bedroom door and carefully pushed it open, stepped into her room, then closed the door behind me. That smell I’d wanted to experience, the heady scent that was Abigail Walters hit me, and I took a quiet, deep breath in. I liked the way she smelled; a delicate, comforting scent that reminded me of long-forgotten hugs and safety that always felt so fleeting. A scent I chased when I was a little boy. A scent I was seeking out now.
I took slow steps, moving carefully to stand at the side of her bed and peer down at her as she slept. She gave little gasps as her body started to make tiny little jolts, and I sat on the edge of the bed and reached forward, pushing my fingers into her silky brown curls as the gasps turned to silent cries. She was having a nightmare. So, I stroked her hair, gently rubbing her scalp, surprising myself at what I was doing. I wanted to soothe her. In my life, I’d had more nightmares than dreams. I knew what it felt like to be paralysed in your own body. If someone could’ve stroked my hair, as a kid, and pulled me out of it, I’d have liked that. But no one ever did.
I don’t know how long I sat beside her, stroking her hair and watching her as she fought with the demons plaguing her night. My fingers became numb, and my mind did too. A feeling that rarely happened. I usually had to make a kill to quieten my mind. But here I was, stroking this girl, trying to comfort her despite not having a comforting bone in my body.
But then, when she started to thrash and cry out, “No. Please let me go,” I stood up. She was going to wake up soon, and I had to make a decision. Stay here and let her see me, make her scream in fear and put my hand over her mouth, maybe choke her until she passed out, or find a place to hide. I had to admit, choking was my go-to in most circumstances, but I didn’t wantthat to happen this time. I wanted to keep watching her. So I opened the door to her wardrobe, pushed my way inside and closed the door as best I could. I couldn’t stay here all night. She would eventually find me. But for now, this was the best option.
She woke up suddenly, her eyes wide as she stared at her ceiling, then checked her alarm clock before getting up and walking to her dresser. I could hear her quietly cursing the knots in her hair as she brushed it, and I smiled. I always liked to leave my mark, and that one had been subtle. Sometimes, they were the best kind to leave.
She twisted and pinned her hair up, and then I smiled again when she tutted and fixed the shorter curls at the side with a hair clip. I had the rest of those curls sitting on my mantlepiece, next to a femur... or was it a humerus? I couldn’t remember.
She sat in silence for a while, staring at her reflection, lost in a world that seemed to make her eyes well with tears.
Why did she look like she was about to cry?
And why did that thought make me want to break my cover and go to her?
That wasn’t who I was.
I didn’t care about people.
But maybe I cared a little about her.
Maybe.
Was that possible for a man like me?
My stomach felt tight, my throat did too as I watched her glance around the room. Then her eyes fell on the crack in the wardrobe door, and she gave a look that made the beat of my heart echo louder in my ears.
Was she about to come over here and open the wardrobe door?
What would I do when she found me?
I had no idea, and I held my breath and waited, praying she wouldn’t do it and break this thing that we were creating. I didn’twant this night to end in a way that felt out of my control, or worse yet, in violence. And right now, I was so out of control I felt nauseous. If she saw me, I’d have to restrain her. I’d have to take her, like I’d planned in the beginning. Did I still want that?
Stay focused, I told myself.You are always in control.
