This is Maggie James' second visit to the Scribbler. She was a guest last month when I posted the Prologue of her exciting new novel, The Second Captive. The following was taken from her website.
Maggie
James is a British author who lives in Bristol. She writes psychological
suspense novels.
The first
draft of her first novel, entitled His Kidnapper’s Shoes, was written whilst
travelling in Bolivia. Maggie was inspired by an impending milestone birthday
along with a healthy dose of annoyance at having procrastinated for so long in
writing a novel. His Kidnapper’s Shoes was published in both paperback and
e-book format in 2013, followed by her second novel, entitled Sister,
Psychopath. Her third novel, Guilty Innocence, like her first two, features her
home city of Bristol. She has recently published her fourth novel, The Second
Captive.
Before
turning her hand to writing, Maggie worked mainly as an accountant, with a
diversion into practicing as a nutritional therapist. Diet and health remain
high on her list of interests, along with travel. Accountancy does not, but
then it never did. The urge to pack a bag and go off travelling is always
lurking in the background! When not writing, going to the gym, practicing yoga
or travelling, Maggie can be found seeking new four-legged friends to pet;
animals are a lifelong love!
Copyright is held by the author. Used by Permission.
PART
ONE
Two years ago
CHAPTER
1 - Beth
I visit The Busy Bean most
lunchtimes, eager for an hour away from the charity shop where I do voluntary
work. Handling cast-off clothes and grubby kitchenware doesn’t
do it for me. There’s another reason I go, though. A man. Hard to miss him,
with those dark curls cut close to his head. Soft whorls my hand itches to
touch. Every time he comes in, my eyes swivel his way. After a few weeks of covert
glances, we get to talk at last.
It’s
a Monday, and I’m peeved because he’s not here yet. As I extract a bottle of
mineral water from the chiller cabinet, my elbow collides with someone’s belly.
An automatic apology slips from my mouth.
‘Sorry
-’ The word hangs in mid-air as recognition hits me. Him. He smiles, revealing one front tooth
slightly out of line, but every bit as white as the rest. My stare, coupled
with my inability to form words, is embarrassing. A subtle waft of aftershave
floats into my nostrils, a clean scent that doesn’t surprise me, given the
sugar-white of his T-shirt, the just-bought crispness of his jeans. What render
me incapable of speech, though, are his eyes. The left one blue as a bruise,
the right mocha-hued. I’ve heard of such a thing, but I never realised it would
be so unusual, so striking.
I guess he’s used to people
reacting the way I have. He doesn’t reply, just smiles, and I notice the
chicken sandwich he’s taken from the chiller. ‘My favourite,’ I say, even
though it’s not, and it’s a relief to find my mouth does work after all.
‘Here.’
He thrusts the sandwich at me. ‘Have it.’ The first time he tells me what to
do. In hindsight, it’s a landmark moment. ‘Looks like I grabbed the last one.’
His right hand pulls open the chiller again, extracting an egg mayo on white.
His left shoves the chicken sandwich my way again as he closes the door. I take
it, lost in the blueberry and chocolate of his eyes.
He gestures towards his usual table. ‘Want
to join me?’
I do, very much. His fingers twist off the
top of his bottle of water, bubbles hissing as they swarm to the surface. He
fills his glass. My hands echo his, except my fingers shake and I spill a few
drops. ‘I’m
Beth,’ I say, keen to cover my awkwardness.
He smiles again, the skin around his eyes
creasing. I’m
guessing he’s early twenties. No more than twenty-five. Seven years isn’t so
much of a gap. Besides, he’s a man, not a boy. Not someone who’ll fumble his
way through sex, like my one and only previous boyfriend. Steady on, I tell
myself. You met this guy all of two minutes ago. Sex isn’t on the agenda. Yet.
‘Good
to meet you, Beth. My name’s Dominic.’ With the sound of his voice, so velvety
in my ear, I’m hooked. I turn his name over in my head, liking it. Do. Min. Ic.
The three syllables are firm, decisive, like shots from a gun.
‘I’ve
seen you in here before,’ he says.
‘I
do shifts in the charity shop.’ My hand gestures towards Homeless Concern
across the road. ‘Four days a week.’
‘That’s
good.’ He doesn’t ask me why I don’t have a proper job. I’m grateful; such a
question is too reminiscent of my father.
‘What
about you?’ From his appearance, I can’t place what he does for a living. He’s
not a manual worker, that’s for sure. His hands, raised as he takes a sip of
water, don’t dig, mix concrete or slap paint on walls; the nails are too neat,
too square. Something to do with computers, I guess, or the music business.
‘Day
trader,’ he replies, a small grin tugging at his mouth when he notes my blank
expression. ‘I work from home. Buying and selling stocks, futures, currencies.’
I’m none the wiser, but I don’t let on. ‘You
enjoy what you do?’
The grin disappears. ‘It’s
hard at times. Doesn’t always pan out.’ He doesn’t elaborate, so I don’t press
the issue.
We chat some more. I find out he’s
an only child, both parents dead. ‘You live alone?’ I enquire. My mind is
spiralling forward. The prospect of dating someone with his own place, without
a family, where I can escape the pressures of mine, holds vast appeal. Too
late, I realise that the question reveals my interest in him, makes it sound as
if I’m sniffing out a girlfriend, or a wife. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring,
but not all married men do.
He grins again. ‘Ever since Dad died.
What is it now, six years ago?’ Something I can’t decipher edges into his eyes
as his gaze burns into me. ‘Maybe I’ve become a bit set in my ways. Need a
woman to sort me out.’
He’s straight, then. Not that I ever thought
otherwise.
‘How
old are you?’ I can be direct at times.
‘Twenty-eight.’
Older than he looks. Not that it deters me.
Ten years between us isn’t a huge gap, not really, and he’ll be a
refreshing change from the boys from school.
‘I’m
eighteen.’ Best to find out now if I’m too young for him.
‘Thought
so.’ Dominic doesn’t say it as though it’s an issue.
He finishes his sandwich. Mine lies uneaten
on its plate, despite the rumblings in my stomach. Impossible to talk to this
man with food in my mouth. His eyes, that weird yet wonderful juxtaposition of
blue and brown, hold mine and I sense there’s something he’s itching
to say, but isn’t sure how to. Up to now, he’s been so self-assured, and his
sudden reticence charms me.
‘Would
you like to go out with me sometime?’ he asks.
Oh, God. He’s interested in me,
despite my lack of job, the fact I’m fresh out of school, all the things I’ve
been imagining would deter him. Later, after I’m shut in the basement, with
time to reflect, I realise they’re what render me vulnerable to Dominic,
turning me into a fly, him a spider.
Dad won’t approve, of course;
I’m supposed to be sorting out university courses, not dating older men. The
thought of my father’s disapproval adds fuel to the attraction this man holds
for me. I still hesitate, though.
‘Might
be a bit difficult,’ I say. ‘What with still living at home.’
The eyebrow over the brown eye quirks
upwards. ‘You’re
not allowed out?’ Again, later on, when I’m in the basement, I grasp how
manipulative he is. How the nuances in his voice goad me into proving I’m an
independent female, capable of making her own decisions.
‘Of
course I am.’ My tone betrays my irritation. ‘How about tonight?’
A satisfied grin appears on his face. ‘Fine,’
he says. ‘I’ll decide where’s best for us to go.’
I approve of the way he determines the
course of our date. A precursor to how he decides everything when we’re
at the cottage. So much for my professed independence.
‘Can
you give me a lift? I don’t drive.’ Another factor rendering me more
vulnerable. Right now, though, I want and need to trust Dominic Perdue, and so
I do.
We make arrangements. He’ll
pick me up at seven at the end of my road, promising to have me home by eleven.
‘Don’t
be late,’ he tells me.
*****
I’m standing on the corner
of my road five minutes before seven. The evening is chilly, and I shiver as I
wait. My jeans, fresh from the laundry basket, are too tight, the material
compressing my stomach. Always quick to react to nervous tension, it’s swollen.
For that reason, I’ve not eaten, unwilling to risk a full-on bloat party in my
guts. Besides, Dominic might be taking me for a meal, and I pray the pressure
against my waistband will ease soon. Atop the jeans, I’m wearing a mulberry
silk shirt, a bargain from the Homeless Concern shop, its softness caressing my
skin under my linen jacket. Smart casual is the way to go, especially as I
don’t even know where we’re heading. My eyes are ringed with kohl, a soft brown
that matches both them and the small mole underneath the right one. My mouth is
slick with mulberry lip-gloss, my cheeks are brushed with colour and my dark
hair is loose around my shoulders. For those few moments whilst I wait, I’m the
spider, not the fly.
Bang on
seven o’clock,
a car approaches. It’s sleek and silver, its windows darkened, the BMW insignia
cresting its bonnet. A whiff of money accompanies the car, the scent of its
owner’s financial deals wafting my way. The driver eases the BMW alongside me.
A window lowers, revealing Dominic.
God, he looks good, all dark curls and
entrancing eyes. A tiny frown creases his forehead, just for a second, as his
gaze sweeps over me. It’s disapproval, although what’s initiated
it baffles me. His censure wrong-foots me, rendering me nervous.
When he speaks, though, his tone is warm,
the frown gone. ‘Get in,’ he tells me.
We drive for a while, heading towards
Hanham. Cradled in the leathery comfort of the BMW, I allow its smooth motion
to steer me wherever Dominic has decided we’re going. He doesn’t say
much, the occasional snippet of small talk. I respond in kind, thankful to be
where I am, beside this man with the mismatched eyes and enticing hair. Maybe
tonight I’ll get to experience those curls under my fingers. My crotch twitches
at the thought.
We turn down a side road, where Dominic
parks up. ‘We’re
here,’ he says, getting out and opening the boot. I stay in the car, staring
across the grassy area ahead. In the distance, a tower lurches against the
evening sky as though it’s drunk, its angle several degrees off-kilter.
Dominic strides round to my side of the
car, pulling open the door for me, an old-fashioned gesture that’s
touching. In his other hand, he holds a blue chill-bag, and my empty stomach,
its bloat now eased, anticipates food. A blanket is tucked under his arm.
I swing my legs from the car. ‘What
is this place?’
‘Troopers
Hill,’ Dominic replies. We walk across the grass, heading towards the tower,
the heels of my sandals sinking into the soft ground, still tacky from
yesterday’s rain. The grass is cold and ticklish against my bare toes. We’re
nearing the top of a hill; the tower is in front of us, and I can’t see
anything beyond it, not now, anyway.
He swings round to smile at me. ‘Thought
we’d have ourselves a bit of a picnic. The view’s great from up here.’
And it is, once we get closer to the tower.
We’re
high up, and my home city of Bristol stretches before me, its roads elongating
into the distance. Two hot-air balloons, riding the evening air, float towards
us, the faint hiss of their gas jets reaching my ears. I’m entranced. Why have
I never been here before? The shame of my insularity, the narrowness of my
fresh-out-of-school focus, overwhelms me, and I promise myself things will be
different from now on. I’ll explore, learn, and travel. With Dominic, of
course.
Oh, the irony.
‘Old
copper smelting works,’ he says, gesturing towards the tower. ‘Good place to
sit, check out the city.’ The balloons drift closer, their jets hissing louder,
and I picture myself one day, floating through the air, Dominic beside me, the
Pyramids below us reduced to children’s play shapes. Or perhaps it’s the
Australian outback, hot, red and fiery, underneath us. The details don’t
matter.
Dominic spreads the blanket on the ground
and sets down the chill-bag. He unzips it, extracting a bottle of white wine
and two glasses, thick and heavy with gold rims. He’s clearly a man who
values quality. I’m unused to alcohol but there’s no way I’ll admit it.
‘Here.’
He hands me a glass of wine, misted from the cold of the liquid. I take a sip,
and suppress a cough; the taste is acidic yet sweet, a promise of things to
come. A smear of my mulberry lip-gloss stains the glass.
Dominic unpacks French sticks, Camembert,
knives, plates. I break open my bread, slice off a chunk of the gooey cheese
and slather it inside. We eat in silence. The dusty rind of the cheese, its
sour creaminess, tastes good against the crustiness of the French stick. I’m
conscious that my bites are too large, that crumbs are sticking to the corners
of my mouth. When I drink the wine, it’s in gulps now, Dominic providing
regular refills. To me, the evening is perfect, as we sit on the blanket, the
tower listing to one side behind us. The balloons are long past; the light is
fading from the sky, the cool of dusk spreading across the city. My head,
unused to the alcohol, is heavy, fuzzy. I’m aware I’m drinking faster than
Dominic is, but I remind myself he has to drive. Besides, my first experience
of being tipsy is pleasant. I prepare to float away on the evening air, in the
wake of the balloons.
Dominic reaches out a hand, and his fingers
against my skin are electrifying. Something inside me flares into life, a
firecracker of desire sending a storm of twitches through my crotch. He touches
the corner of my right eye, his thumb caressing the mole underneath. ‘You’re
too pretty to need make-up,’ he tells me. The reason for his disapproval when
he saw me earlier clicks into place.
A smear of kohl is on his thumb as he
retracts his hand. He rubs it away with a finger. ‘Come on,’ he says.
‘We’ll walk through the trees.’ He takes my plate, knife and glass, packing
them along with his own in the chill-bag. The wine bottle is now empty, at
least two-thirds of its contents in my stomach. My legs don’t work well when I
stand up.
We walk along a narrow path and down a
flight of steps into the woods. The light has almost gone; pale moonlight
filtering through the trees is our guide. The wine has lulled me into a
sensation of safety, despite the fact that I’m half-drunk, alone in a
dark place with a man who’s an unknown quantity. None of that concerns me. So
far, the evening has been perfect, a sublime mix of food and balloons and oh my
God, the brush of his fingers against my face. Tonight I’m invincible,
inviolate, the world at my feet. Our feet.
The path twists round, up more steps, before
emerging near the grassy area I saw before. Dominic eases me through the wooden
gate. ‘Car’s
back that way,’ he says, gesturing towards the thick hedge skirting the grass.
I’m both relieved and disappointed he didn’t try anything on whilst we were alone
amongst the trees.
He doesn’t when we’re back in the
car, either. I’m expecting him to reach over from the driver’s seat, pull me
towards him, his mouth seeking mine, but he doesn’t. Instead, he drives me back
to the corner of my road.
‘Can
we do this again?’ he asks. I nod, and he smiles.
Later, in the basement, I realise how well
Dominic played me that night. Establishing trust with the wine, the walk
through the woods. So I’ll have faith in him, be reassured he’s a
man who’ll treat me right. No getting me drunk for a quick fumble on the ground
beneath the trees. In my naiveté, I’m ripe for Dominic Perdue, a spider whose
web, sticky as flypaper, consists of wine, cheese and charm.
*****
We go out again at the
weekend, a Sunday afternoon stroll through Castle Park, ending at the
Harbourside. Dominic buys fat falafels that we eat, tahini running down our
fingers, as we walk across the cobbles. Boats bob on the water to our right,
the yellow and blue of a harbour ferry purring past us. The sun is hot on my
arms; the noise of people around us buzzes in my ears. Outside the Arnolfini,
Dominic stops.
‘I’ll
get us some drinks,’ he says. ‘A cold cider will do nicely, what with it being
so warm.’ He doesn’t ask whether I like cider, not that I know. He disappears
inside.
I discover that I do like it. The sharp
apple tang hits the back of my throat as we sit, side by side, on the cobbles.
Again, with hindsight I realise Dominic’s working to a precise
plan. We’re in public, on a hot Sunday afternoon; nothing about our date can
possibly spook me. All part of his design, of course, taking me to places where
either nobody is around or else blending us into a crowd. I have no doubts, no
prods from my gut alerting me to what lies behind the blue and brown of his
eyes. Instead I fall, a plum ripe from the tree, into Dominic’s grasp. I want
this man, and by now, I’m desperate to experience passion, abandonment,
everything missing from my previous sexual experiences. I’m convinced this man
holds the key to erotic nirvana.
‘Want
to come to my place for dinner sometime this week?’ he asks.
I don’t hesitate. ‘I’d love
to,’ I reply.
Thank you for being part of The Scribbler and sharing the beginning of your new novel Maggie. I'm anxious to know what Dominic is up to.
Maggie James – author of psychological suspense novels
Next week, please join us here on the Scribbler to read from Guest Author Katrina Cope's novel, Jayden and the Mysterious Mountain. Katrina lives in Australia.
This sequel
is a bit longer than the first book, but it still has the short easy to read
chapters, with cliff hanger endings, and is considered at a middle grade
reading level.
