The Prisoner(10)

But there’s no other sound until the door closes, and the lock clicks shut.

I slam my head back down. He’s not going to understand why I asked for a blanket because it isn’t cold in this room. But I’m cold inside; I crave the comfort of something warm to wrap around me. Why doesn’t he speak, why do they keep me in total silence and darkness? My frustration builds, I want to scream and shout.

“Stay calm,” I whisper.

I stretch my left arm out, reach around for the tray. I find the bowl, dip my fingers in, bring them to my mouth. Porridge. Day three has begun. Monday, the nineteenth of August.

There’s noise from below. I push the tray out of the way, move the mattress from the wall, and put my head in the corner to listen. Ned is shouting, something about a toilet. There’s an angry retort, followed by a cry from Ned. Maybe he doesn’t have a bathroom like me, only a bucket.

He starts mumbling, I don’t want to hear it, I push my mattress back into the corner to block out the sounds. I start eating, automatically spooning the porridge into my mouth, then remember the packet of sugar I found yesterday. My fingers move around the tray, I find it, add it to the porridge. There’s also a banana.

I go back to my porridge, thinking of Ned’s parents. How must it be for them, knowing he is missing, that he has been kidnapped? Will his disappearance be headline news; will his handsome, arrogant face be plastered on television screens around the world? Or has Jethro Hawthorpe kept the police out of it, for the moment, at least?

I finish eating, move to the bathroom. There’s always a tiny panicky moment between pushing the bolt into place and the light coming on, that subconscious fear that it won’t come on and the door won’t open, and I’ll be stuck in the small dark space. But the light flickers, then stays, and I feel myself relax.

I use the toilet, then strip off my pajamas, wash, get dressed. As I squeeze toothpaste onto the toothbrush, I’m struck by a thought—what will come first, the end of the tube or the end of my life?

Leaving the bathroom, I start walking around the room. I try to sing, a nursery rhyme from my childhood, but the French words remind me of all that I’ve lost, so I begin counting instead. I’m on step three hundred and seven when I hear the rattle of the key in the lock.

I drop to my knees, crawl to my mattress, my heart thumping. It’s the first time they’ve come during the day, between the two meals. There’s an urgency to the sound of the door being pushed open, to the movement of air as the man crosses the room toward me. I’m sure it’s the same man, there’s the same clean smell, but there’s something different about him; what is it? I sense him looming over me and instinctively press myself as far into the corner as I can.

It makes no difference; hands on my shoulders lift me to my feet, I’m turned to face the wall, my arms brought behind my back, my wrists held together, then bound with something elastic. A hood comes over my head, bringing a different darkness, airless, suffocating.

Everything is happening fast, too fast. My panic intensifies but I fight it down. Pushed from the room, I try to focus on where we’re going. From the left-hand turn we make into the hallway, I know we’re going toward the stairs that lead to the basement.

Without warning, I’m pulled to a stop, my body angled slightly to the side before I’m jerked forward again. Instinctively reading the nonverbal signs, I extend my leg, feel the void, reach down with my foot, find the first step.

Twelve, I remember there were twelve stone steps, half the number of the stairs in Ned’s house. I count them as we descend, and when the floor levels out at twelve, I feel a flicker of achievement. The sensation of cooler, fresher air on the bare skin of my arms makes me want to rip off my hood and take great gulps of it. A turn to the right, a few more steps, I don’t know how many, I’ve lost concentration.

We stop. I hear a door being unlocked. Is this the room where Ned is being held? Panic flares in my chest, I try to push back, but it doesn’t work. I’m pushed forward, and the door slams shut behind me. I’m grabbed by someone else, forced downward. My legs hit against a seat beneath me, I sit, feel hard wood against my back. Something is tied around my chest, binding my body to the chair. My heart races. Is this it, is this the end?

The hood is pulled off and for a moment, bright light sears my eyes before they’re quickly covered by a blindfold. A hand grasps the back of my neck, holding it firm so that I’m facing straight ahead.

“State your name,” a man’s voice says from behind me. “State that you are being held prisoner with your husband, Ned Hawthorpe, and that they will be contacted again soon. If they do as we say, you’ll be released unharmed. The police are not to be involved. If they don’t comply with our demands, you’ll both be killed.” The grip tightens. “Speak.”

I take a breath. “My name is Amelie Lamont,” I begin.

“No,” the voice says. “Your married name.”

“My name is Amelie Hawthorpe,” I say, my voice shaking now. “I am being held prisoner with my husband, Ned Hawthorpe. You will be contacted again soon. Do as they say, and we will be released unharmed. Do not involve the police. If you do not comply with their demands, we will be killed.”

The blindfold is whipped off and a sour smell has just the time to reach me before the hood comes down over my head, blocking it out. My mind spins. If this is the room where Ned is being held, where is he? And then, from somewhere behind me, I hear it, muffled but full of hate.