Читать книгу Toxic - Jacqui Rose - Страница 13

Bree Dwyer felt her husband’s breath before she saw him in the dark of their cream-walled bedroom. Her body ached and the ropes tied round her hands and ankles cut deeply into her, burning and rubbing. The dried blood from her nose sat in crusty lumps above her mouth, and with the air of a priest, Johnny smiled warmly, kissing Bree calmly on her head before untying her from the wicker chair that had dug and scraped into the back of her bare legs.

He looked at her, his head cocked to one side. ‘Well?’

Licking her torn lip and flinching, Bree knew exactly what was expected of her. ‘I’m sorry, Johnny.’

He leaned in, the overpowering aroma of his sickly-sweet aftershave rushing up Bree’s nose.

‘And?’

‘And I ain’t ever going to try to leave you again, because …’

She faltered, feeling nauseous.

‘Because?’

‘… because no one leaves Johnny.’

A wide grin spread across Johnny’s wind-tanned face. He laughed, pleased with himself.

‘So you’ve learned your lesson this time, darlin’?’

Bree willed herself not to vomit there and then. Whatever she did, Bree Dwyer knew there was no way she could be sick in front of Johnny. Panicked, her eyes filled with tears as she desperately tried to swallow down the bile that rushed with force into her mouth.

Johnny’s eyes darkened. ‘I asked you a question.’

The door suddenly flung open, making Bree jump, and giving her the distraction she needed to alleviate the nausea.

There, standing in the doorway, was Ma Dwyer; oedema-swollen ankles and feet pushed tightly into stained, pink fluffy slippers and dressed as usual in her thigh-length silk dressing gown.

Looking contemptuously at Bree, Ma pulled out her nasal pump spray, keenly squirting it up into her left nostril. ‘What’s going on, baby?’

Johnny circled his fingers inside the thin, pale yellow cotton dress Bree was wearing. ‘I’m just waiting for an answer, ain’t I, Bree?’

Bree nodded, her eyes darting from Ma to Johnny.

Ma Dwyer frowned. ‘Well we ain’t got time for you two to get all lovey-dovey and kiss and make up. We gotta be somewhere. You best get moving, Johnny. Eddie Styler don’t like to be stood up … Oh, bleedin’ hell, here comes Noddy.’

Ma crossed her arms across her enormous, braless breasts as she watched her other son, Ryan, come nervously into the bedroom.

Ryan Dwyer turned to his mother. ‘Ma?’

‘Shut it!’ And with that, Ma Dwyer marched out of the room.

Giving a last, cutting glance to Bree, Johnny headed for the door whilst snarling instructions to his brother. ‘Make sure she don’t go anywhere, Ryan. You understand me?’

And not waiting for an answer, Johnny hurried away.

Ryan, spectacularly identical to Johnny, looked at Bree. She smiled at him tenderly as he touched her bruised, swollen face. His damaged brain trying to understand.

‘Johnny’s angry with Bree. You should never leave Johnny. Trouble. Ma says there’ll be trouble.’

‘I know, sweetheart, I know.’

Bree went to the door, looking down the hall before closing it quietly. Pressing her body against it, she turned back to look at Ryan, her eyes filled with tears.

‘But one day Ryan, we will. We’ll leave here for good, and you’ll be free, and then sweetheart, we’ll have no more trouble.’

It was dark and the private traveller site was quiet apart from the sound of the dog barking on Willoughby’s farm, some way off in the distance. As Kieran sat under the bushes – a place where he often slept – watching Ma Dwyer waddle down the path in her silk dressing gown, forcefully sniffing the white bottled, nasal plastic pump spray she always carried, he dug his fingers into his leg; drawing blood, feeling the pain and enjoying it.

The steel blade he held in his other hand caught the light of the moon. He smirked, glimpsing the reflection of his mouth, then, quietly humming, Kieran Dwyer began to cut.