by Nicola Tee
“Oh, hell no! I am not a monster!” he screams.
“Yes. You are!”
“Fine. Then I guess this monster will not tell you all about Dotty and Lizzie’s body.”
“Please just release him so he can tell me!” I beg.
“We can’t do that!” the detective yells. This three-way conversation has déjà vu written all over it.
“I guess this is goodbye then.” I slightly push the knife into my neck, careful to not pierce the skin.
“Release him or I will do it,” I scream for the final time with tears running down my cheeks.
“Wait. Release him, that’s an order. Let Mr. Stamper go!” Mr. Detective shouts to the officers holding him by his forearms. A sense of relief washes over me as I wouldn’t have been able to cause myself actual bodily harm. If I could have I would have probably killed myself long ago.
“Kate, go to the second place I told you about and look around it, then meet me at the third place. Do you understand?” Mr. Hump orders me in this code talk that I actually understand. I really am a product of his design.
I nod like a good dog obeying its owner. I stand with the knife still to my neck as I wait for them to un-cuff him. The suspense ends with the cuffs dramatically falling to the side meaning I will soon get my questions answered. Mr. Hump gives me one final nod as if to say, ‘game on’ and power walks into the distance. I am surprised his over-weight self can pick up speed like that. He is becoming a dot in the distance. He’s gone.
“I do not want anyone following us as I can’t have anything jeopardise my chance to get answers. Once I have extracted all I need from him I will somehow contact you to come and bring us in.”
“You know we will find you, and you will be held accountable for this,” states Mr. Simmons.
“I know. But please give me a chance to get Lizzie justice,” I cry.
Before the detective can reply, I turn around, drop my arm to the side, still holding the knife with a tight grip and make my way up the same hill the officer escorted me down from the town centre earlier today. I must stay on the same track, so I do not lose my bearings. I pass two fire trucks heading in the direction of the police station, thankfully it was only a little blaze I set as the length of time it has taken them to respond is worrying.
I reach the outskirts of the town centre. I close the blade and tuck it into my trouser pocket, so I do not draw attention to myself. I slowly stroll through the town making my way to the same spot where I fell to the kerb from exhaustion earlier today. That will be my starting point.
“I need to work backwards,” I order myself.
I begin. I jog two hundred Mississippis back to where the hydrangeas sat on the tables at Nino’s coffee shop. I can’t bring myself to look at them again, so I quickly walk right for another one thousand one hundred and twenty-four Mississippis. In that time, I walk back across six crossings and past a few traffic lights. I continue to walk down the hill for another two hundred and eighty Mississippis. I stop. I stopped at this exact place last time because I finally saw real hope: a car. I gently smile to myself because I know I am on the right track heading back to where it all began. I look down at the back of my hand to jog my memory on my next required steps. I walk another one hundred and seventy-eight Mississippis and come across the bridge. I can feel this knot in my belly forming. It is a mixture of fear, nerves, and dread as I close in on the second location. I cautiously cross the bridge. I quickly take a look at the tarmac that absorbed my one tear of hope earlier on today.
“God this is harder than I thought it would be,” I sigh as tears fall from my eyes. I quickly wipe them away as I turn to my right and start to run along the side of the river for another four hundred and fifty Mississippis.
The small wooden oak shed is the second place he told me about. I saw it from afar earlier today, but the key to my survival was to keep running so I didn’t give it a second thought until now. I stop after roughly four hundred and fifty Mississippis (my counting ability has deteriorated from exhaustion) and there it is, a few feet in front of me. I turn around to check that no one is following me: all I can see is trees, no faces, so I bolt for it. I fall through the shed door, panting for air, face down on the floorboards. Mr. Hump knows I see the smallest of detail, and he is right to believe in me, as I see it straight away. I guess he trained me well. One of the floorboards has a crack in the side of it. I claw at it, causing my fingers to get bloodier by the second.
“I hope there is some money under here, so I can get a sandwich or something.” I am becoming delirious from the lack of food, so much so that I am thinking Mr. Hump has sent me near the lion’s den A.K.A. his home for money. Of course, he hasn’t. Of course, there isn’t money underneath the boards. I am surprised the officers haven’t expanded their search into the woods yet and found this shed. I need to be quick as that is protocol, according to the few Russian movies I have watched. Maybe the underground storage facility and size of the house are keeping them all busy for the time being.
I finally pop the floorboard up, and all I can see is a dust-covered shoebox sitting all alone amongst the cobwebs. I blow off as much dust as possible, consequently entangling myself in a dust infused cloud. It finally settles so I lift the lid off. There is one item inside: an old stained piece of paper that looks like it hasn’t seen daylight the same length of time I haven’t. Most people would toss it aside, but I know it is of importance as it is the only thing Mr. Hump has hidden in the shed. I place the floorboard back down and tuck the piece of paper inside my jumper ready to go and meet Mr. Hump in the third location.
He has only ever told me about three places: his childhood cottage; the shed that I am in; and an old cycling stadium. I know he wouldn't come to the shed as it is too close to his house, plus he is nowhere near fit enough to make it from the police station to here. And he knows that I didn’t know the exact location of the holiday cottage, so he must be waiting for me at the old cycling stadium. He mentioned it a few times, therefore I know it is located to the rear of Old Park Lane. I brush the fallen dust off myself and re-enter the forest. I walk back across the woods and arrive at the path I need to follow to get out of this place.
“This yo-yoing is exhausting.” I am once again talking to myself. I start to walk back up the hill with my thumb up, hoping a car will pass me soon and help a damsel in distress, me. I don’t know why I am hoping for a lift when I know this part of my journey is like the apocalypse. I am approaching the town centre, after pounding the pavements for approximately one thousand five hundred Mississsippis. When I make it to the town I plan on asking someone for directions to Old Park Lane.
“Are you okay, young lady?” this gentle feminine voice says aloud from behind me. I turn. She is slowing to a stationary position alongside me with her passenger side window slowly opening, inviting me to engage in a conversation with her. I examine her face, it looks genuine, I am not overly sure what genuine is meant to look like, but her rosy cheeks, big smile, and fringe makes her look it. But what she doesn’t realise is I have a penknife in my pocket and I am not afraid to use it.
“Yes, I am fine.” I smile, hoping she will drive on.
“Are you sure, sweetie? You look like you have the world on your shoulders. And why are you walking this country lane all alone. It’s dangerous,” she adds.
“I am fine, thanks,” I repeat.
“Why are you out here alone?” she once again questions. She reminds me of the vague memory I have of my nan. God rest her soul she was unintentionally nosey like this woman is being. I think it is a generation thing.
“I am trying to get to Old Park Lane, do you know where it is?” I ask as it looks like she isn’t going to drive on till she satisfies her inquisitive mind regarding my decision to walk this lane.
“It is just up the road. Jump in, I will drop you there as it is on my way,” she bizarrely offers. Is she my next abductor or is she genuinely offering me a lift as I look like I have ‘the world’ o
n my shoulders?
“Erm,” I hesitate. I mean, I think I could take her in a fight as she looks quite frail. But then again, I just learned that I have no upper body strength.
“Come on darling let me drop you up there as you shouldn’t be all the way out here alone,” she reiterates.
“Okay. Thank you.” I climb into her car and sit as close to the door as possible with my hand firmly on the handle just in case she turns out to be the second nut-job I have encountered in my life.
We drive along in silence.
“There you go,” she states as she points to this dirty road sign showing that we are in the right location.
“Thank you so much.” I quickly open the car door and leave; that was my second bit of luck of the day.
“In. Out. In. Out.” I coach my breathing to build myself up for what I am about to do. I am closing in on the stadium. I can’t believe I am willingly walking towards the man who ruined me. Either the eight years spent with him has made me submissive or determined to get answers from him. I hurdle over the barrier to enter the derelict stadium, and there he is, sitting on one of the spectators’ chairs, rocking back and forth.
“I knew you would find me because I trained you well!” he shouts as I approach him. I draw the penknife out of my trouser pocket just enough for Mr. Hump to see it, but he doesn’t even flinch. I guess it is because he knows I don’t have the strength to overpower him with it. The truth is he will never be scared of me.
I snap back, “I found my way here because I had no choice but to sit and listen to your pathetic childhood stories of cycling this track with your daddy.”
Tell Me the Truth
I reach into my jumper pocket, pull out the piece of paper and wave it in his face. “So, tell me everything, like you said you would or I will get the police to come and arrest you again.”
“By the way nice work with the fire alarm back there,” he states with this full-of-pride look plastered across his face. I don’t want him to be proud of me. The thought of that makes me sick.
“Whatever just tell me the truth,” I beg.
“Okay. Do you remember the first time I saw you? You peeped your head around your upstairs curtain, and you smiled at me. Well, that smile blew me away. Because I saw my mother in you, you are a spitting image of her, in her younger days. I saw your father a few days later at fishing, and I told him how much you reminded me of my mum, and then we fished.”
“So, let me get this straight. You kidnapped me because I reminded you of your mother?”
“No, let me finish.
“I never wanted to be your father’s friend, but before I knew it he was telling me all about you, your school trips, your grades and your weekends away camping. I could tell he was lying about things as he portrayed your family life as being perfect, and no family is perfect. And then your father told me his secret. He was struggling to feed you all. He had nothing; he pretended for as long as he could that everything was okay, but one fishing trip he broke down and told me the extent of his money problems. Your dad was at rock bottom, so he made me an offer that knocked me for six. He offered me you in exchange for £100,000. Of course, I said no! But, that didn’t stop me from tossing and turning for a number of nights after that thinking about his proposition. I doubted my hasty decision to say no, because what man would offer his daughter if he was not desperate?”
“You are lying!” I scream.
“Please, let me finish.
“I was afraid your father would do something tragic as I have been at rock bottom before and know how hard it is to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Therefore, I knocked on your front door and said, ‘Deal’. We planned the finer details at our next fishing trip, but it was obvious that all he cared about was when he could get his hands on the cash. So, all those nights you begged to go home, he was the reason you couldn’t, and that piece of paper in your hand is a signed agreement between your father and me. We agreed that once you had been with me for ten years I would tell you everything to give you the chance to decide on what you wanted to do, but we only made it to eight years. He was the one who gave me Dotty to give to you. But I knew if I gave you the doll you would have started to ask questions, questions I could not give you the answers to as it would have been a breach of the contract, so I kept Dotty hidden in my underground storage facility.”
“You can’t even make out what is written on this paper as it is too dirty,” I state.
“I know, but it is the contract between your father and me.”
“Whatever. Quick question, how long did it take for you to come up with that flamboyant story?” I reply.
“It is a story, you are right. But it is a true story.
“That is why I had no choice but to be hard on you, so I could teach you my rules, because we had no choice but to be together for at least ten years, so I needed us to co-exist as best we could. Your father also gave me photos of you growing up to help me learn about you and where you came from. I think that was more for his benefit as it meant fewer photos of you for him to look at, therefore less of a reminder that he traded you for £100,000.”
“Oh god the photos,” I cry.
“See I told you your father was in on it.”
I fall to my knees. Shaking. Trembling.
“I am sorry, but it is the truth, your father did this.”
“So, you just slotted me into your life, so my father could get out of debt?” I ask praying he would disagree with my conclusion as the story was just his idea of a sick joke.
“Yes, sort of. I would say the first year of us living together was the hardest for me as it was strange having to look after more than just myself. The number of times I went to the supermarket and had to go back because I had only bought enough food for one. But, the bottom line is you cost me all my savings that I had got over the years working as a behavioural correction manager for the troubled teens of this country. I can tell you all about my past life one day, but for now, what are you going to do?”
“Wait. What did you get out of the deal? Why would you want me?”
“That is a story for another day.”
“How could he do this to me? How could the man who used to change my nappies, the man who taught me how to swim, and the man who took me camping sell me for £100,000? The thought of that doesn't just break my heart, it shatters my whole existence.
“Three kisses, three kisses, that’s why he gave me three kisses!”
“Sorry, what?” quizzes Mr. Hump as he pulls me to my feet.
I continue to sob. “The day you kidnapped me, my father gave me three kisses before I left the house to meet my friend Jen to go shopping. He always gave me one on my left cheek but that day, the day I disappeared, he gave me three. He kissed my two cheeks and then pulled me in really close and planted one on my forehead. At least now I know why; it's because he knew I was never coming back home.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before now?” I abruptly ask.
“Because I hated my mother since before I can remember and that hate eats away at you. I didn’t want you to spend ten years of your life hating a parent as it is the worst feeling in the world,” he responds.
“So, let me get this straight, I was never going to be free?” I question.
He clears his throat and continues, “Once it got to ten years it would have become your choice, but you decided to run, darling.”
“What did you say?”
He repeats. “Once it got to ten—”
“No,” I interrupt. “The last bit.”
“What? Run, darling,” he once again states.
“Lizzie said that!”
“That is just a coincidence, that Lizzie used those words— oh shit,” he laughs knowing he just slipped up.
“WHAT! How do you know about the note? I hid it from you, what else aren’t you telling me?”
Mr. Hump steps closer to me and places his hands back on my shoulders. Once again, his touch gives me goosebumps.
“I helped Lizzie write the note.”
I stare deep into his eyes, speechless. Why would he help Lizzie write a note addressed to me?
“I needed you to know what would happen if you crossed me, and Lizzie helped me show you that through good old-fashioned role play. I hired her.”
I find my voice and out comes a blunt, sharp, direct, “What?”
“Lizzie was the lead actress in a play I watched, and afterwards I offered her a deal of a lifetime. I told her it would probably cost her her morals, but she still jumped at the opportunity. I told the detective that I calculated her weight and height, so I could tell how long she could go without food for and my calculations were perfect. My calculations are always perfect. Your dear friend Lizzie became a sack of bones for a pay-day.”
“Stop messing with my head, I helped bury her,” I stutter.
“Yes, you did, and then I locked you back in your room, so you couldn’t see what happened next. Remember?”
“What happened then?”
“I frantically pushed the soil away from Lizzie’s face, so she could take a huge breath. Did you honestly think I killed her? I am not a monster.”
“You’re lying, I saw her lying on her mattress, dead. I buried her! I wrapped a hairband around a stick and stuck it into the ground so I could one day find her body.”
“Did you find the hairband on the stick when you went back to my house with the police?” an infuriated Mr. Hump questions.
“No!”
“Exactly. You haven’t found her body because there is no body to be found. I dug her up. The grave was shallow, so she was close to the surface, to allow her to have a few breathing pockets. I calculated that she had four minutes without complete exposure to the air. Once I covered Lizzie’s face with the last bit of soil, I started the countdown in my head. I then rushed you back to your room and ran back out to her. I dug her up with three seconds to spare, a moment later would have meant she would have suffocated to death.”
“Who would ever think to do that? You’re the definition of a monster?” I whisper as I can’t find my voice through shock.