The Captive

by Deborah O'Connor

  His face was so open, his eyes so kind, and yet Hannah was sure he was holding back, that there was something he wasn’t saying.

  ‘It’s late.’ She got to her feet. ‘Want anything before I turn in?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  She switched off the light and headed up, only to notice her wedding picture on the staircase wall. The frame was listing to one side, the glass cracked. She’d had no idea it was damaged or when it might have happened. She was trying to right it when the phone rang. On reflex she reached for her mobile inside her jeans pocket, but then she realised – it wasn’t her phone it was the pay-as-you-go. She’d left it on the kitchen table. Its screen glowed in the dark, a tiny square of green. She retraced her steps and picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was the sound of machinery, the wail of a truck reversing, then a man spoke.

  ‘Who is this,’ he said, his voice mired with catarrh, ‘and how do you have this number?’

  She took a breath. ‘My husband John, I found a SIM I think belonged to him.’ Before continuing, she glanced at Jem, worried he was listening in, but he had his back turned and seemed to be focused on adjusting his ear plugs. He’d told her they were noise cancelling. ‘Did you know him?’

  The man coughed and drew the phone away from his mouth. She heard him hack, but he couldn’t seem to clear his throat of the obstruction.

  ‘This SIM,’ he said once he was finished. ‘Destroy it.’

  ‘What, why?’ She scrambled to get a hold on the situation. ‘Who are you? Did you know John?’

  ‘I know he had a golden reputation. A top-notch copper, loved and respected by all.’ He said the last sentence in a pretend hoity-toity accent, like he was reading from a report. ‘I also know that if you want that reputation to remain intact you need to get rid of any evidence to the contrary.’

  ‘Who are you?’ she said, trying again.

  ‘I made sure John did what we needed him to do and then I made sure he got paid.’

  ‘Paid?’

  ‘John was on the take,’ he said. His words had a flint to them now. Nasty and sharp. ‘He was dirty, dirty as fuck.’ He coughed again, a thick, liquid sound that turned Hannah’s stomach.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘The fact you bothered to call this number. It means you’re digging around in our business.’ Again, he moved the phone away from his mouth and hacked. This time she heard him spit. ‘Now you know. Doing that is not in your interest, not in your husband’s interest.’ Another wail of a truck in the background and the hiss of brakes being applied. ‘John was in deep. It’s no wonder he ended up dead.’

  Hannah went to protest, wanting to defend her husband’s honour, to ask more questions, but before she could say another word the man ended the call. She dropped the phone from her ear and balanced the device on the flat of her palm, staring at it for a moment, before tossing it down onto the table. Clatter, thud.

  Hannah was woken by knocking. Rat-a-tats that morphed into a rhythmic thud. She checked the time and saw it was already gone ten.

  Downstairs she opened the door to find Mr Dalgleish, clipboard in hand.

  ‘Good morning.’ He fished a monogrammed hanky from his pocket, the initials W.D. embroidered on the corner in navy copperplate, and wiped his nose.

  Hannah blinked, trying to remember why he was here.

  ‘Inmate shower,’ he said before she could ask. He nodded toward the hall. ‘Shall we?’

  He stepped inside, his movements slow. He was always weaker in the days following a chemo session but this was different; he seemed smaller somehow, his complexion like dishwater.

  She was about to shut the door when Aisling appeared at the gate.

  ‘Morning!’ Clutching coffees and pastries, she bundled down the path toward Hannah, her curls kept in check by a ruby hairband. ‘You OK?’ Her movements were stuttery, her voice high and brittle. ‘I came as soon as I could.’

  After the phone call last night Hannah had been too wired to sleep and in the early hours had texted Aisling asking to see her. She wanted to tell her friend what she’d learned, to seek her advice.

  ‘It’s about John.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ll tell you inside.’

  Crossing the threshold, Hannah almost tripped over a blur of grey sneaking past her ankles. Poobah. She looked up to see Kiki Masters following in his wake.

  ‘I don’t know why he’s so intent on getting into your house,’ she said, scowling. She fished a packet of Dreamies from her pocket and shook it vigorously until Poobah advanced cautiously back onto the path, then she grabbed him and tucked him under her arm. ‘Maybe he’s attracted to some kind of smell? How often do you empty your bins?’

  Before Hannah could reply Aisling closed the door in Kiki’s face and Hannah remembered how Poobah had performed the exact same escape-artist routine through Aisling’s ankles the morning she learned John had died.

  Aisling had always shown up at random hours – whenever she had a free spot in between clients she’d pop round for caffeine and a gossip – but that day she’d seemed to have a sixth sense that Hannah would be needing her and had arrived on her doorstep half an hour before the police had knocked with the news.

  She’d been wired then too, unable to sit still, her hands flitting from her mouth to her ears to her neck, like she was searching for something. It was the same when she’d told Hannah she wouldn’t be able to help her with the cake business anymore. She’d held the news in like a breath she was too scared to exhale.

  Hannah had been gutted but it turned out to be exactly what their friendship needed. In the months that led up to the break they’d started bickering, just the odd snip at the start or end of the day, and Hannah had noticed the occasional eye-roll whenever she’d asked Aisling to do something she didn’t want to do. Afterward, things had got better; they’d gone back to relishing each other’s company, to nights out at the cinema and walks on the Heath and comfort-scrolling on the sofa together, glasses of wine in hand.

  They were about to head down to the kitchen when Jem and Mr Dalgleish appeared, on their way up to the bathroom, clutching a towel and toiletries.

  This was Aisling’s first time at the house since Jem’s arrival and seeing him there she stiffened. A strange mix of embarrassed and scared, she reminded Hannah of someone bumping into an ex after a nasty break-up.

  Mr Dalgleish stopped and put out his hand, holding Jem in place to let her pass, but Aisling didn’t move. He waited a few more seconds and then, when she still didn’t budge, he motioned for Jem to squeeze past her toward the stairs. Then he did the same.

  It had been four days since Jem’s last shower and although he’d been strip-washing his upper half he’d failed to keep his natural scent at bay. Aisling wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  ‘As always, you’ll have twenty minutes to bathe and get dressed,’ said Mr Dalgliesh, reciting his usual spiel. ‘Then Hannah will return you to your cell.’ Jem moved slowly, his eyes darting from the living room to the ceiling to the front door, like he was committing the upper geography of the house to memory. ‘If you are not finished after twenty minutes I’ll knock and give you a verbal warning, if another minute passes and you are still not ready I will come inside.’ They reached the landing. ‘I’ll have my hand on this button the whole time, so don’t try anything.’

  Prisoners were allowed two showers a week, both of which were supervised by the DLO. Upon learning this Hannah had been appalled but when she’d queried it with Mr Dalgliesh he’d pointed out that it was exactly the same allocation they’d had in communal jails. ‘People just notice it more,’ he’d said with a smirk, ‘when it’s happening right under their nose.’

  Her bathroom had been made inmate-proof at the same time as they’d installed the cell. Bars were placed on the outside window and any objects that could be used or modified into weapons had been removed or replaced to ensure Jem could not use them to harm hims
elf or others.

  Hannah waited until she heard the door shut and the hum of the shower before continuing down to the kitchen.

  ‘Had a slightly paranoid journey here,’ said Aisling as they hit the stairs. ‘Yesterday I saw that guy we saved. The dormouse.’

  ‘The one from the Heath?’

  ‘Him.’

  ‘You know Hampstead. Small place.’

  ‘That’s just it, I was in Walthamstow, seeing a client.’

  Hannah heard the worry in her voice.

  ‘You think he’s following you? How would he even know who you are?’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ said Aisling, once they were sitting at the table. She shook her head, as if to dismiss the thought. ‘Like I said, I’m being paranoid.’

  She pulled up her sleeve to scratch her elbow and Hannah caught a glimpse of the balloon tattoo on her bicep. It was supposed to have been a Forever Friends bear but she’d found the pain so unbearable she’d made them stop and turn it into something else that wouldn’t take as long. Hannah remembered a story she’d heard about a girl getting her best friend’s name tattooed on her ankle. At the time she’d thought it extreme, ridiculous almost, but that had been before she’d met Aisling. Now it seemed like an entirely reasonable thing to do.

  ‘Last night when you texted me,’ said Aisling, ‘what happened? You said it was something about John?’

  ‘This is going to sound mad,’ said Hannah, taking a sip of coffee. ‘But it turns out he had a secret phone.’

  ‘What?’ Aisling said, her face paling. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I know you didn’t think there was anything to the stuff I told you, about Marzipan Rain and that guy John was looking into, but I kept digging.’ Hannah gave her a summary of everything that had happened in the last few days. Her trip to Cambridge and how she’d used the SIM the plumber found in the waste disposal.

  ‘There’s more to John’s death than everyone realises, I’m sure of it.’ She took a breath. ‘And I know I haven’t lived with Jem long, but I don’t think he would hurt anyone.’

  Aisling was quiet then. She studied Hannah carefully.

  ‘You like him.’

  ‘What?’ The blush hit her hard. She could feel the heat coming off her neck. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She felt for her pendant and pressed it against the skin, trying to cool it. ‘I just want the right person punished, don’t you?’

  Aisling nodded, cowed.

  ‘There were only two numbers on the SIM card,’ said Hannah, continuing with her story. ‘I called them both. One was dead and one rang out. Then the second number called me back.’

  ‘Who was it? What did they say?’

  Hannah remembered how her hands had fumbled with the device, how in her eagerness to answer she’d almost dropped it on the floor.

  The words were hard to repeat.

  ‘They said John was dirty,’ she said, still smarting from the slur. ‘That he’d been taking bribes.’

  A clatter of footsteps on the stairs. They looked up to see Jem and Mr Dalgliesh returning to the kitchen. Jem’s hair was wet, a towel round his neck. He’d shaved off his beard and his jawbone was sharp. As he walked by Hannah smelled the air and recoiled at the tang. Shower gel.

  She hadn’t realised how accustomed she’d grown to his own smell. How she only missed it now it was gone.

  ‘They’re wrong,’ said Aisling, whispering so the others couldn’t hear. She took Hannah’s hands in hers and brought her face in close. ‘John was a good man. The best.’

  ‘He was,’ said Hannah, trying to match her friend’s conviction. ‘I keep trying to remember that.’

  Jem

  Hannah places the phone in the hatch and thumps upstairs, leaving me to it.

  I could only hear one side of the call she received last night and so it made little sense, but she’s been out of sorts ever since, banging around the house in a dazed huff.

  I’m worried about her, what I’ve started. Doubt is good. I wanted doubt. A crack, a fissure. But this. I never expected her to go to the bar and although I’ve made her promise not to return I’m scared of where else she might end up, who she might talk to.

  I lift out the phone and type in Kenzie’s number. Alina won’t help me anymore but maybe he will. He doesn’t need to know the details. Just that my stuff needs to be moved and I can’t do it because I’m stuck in here.

  The dial tone is a low burr with long spaces in between. The noise you get when you call someone abroad.

  He picks up after one ring.

  ‘Hola.’

  Kenzie never did become a dance music producer but he managed the next best thing. Club DJ. He spends most of the year in the Balearics, working the circuit, and although these days he has a paunch and much less hair he still dresses like a teenager in jeans that ride down his backside and oversize sport tees.

  ‘Kenzie, it’s Jem.’

  ‘The convict.’ He laughs. ‘How’s porridge? Remember to keep your back to the wall in the shower.’

  Kenzie is one of the only people (apart from Alina) who didn’t cut me off after I was charged. The cheerful, accepting philosophy he had as a kid has never changed. Kenzie viewed the trial and its outcome as just another bump in the road, something that could happen to any of us.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m gigging in Ibiza, back in London on the thirtieth.’

  October 30th. The day before Rita and Winston are within their rights to dump my stuff on the street. Not ideal, but it’ll have to do.

  ‘Feeling lonely? Want me to come visit?’

  ‘I’m in a bit of a fix.’ I tell him about my predicament. ‘Can you help?’

  ‘Course.’ He coughs and I hear the rasp of a lighter followed by the high-pitched squeal that happens when someone sucks on a newly lit cigarette. ‘Tell me what you need.’

  I stay on the line while he opens his laptop and logs into my Roost account. It doesn’t take him long to find me another space. An old airing cupboard in Stockwell. He reserves it for the day after he lands. He’ll collect my stuff from Brixton and transport it there in a cab. I don’t have much; it should all fit.

  The phone beeps, warning me I have only two minutes left.

  Stomping on the stairs. Hannah. She wants me to know she’s coming.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, trying to finish up. ‘I’ll find some way to repay the favour.’

  ‘Any time,’ he says, lighting up again, then laughing, ‘and remember what I said about those showers.’

  Hannah

  Hannah stood outside Maraschino’s front door holding three plastic boxes, one balanced on top of the other. Inside were samples, a variety of cupcake designs and flavours, for her to consider.

  The woman from her last visit let her in.

  ‘Maraschino had to go out,’ she said, guiding her through to the kitchen. ‘Last-minute gong bath.’ She motioned to the table. ‘She said she’ll try them later.’ She was in the same pink uniform and pristine white apron as before but, Hannah was curious to note, she now had a set of mini binoculars round her neck.

  ‘Will she be back soon?’ Hannah said, placing the boxes down. ‘I’m happy to wait.’ She wanted to take Maraschino through the samples in person; it was more likely to lead to a commission that way.

  ‘She should be back around 2 p.m.’

  Forty minutes from now.

  ‘OK if I hang on?’ she said. ‘I promise not to get in your way.’

  The woman laughed.

  ‘Of course.’ She motioned to the sofa in the orangery and offered her hand. ‘I’m Jane.’

  ‘Hannah.’ They shook hands and she took a seat.

  Jane hesitated. ‘Aisling,’ she said shyly. ‘She mentioned you have a prisoner.’

  Hannah nodded and prepared to accept the commiserations she was sure would follow but instead Jane beamed and moved closer, like she’d just discovered they were both fans of the same obscure podcast. Hannah saw a flash of gold near her neckline. A cruc
ifix on a chain.

  ‘Such a positive thing to do,’ she said, gushing, ‘commendable.’ She inched nearer. ‘A pensioner in our congregation, she said she was so lonely before her mugger came to stay. She helped him learn how to read and write. They became friends. Once his sentence was finished they both decided it would be best if he stayed on in the spare room as a lodger, just until he could get back on his feet. Last week he asked her to be godmother to his kid.’ She smiled again and Hannah saw she had tiny, toddler-size teeth. ‘Best thing that ever happened to her, to both of them.’

  Hannah didn’t know what to say and searched the room for a change of subject.

  The glass ceiling offered a prime view of the crumbling mansion next door.

  ‘It’s so weird,’ she said, nodding toward the shambling roof. ‘Buying a pile like that and leaving it to rot.’

  Jane fingered her crucifix, pulling it right and left on the chain.

  ‘It’s even crazier inside,’ she said, eyes twinkling. ‘Want to see?’

  ‘What? How?’ said Hannah. ‘Do you have a key?’

  ‘We don’t need a key,’ she said, moving toward the orangery door.

  Hannah followed her out to the garden and over to a gap in the trees.

  ‘I like to come here on my break.’ She lifted a slat in the fence and motioned for Hannah to slide through. ‘The garden is so overgrown, it attracts all kinds of birds. Last week, I saw a black redstart.’

  Hannah looked again at the mini binoculars and remembered how Jane had been standing staring at the trees on her first visit. She thought she’d been daydreaming but now she realised – she’d been looking at the wildlife.

  They stepped out into a tangled wilderness. What had once been a vast lawn was now a meadow thick with wildflowers and dozing insects. Trees and bushes encroached from all sides, the garden walls strangled with ivy.

  ‘This is nuts,’ said Hannah, as a fox streaked across the meadow and disappeared into an explosion of privet in the bottom right corner.

  ‘You haven’t seen anything yet,’ said Jane, heading toward the mansion.

  A set of steps led down to the basement and a door crackled with green paint.