The Demand: A gripping psychological thriller Read online

  The Demand

  M I Hattersley

  Dark Corridor Books

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  1

  Freya Lomax saw the car the second she stepped out of the school gates. Parked a little way down the street, it was one of those expensive types of cars with overly polished surfaces and blacked-out windows. In fact, it had black everything. Windows, paintwork, tyres. Freya had little interest in cars, so she had no idea of the make or model, only that the vehicle exuded a certain amount of gravitas sitting there on the side of the leafy south London street.

  Gravitas.

  She liked that word. She’d only learnt it recently but now endeavoured (another good word) to use it whenever she got a chance. But it was also very apt for this particular car. It was the sort of car you might see important people being driven around in. Pop stars, politicians, actors.

  She looked around, wondering if it belonged to one of her classmate's parents. But she didn't think so. It seemed too big, too imposing. Most of the parents who sent their girls to St Bernadette's High were of the upper-middle-class variety. They wouldn’t have blacked-out windows. Because Freya also knew that, along with VIPs, this was also the sort of car drug dealers might drive. Or gangsters.

  “Come on, Mum. Where are you?”

  She held a hand over her eyes, squinting through the late afternoon sun at the car, still sitting stationary and silent like a sleeping beast. Those dark windows were so impenetrable, especially from this distance, that there could have been twenty acting agents sat in the back and she wouldn’t have known.

  The thought tickled Freya’s imagination. Acting agents. Whatever she was doing, whoever she was with, wherever she was, her thoughts always seemed to come back to the same thing. And then the disappointment was felt all over again.

  Stupid mum.

  Freya didn’t have an acting agent. But she certainly wanted one. Especially since Denise, her drama coach, had said she had what it takes to be a star (not her exact words, but that’s how Freya interpreted them) and would benefit from representation. Yet, playing to type, as usual, her mum had put her foot down and said no. Over a series of long, tearful and angry rows, she'd spelled out to Freya in no uncertain terms that she had to wait until she'd finished her exams before approaching any agents. To get ‘proper qualifications’ under her belt before pursuing her acting dream.

  She continued to watch the car, raising her head slightly and giving it her best side. There could just as easily be a casting agent sitting in the back. Or some famous director. Actors got discovered in all sorts of situations and Freya knew the importance of creating opportunities for oneself whenever the chance arose. The car did look kind of threatening though.

  She glanced back towards the school, wondering if she should wait for her mum inside. But she decided against it. It wasn’t unusual for her mum to be running late. Instead, she pulled her phone out of her blazer pocket and switched it on. If she didn’t arrive soon, she’d call her.

  Probably forgotten all about me.

  Freya had argued her case, of course, regarding her getting an acting agent. She might have been one of the quieter and more reserved members of her friendship group (because being a talented actor wasn’t about being gregarious or a show-off. Look at Jessica Chastain, Keira Knightley, Nicole Kidman, who all professed to be shy) but when it came to her mum all that reservation disappeared. They’d fought often these last six months, and the theme was always the same: Freya’s creative dream versus her academic journey. And of course, her mum’s response was always the same too. Whilst under her roof… yadda, yadda, yadda.

  So, Freya would have to wait a few more years before she got herself an agent. Of course she would. Wasn’t that always the way? All she ever did was wait. Waiting for her life to begin.

  She was still waiting.

  She wondered if she should go over to the car and knock on the window, introduce herself. She’d read that casting agents liked bold statements like that. It showed confidence and drive and individuality. She pictured the back door opening and a tanned woman with big hair inviting her inside to join her on the plush leather seats.

  Tell me more. Tell me more. Freya Lomax, you say? What an amazing name, and such good bone structure, too. You'll go far, my dear. Very far.

  Freya’s phone vibrated in her hand as it powered up, knocking her out of her daydream. She chuckled to herself, getting carried away. It was this very habit - getting so caught up in her imagination at the expense of other things - that seemed to annoy her mother so much of late. She was constantly yelling at Freya to pay attention. To focus. To be a good little girl, even if that meant rejecting her dreams.

  But screw her.

  As far as Freya was concerned, she was a typical fourteen-year-old girl, with the same ideals, likes and attention span as most girls her age. The only difference was she had a clear idea of what she wanted to do with her life. She had a goal. And wasn’t that half the battle? Having a clear goal, something to set your sights on. And so what if it wasn’t the same goal her parents had for her? That wasn’t Freya’s fault. Plus, she was an excellent student and didn’t have to try too hard to get the grades, which meant she could put extra emphasis on her acting without her schoolwork suffering.

  She had wanted to audition for the Brit School last year, but with the divorce and everything, the timing was bad. She’d accepted that but now her mum was saying she had to wait until she was sixteen.

  More waiting.

  And what did her mum know about anything? She was old and stressed and focused on her own stupid problems. Bitter too, since dad left. She didn't want Freya to have her own life. Didn't want her to be happy. But she'd be sorry. When Freya won her first award, she planned on thanking everyone but her mum. Because why should she thank her? She’d not helped. If anything, she’d blocked her.

  So, being a fourteen-year-old girl from South London, with the same self-obsession as most fourteen-year-old girls, Freya’s sliver of concern over the strange car with the blacked-out windows lasted only a few more seconds before her attention was firmly back on herself. The world around her faded to flashing lights and glitter as she ran her future acceptance speech in her head.

  “Hey, Frey.”

  A voice snapped her back to reality, and she turned to see her friend, Mia, walking towards her.

  “Want a lift?” She gestured over to a car parked across the street. But this one was bright red and Jan, Mia’s mum was smiling and waving behind the wheel.

  Freya waved back before glancing down at the phone clasped in her hand.

  “No, it’s okay,” she said. “My mum’s finishing early today so she’s going to pick me up.”

  Mia pulled a face. She knew what Freya’s relationship with her mum was like. “No worries. See you tomorrow.”

  Freya waved her off and turned her attention back to the phone. Opening up iMessenger, she reread the last text from her mum.

  Hey Frey. Will pick you up tonight.

  Love u. X

  Love u.

  The text elicited a sneer from Freya. Who the hell used ‘u’ for ‘you’ since the advent of auto-complete? Lame people, that’s who. And words were cheap. Texts cheaper.

  “Love you,” she muttered, in a sneery voice, before letting out a dramatic sigh.

 
Although it had been a regular occurrence for the last year, she didn’t enjoy clashing with her mum. But at least now she only saw her for about an hour each day and they didn’t have time to get into any major fights.

  Freya’s thumbs hovered over the screen, about to tap in a reply - Where are you? - when the thought bubble with three dots appeared to show her mum was typing something. Freya paused, already knowing what it was going to say. It took another minute of waiting before the message appeared.

  Sorry, Frey. Stuck at work. Have to see you at home. Get a lift with Mia if you can. Love u xx

  Freya glanced up as Mia’s mum’s car disappeared around the corner at the end of the street. Great. It looked like she was walking home on her own. Again.

  “Thanks a lot, Mum.”

  She pulled her headphones from out of her blazer pocket, annoyed more than was appropriate at the mess of white spaghetti that had formed since she stuffed them there this morning. Hoisting her backpack onto both shoulders, she set off, unravelling the wires as she walked before stuffing the earbuds in her ears and hitting play on the music app. As Billie Eilish filled her ears, she took a right down Wimbledon Park Road, heading for home.

  And that’s when she saw the car again.

  It was parked ten metres in front of her. Close up, the enormous vehicle appeared even more imposing than it was outside the school gates. She froze, her breath caught in her throat as her overactive imagination fired up once more. What if it really was drug dealers? Or gangsters? Or worse, human traffickers. She pictured grotesque, sweaty men with black shark eyes and lusty sneers, prowling for young girls to sell as sex slaves. She glanced around, scanning the area for a way out. Was this really happening? Surely not. Things like this didn't happen to normal people.

  She was ready to run when from around the corner, came salvation in the form of a man and woman. They were holding hands and smiled at Freya as they approached. In turn, she gripped the straps of her backpack and followed them as they passed by. Her palms were sweating but she stuck close to the couple, matching them step by step. A second later the car trundled past and took a left at the end of the street.

  Freya let out a sigh. Deep down she knew it was a coincidence. That the car wasn’t really following her. Because things like this didn’t happen to normal people. There were no bad men out to get her. No gangsters prowling the streets. It was just another case of her mind playing tricks, her creativity working against her. But this didn’t stop Freya from turning her music off and running as fast as she could along Morris Gardens, up Merton Road, and into the cover of King George’s Park.

  Here too, she didn’t slow her movements, walking briskly along the wide concrete pathway that intersected the grass. Because of the hot day, unusual for early April, the park was full of people. Mothers with young children frolicked on the grass, old couples sat quietly chatting on benches. The notion crossed Freya’s mind that she should approach someone, tell them her fears, that she was, possibly, be being followed. But even as she articulated the words in her head, it sounded absurd. So, instead, she pressed on.

  Freya loved the park normally, especially in the summer, but today she barely noticed the sweet-smelling shrubs and scampering squirrels as she headed for the exit on the other side. Once there, she slowed her step and came to a stop, breathless now with the exertion as she inspected the street both ways.

  “Stupid girl.”

  She laughed at herself, the vocal release on doing so threatening to conjure up deeper, untapped emotions. Usually, when this happened Freya allowed it, knowing if she was to make it as an actor, she had to utilise every feeling at her disposal, good and bad, difficult and joyous. It was this idea alone that had kept her going the last few years. The knowledge that, despite her parents going through a messy divorce, she could one day use her pain and anguish in her craft. It was a small mercy, but mercy all the same. She leant against the concrete gate post and let out another laugh. The heavy ball of fear that had formed in her chest these last few minutes was now dissolving as her mind cleared.

  Being followed? How silly.

  She’d convinced herself of this so much that as she walked along Mapleton Road and turned onto Garret Lane, her attention was already running through the monologue she had to learn for the next week. Marina’s speech from Voices in the Trees. It was a good scene, filled with emotion. Maybe she could use some of her experience just now to drive the scene, give it real gravitas.

  The thought provided a welcome boost of energy, but as she crossed the street, that energy quickly morphed into dread and fell like a lead weight into her stomach. The car was at the end of the street. Freya froze as it revved its engine. It was facing her. Then it was driving towards her. Fast now, with none of the stealth or ambiguity of earlier. It was coming for her. And it was almost on her. Freya looked desperately up and down the street. Fifty metres down, on her left was an old hotel, but it was boarded up, with a To Let sign nailed to the front. Up to her right stood the Griffin Tavern, but it too looked inhabited, devoid of life. Freya let out a gasp.

  “Oh, god!”

  The voice didn’t sound like hers. It was too high pitched. The vocal cords tightened with panic. The car was screeching to a halt in front of her. A few seconds more and the doors would open, and the demonic forces inside would emerge, reaching for her, grabbing at her, pulling her into the hellish cavity of the vehicle before transporting her to a dark place where they would…. Where she would…

  Her eyes fell on a passageway down the side of the Griffin Tavern. It looked wide enough for two people to pass but far too narrow for a car. Especially one so wide and imposing as the one in front of her. As the doors of the car opened, she ran for it, doubling back on herself around the side of the building where she sprinted down a winding passage that led to the back of the pub. A low wall blocked her path, but she vaulted over it with little effort, running alongside a row of modern terraced houses. In the next street, she paused, bouncing on her toes as she assessed her next move. Before she had a chance to think, the car appeared at the top of the street, like a mechanical Death Eater, hunting her down. Letting out a thunderous roar, it tore down the street towards her. Head down and with every muscle in her body aching, Freya leapt into the road and over to the other side, where she raced down a side street.

  What was going on?

  Who were these people?

  What did they want with her?

  The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the pavement. As she got to the end of the next street, she realised she’d reached St Anne’s Hill. Her house was a block away from here. Five minutes on foot. Two if she was running. But what if they saw where she lived? Or did they know already?

  Full of adrenaline and with panic clouding all but her basic motor skills, she carried on, running up the street towards where St Anne’s Hill became St Anne’s Crescent and then Aspley Road. She’d almost reached home when she looked up, and there it was.

  No.

  Please no.

  The car was driving towards her, but she had to keep going. The end was in sight. She craned her neck, casting a desperate gaze down the empty streets. There was no one else in sight, but Freya had one last move. Veering left, she ran into the grounds of St Anne’s church and up the stone steps, launching herself at the large wooden doors. They swung open, and she staggered through into the large vestibule beyond, steadying herself against a stone column as an old woman sitting on the back pew turned to glare at her.

  “Sorry,” Freya mouthed, before gasping back a breath.

  The air inside the church was heady with spice. It reminded Freya of the scented candles her mum would burn at Christmas. Back when Christmas was a joyful time. When it was still the three of them in the house.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The church doors were still hanging open, but the street outside was empty. They wouldn’t come into a church after her, would they? With her heart still playing a high-energy dance beat in her chest, she walked ov
er to the doorway and peered outside, looking left and right. The car was gone.

  Thank you.

  Thank you, God.

  They weren’t a religious family, but Freya felt safe here. Straightening her hunched frame, she waited a few more seconds, but no car appeared from around the corner, and she could hear no revving engines. She puffed out her cheeks. Had she imagined it? Was this another one of her flights of fancy?

  Feeling confused and scared, as the adrenaline response dissipated, she shuffled back inside the church. Her mind, now back online and in full effect, spun with crazy ideas and mixed-up notions. She hadn't been inside St Anne's for so long, not since she attended Sunday school here when she was nine, but she remembered there was a side exit out to the car park that was accessible via the annexe on the far side. Careful not to disturb the old woman for a second time, she tiptoed over and slipped through the door into her old classroom. Here the spice smell was even more pungent, the walls adorned with rudimentary finger paintings of flowers, but Freya hardly noticed, focused as she was on the red fire door in front of her. As she got up to it, she peered through the frosted glass, half-expecting to see a sinister black outline on the other side. But it was clear. She pushed down on the release bar and swung the door open when she heard a noise behind her and a voice.

  “Wait!”

  Freya jumped, the pent-up anxiety in her body manifesting itself in a warbled squeal. She spun around, expecting to see a shadowy figure advancing on her, evil-eyed and with grasping sinewy fingers. But it instead she was greeted by a small man with a kind face. Admittedly, he was dressed in black, but the white square of his dog collar told her he was no threat.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. He sounded foreign. Polish, maybe.

  “Oh, no. Sorry,” Freya gasped. “I was just… I used to come here… When I was younger. I need to go. Sorry.”