The Prisoner(2)

We move on, climb stone steps, I count them, twelve in all. Then, at the top, the worn stone under my feet becomes warm wood, softer against my skin. A door is opened, I’m moved forward.

There’s a movement behind me and I steel myself for a blow. Instead, the hood is pulled up and off my head. My hair crackling with static, I draw a deep breath in through my nose, then blink and blink again, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. But there’s nothing. No flicker of light, no paler shade of black.

Without warning, there’s a tug on my hand, strong fingers on my wrists. A cry of alarm builds, pushing against my throat. Not this. I kick back and my feet connect with flesh and muscle, but whoever is behind me holds me tighter. Then, a sawing sound and the rough scratch of a knife echo around the room until suddenly, there’s an audible snap. The pressure on my wrists releases and the momentum trips me forward. Before I can turn, there’s the slam of a door, the click of a lock.

That’s when I realize: from the moment the man came into my bedroom, our abductors haven’t said a word.





CHAPTER THREE


PAST

“When is your aunt arriving?” the doctor asked, straightening up from Papa’s bed.

“Later today. She’s on her way over from Paris.”

The doctor looked relieved. “That’s good.”

In his bed, Papa looked so small, his skin papery thin and yellow, his arms skinny as sticks. It was frightening how fast the cancer had spread through him. He had been diagnosed six months ago and until last week, he had been walking around, eating, drinking. Now he was unable to do anything for himself. I had to feed and wash him; he was like my child.

“What will you do?” the doctor asked. “After?”

I knew he meant once Papa had died and a rush of tears built up inside me.

“I’m going to live in Paris, with my aunt,” I said, swallowing them down.

I didn’t like lying but I was scared that if the doctor knew there was only me to look after Papa, he’d insist that Papa go into hospice. And Papa didn’t want to go into hospice, he wanted to stay at home. But I didn’t have an aunt, I didn’t have anyone. I was sixteen years old and soon, I’d be alone in the world.

What I would have liked, once Papa was gone, was to stay on in the house. I was capable of looking after myself, I’d been doing the shopping, cooking, and cleaning for years. I’d had to take over when Papa’s drinking meant he couldn’t do any of those things anymore. But we only rented the house, and with no relations to take me in, I’d be taken into care. And there was no way I wanted that to happen.

At first, I thought about asking my friend Shannon and her mum if I could live with them until Shannon and I finished school next year, and I’m sure they would have said yes. But in the summer, they were moving to Ireland, where Shannon’s mum came from.

Shannon and her mum didn’t know that I was looking after Papa on my own. When they’d asked, I’d invented my French aunt, because I hadn’t wanted them to worry about me.

“I thought you said you didn’t have any relations?” Shannon had said.

“Apparently, she and Papa fell out years ago,” I’d explained. “But when he got sick, he phoned to tell her.” I paused. “I’m going to live with her in Paris.”

And Shannon had hugged me. “Is she nice, your aunt?”

“She’s lovely.”

I hadn’t been to school for two weeks now. It didn’t matter, because it was nearly over anyway. My teachers knew that Papa was sick, and when they’d asked, I told them what I’d told Shannon, that I was going to live in Paris with my aunt, and wouldn’t be back next year.

But I wasn’t going to Paris, I was going to London. And once in London, I would look for a waitressing job, and start saving to go to college.





CHAPTER FOUR


PRESENT

I raise shaking hands to my face, begin clawing at the tape still covering my mouth, then freeze. There’s someone in the room with me, I can hear the raspy sound of their breathing.

My nostrils flare and I press my hands against my face, my fear so raw that I want to scream out. I hold my breath and when there’s no sound, I realize it was my own breathing I could hear. There’s no one else; I’m alone.

Desperate to breathe properly, I rip off the tape in one painful movement, and with the sting of fire on the skin around my mouth, I begin drawing in great gulps of air. The taste of glue makes me gag. I take a deep breath, calm myself. I need to think clearly.

In the darkness, I turn around and with my hands stretched out in front of me, I walk slowly back to where I think the door is. My fingers hit a wall; I stop. The surface is cold, painted, not wallpapered. I gradually push my palms across, the skin of my hands distinguishing every little bump and scratch, until they reach a doorframe and the rough face of a door. I move my hands downward, find a handle, round and smooth. I wrap my fingers around it, turn it. It doesn’t move.

I pat the wall next to the door, searching for a light switch. But I can’t find one.

I thump on the door.

“Hello?” I shout.

No one comes.

“Hello!” I yell it this time.

There’s no answer.

Dropping to my knees, I trace the outline of the keyhole with my fingers and put my eye to it. Only darkness. My fear escalates.