Strangers: A Novel(10)
5
It’s dark, and the light switch is outside. Outside the closed door. That’s where the voices are coming from too. The voice of the man who says his name is Erik, and that of the other man, who just stood by and watched as I was pulled forcibly back into the house by his pal.
They’re talking, but not very loudly. I wait to hear a laugh, conspiratorial and in unison, but it doesn’t come. Their muffled voices sound serious.
It’s cramped in here. Packed full. My right hand brushes against a familiar shape, hard and round. A tin can, probably tinned tomatoes. Good. It’s a suitable enough weapon, and feels comforting in my hands.
For a while, I try to make out at least some snippets of their conversation, but eventually I give up.
Erik. The man with the bag over his shoulder had used his name so naturally. And he hadn’t been surprised to see the stranger in my house, not even for a second—if anything, it was me who had surprised him. Me and the way I was acting.
That means that this … Erik guy must have dished up the same insane story to him as he did to me. That he lives here, and that he’s in a relationship with me.
So maybe he’s not an accomplice after all? I don’t know. None of my thoughts seem logical anymore. My head is pounding; I vaguely remember hitting it on the floor earlier during my failed escape attempt.
But at least I can still remember where I store the bottles of mineral water. Rehydrating helps, and my headache gradually dissipates.
A short while later, I hear the front door click into the lock. The man with the bag has gone, I’m guessing, and he won’t be lifting a finger to help me.
I huddle into my corner. Any moment now the reprieve will be over and the game will continue. Even though I’m waiting for Erik’s next move, the sudden knock on the door still makes my heart skip a beat.
“Jo?” His voice is quiet and insistent. “Jo? Please, I have to talk to you.”
That approach again. This time he won’t get any answer from me. Stay silent, I tell myself. Play dead.
“Jo? Can you hear me?” More knocking. “Are you OK? Is everything all right?”
And if it’s not? What will you do then, asshole?
I don’t have to wait long for an answer. I hear a clinking sound; the man is probably rummaging through the kitchen drawer. A brief silence, then the sound, very close now, of metal against metal.
He’s found something to break open the door with.
“I’m OK.” My voice is hoarse with reluctance, but it’s still enough to stop Erik from working on the lock.
“Thank God,” he says. “Listen, I’m sorry I was so rough with you before, but…” He pauses.
Rage suddenly surges up within me; it’s so overwhelming that it completely drowns out my fear. Suddenly I’m almost wishing for the lunatic out there to really break down the door so I can throw myself at him with all my strength. Beat him with my fists until he’s no longer moving. Or stab him, if I can get my hands on the big kitchen knife.…
The image is so vivid in my mind it takes on a life of its own, and I’m shocked by how much I like it. I didn’t know that helplessness and violent compulsions could be so closely interlinked.
So far, though, physical resistance hadn’t helped me. On the contrary. It was time to change my strategy.
“Erik?” I make my voice sound as though I’m close to tears.
“Yes?”
“Could you turn on the light for me? Please?”
“What? Yes, of course. I didn’t realize you were sitting there in the dark.”
The eco-lightbulb under the cheap frosted-glass ceiling lamp flickers on, bathing the packed shelves in a dim light.
The can in my hand really does contain peeled tomatoes.
“Better?”
“Much better. Thank you.”
There’s a short pause. When the man outside the door starts speaking again, his voice is on the same level as my head. He must be sitting on the floor. Or kneeling.
“Listen to me, Jo. We won’t be able to figure this out by ourselves, we need help.” He sounds exhausted. That’s good. Eventually he’ll need to sleep.
“I’d like to take you to a doctor in the morning, so we can find out what happened. Maybe the stress of the past few weeks was too much for you, or…”
He left the sentence unfinished.
“To a doctor?” I ask quietly.
“Yes, Jo. Before it gets even worse. If I hadn’t stopped you tonight, you would have run out into the street screaming and half-naked, on two separate occasions. I don’t want them to institutionalize you, I mean, our situation is hard enough as it is.”
His tone is imploring and gentle at the same time, but I’m fully aware of the intention behind his words. He wants me to doubt my own state of mind, not his.
“You can’t imagine how much all this is hurting me,” he continues. “Yesterday you were telling me you love me, and today you don’t even remember who I am.”
His voice was becoming quieter and quieter. Either he really believes what he’s saying, or he’s a really good actor.
“Jo?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, and it’s awful to have to do this, but I can’t let you out of here tonight. I can’t risk you screaming for help out the window, or trying to run away again.”