The Prisoner(11)

“Bitch.”





CHAPTER TWELVE


PRESENT

I open my eyes, darkness. For a moment, I wonder if it’s morning, or the middle of the night but then realize that it doesn’t actually matter.

I lie for a while, thinking about the recording I’d had to make. Did our abductors make me do it because Jethro Hawthorpe has refused to cooperate? Ned had been in the room, was he tied to a chair too, a knife at his throat? The thought almost makes me smile. He deserves this. For everything that he’s done, he deserves this.

The lock turns. I don’t bother to sit up or say anything when the man puts the tray down. There’s a slight pause before he moves away, was he checking that I was alright? He leaves, but I stay as I am, realizing for the first time how silent he is, not just verbally, but in the way that he moves. He must walk barefoot, or in his socks.

I sit up—that’s it, that’s the difference I noticed yesterday when he walked across the room to take me to the basement. He’d been wearing shoes. I smile, pleased to have learned something about my abductor. If he brings me food, he comes barefoot, if he’s wearing shoes, it’s to take me to the basement.

I feel for my tray, suddenly hungry, and my arm brushes against something furry. I yelp, scramble to my feet, stand on tiptoes, my heart pounding. I keep very still, listening. But there’s no sound, no nibbling or scrabbling of paws.

Steeling myself, I stretch out my leg and push the tray with my foot, hoping to dislodge whatever it is. My toes sink into something soft, and a laugh bursts out of me. It’s not a rat or some other creature, it’s a blanket.

I gather it up and bury my face in its softness. I imagine an elaborate tiger print, with hues of brown, orange, and black. It smells new—did our abductors buy it especially for me? The smile falls from my face.

Dropping the blanket, I feel my way along the walls to the window and lay my hands flat against the board. It’s warm beneath my skin, does that mean it’s sunny outside? I close my eyes, imagine a beautiful garden with wide lawns, beds of roses, benches placed under blossom-laden trees. Reality hits; if this is an abandoned house, the garden is unlikely to be beautiful. I adjust my expectations, imagine instead a tangle of overgrown hedges, brambles coiled like barbed wire, grass high with nettles and other dangers. My eyes snap open. If I manage to get through the window, that is what I’ll be faced with.

I run my hands down the sides of the board, searching blindly for a gap between it and the window frame, somewhere I could jam my fingers in and pull the board away. A sudden stab of pain has me pulling my hand back; one of the nailheads must have cut my skin. I put my finger in my mouth and taste the metallic tang of blood.

I don’t want to give up on the window, but I know I’m not going to be able to pry the board off without some sort of tool. I’m only brought plastic spoons with my porridge. A thought comes to me. The man brought me a blanket, will he bring me anything I ask for? It would need to be something seemingly innocent, but something I could use as a tool. But what?

I’m about to go to the bathroom when I remember the tray I was brought. I grope my way to my mattress. The porridge is almost cold, I don’t want to eat it. But if I’m to escape, I need to keep my strength up. I find the banana, peel it, break it into pieces with my fingers, add them to the porridge, then chop randomly with my spoon in the darkness to make them smaller.

I add the sugar; it tastes better now.

In the bathroom, now that I have a blanket to wrap around me, I decide to wash my pajamas. I fetch my blanket and in the light, discover that it is not tiger print, but a soft gray. I lather soap onto my pajamas; the fabric is navy cotton, and in the dim light, I watch the water turn gray as the dirt is washed away.

I squeeze as much water as I can from them and drape the bottoms over the sink, the legs hanging down. Water drips onto the floor, I’ll have to mop it later with toilet paper. I drape my top over the faucet, spread it around the enamel bowl.

Back in the room, wrapped in my blanket, I begin walking, my hand trailing on the wall. When all this is over, will they be able to see marks on the floor from where I walked in never-ending circuits? I’d like to think that they will. It’s the only legacy I’ll be able to leave, the only proof that I was once here.

Suddenly, the thought that no one might ever know that I was kept in this room makes me breathless. I stop walking, find the wound on my finger, press it with my nail, touch it to my lip, feel the stickiness of blood. I squeeze again, forcing more blood out. Then, reaching as high as I can, I smear my DNA along the wall.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


PAST

I held the key card against the control pad, waited for the click, then pushed the door open and walked into the marble entrance hall. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to living here. I felt the same rush when I tapped the code for the elevator, pressed the button for the fifth floor, and used my keys to get into the apartment.

I carried the bags of shopping into the kitchen, put them down on the floor, and asked Alexa to play Radio London. While I cooked, I hummed along to the music.

I set the table, lit the candle I’d bought, and placed it in the middle. The door opened and I smiled to hear Carolyn and Lina laughing together as they took off their coats in the hallway.

“Amelie, we’re here!” Lina called.