The Prisoner(4)

Three weeks ago, I’d been called by my manager at L’Escargot. The Christmas season was over, he explained, and so few people were coming into the restaurant that he could no longer justify my salary. “You only pay me five pounds an hour!” I’d wanted to shout. But I hadn’t, in case I needed him to employ me again. I’d tried to find another job but no one was hiring until the spring, another three months away.

The money I’d saved was almost gone. Last week, I’d had to move out of the apartment because I couldn’t even afford the mattress on the floor, and I’d been sleeping outside since. The first night, I’d sat near a group of young people and it had been fine; they’d ended up inviting me to join them, explaining they’d come to London for a rock concert and had missed the last train home. But since that night, my experiences hadn’t been great. The previous night, as I’d lain on a bench, my belongings tucked under me, I’d been bothered several times, and I’d had to fight off another homeless person who tried to pull me off the bench for my place or possessions, I didn’t know which. And the cold night meant that I’d spent most of it shivering.

I was scared to sleep outside again—and if I did, I would need to buy a sleeping bag, which would mean dipping into the little money I had left. There were hostels for the homeless but my conscience wouldn’t let me go there, not when I had a hundred pounds tucked into my money belt. But maybe I would have to.

I took another small sip of coffee. It was warm and cozy in the café and for a moment, my eyes closed.

The door opened, waking me, and I blinked my eyes as two women entered. One was tall and beautiful, with long limbs, flawless skin, and short peroxide-blond hair. Her coat, black, belted at the waist; her red ankle boots; and matching bag, all looked expensive. The other woman, shorter, pretty, dark-haired, was wearing a beige raincoat and as they made their way to the table next to mine and draped their coats over an empty chair, I saw that it had a faux-fur lining, and wished it were mine. She was wearing a navy business suit underneath and a white silk shirt, and in my jeans and sweater, I felt horribly shabby.

I watched, fascinated, as the waitress took their order and came back with coffee and cakes. My eyes were instantly drawn to the blueberry muffins. The blond woman tucked into hers, breaking off small pieces with delicate fingers and popping them into her mouth. Her friend pushed hers out of the way and left it untouched.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying but suddenly the dark-haired woman’s eyes filled with tears. As she nodded at what her friend was telling her, I could see she was trying to fight them back. After a few more minutes and a quick check of the time on the huge gold watch that seemed too large for her delicate wrist, the blond woman reached across the table, placed a manicured hand over her friend’s, then stood to leave.

“It will be okay, Carolyn, I promise,” she said, and I noticed a slight accent as she spoke.

She walked out of the café, her red bag slung casually over her shoulder, drawing admiring glances from other customers as she went. Left alone, the dark-haired woman took her phone from her bag and began scrolling the screen. Her tears spilled over, and she hurriedly wiped them on the corner of a napkin, then pushed her chair back and got to her feet. As she moved away from the table, I waited for her to take her uneaten muffin, but she didn’t.

“Excuse me,” I said before I could stop myself. “If you’re not going to eat your cake, would you mind if I have it?”

The woman turned. “Yes, of course,” she replied hurriedly. “Help yourself.” Then ducking her head, embarrassed maybe that I’d seen her tears, she left the café.

Before the waitress could clear the table, I bundled the muffin into a napkin and followed the woman outside. I didn’t know why I was following her, but it felt important to make sure she was alright. I expected her to go to an underground station, or wait at a bus stop, but she kept on walking until she stopped in front of a modern block of apartments off Warren Street. Pressing a key to the intercom, she disappeared through the door, and I watched her reflection in the mirrored entrance hall as she waited for the elevator. Maybe she saw my outline reflected in the shiny elevator doors because, as it arrived and she stepped inside, she turned and looked at me through the window. For a moment, our eyes met. And then the elevator doors slid shut.





CHAPTER SIX


PRESENT

I must have dozed off because the sound of the key rattling in the lock jolts me awake. There’s a moment’s disorientation before I remember where I am: sitting on a mattress in a pitch-black room. I hear the whoosh of the door opening and strain my eyes, hoping to see a glimmer of light from the hallway outside. But there’s nothing, except the sense of someone there. My breathing quickens. Is this it? Is this where it ends?

They move toward me, and I shrink farther into the corner. It’s terrifying—if I can’t see, how can I know what to expect? I hear them breathing, I think it’s a man, one of the men who brought me and Ned here, or someone else, I don’t know. For him to have pinpointed my position in the far corner of the room, I realize that he must be able to see me, that he must be wearing night-vision goggles. There’s a scrape of something being put down on the floor.

“Please—I shouldn’t be here.” My voice croaks.

I sense him move away and think of how I can distract him, make him realize that I’m not a threat. “Could I have some water, please?”