The Captive

by Deborah O'Connor

  He got to his feet and came to face her on the other side of the bars. ‘No.’

  ‘We have no choice,’ she said, trying to ignore the panic gnawing at her throat.

  The central heating had kicked in and this plus her many layers was making her armpits clammy. She looked down. Her slippers were covered with melting frost but inside her feet felt like they were burning. She thought of her dream, the flames roaring high and hot around her calves.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘we walk, but the rest of the plan stays the same. Agreed?’

  He reached his hand through the bars and placed it next to hers on her abdomen.

  ‘Agreed.’

  Hannah went through the house turning off lights, pulling out plugs and closing curtains. In the kitchen she cleared the fridge and set the rubbish outside. She knew it was unnecessary, that in a few hours this place would no longer be her concern, but putting it to rest felt good, like she was drawing a line between it and the life she was about to live. All done, she went and stood by the cell. While she and Jem waited for the sun to slide behind the trees she imagined crouching on all fours, haunches raised, her fingertips brinking a starting line, ready for the clap of the gun.

  Darkness.

  She went to the keypad first. Inputted the code. It flashed green. She turned to him with a smile. The back fence was off.

  Next she pressed the black button on the fob round her neck, slicked the key in the lock and, in one easy movement, opened the cell door. Jem stepped forward and they hugged.

  There was something final about the embrace, like he was saying goodbye for the last time, and Hannah knew that, in a way, he was. If this didn’t work then they’d likely not see each other again for decades.

  They pulled apart and Hannah went to grab her coat, but Jem brought her back to him and cupped her chin, his fingers light against her jawbone.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She smiled and covered his hands with her own.

  ‘I am.’

  Jem opened his mouth as if to say something more but then seemed to decide against it, and they broke apart.

  Hannah had laid the matching backpacks she’d bought and their twinned essentials – one change of clothes, thirty grand in cash, a torch, a fake passport and a pay-as-you-go smartphone and charger – on the table.

  Standing side by side, they began to pack, Hannah saying the name of the object out loud and Jem repeating it in a kind of call and answer, before placing it inside their respective bags. They had decided to split Hannah’s diabetes stuff – a fortnight’s supply of needles and insulin – between them and Hannah took responsibility for her prenatal vitamins and dextrose tablets.

  After grabbing his baseball cap, Jem zipped up his rucksack, strapped it on and headed for the stairs.

  ‘I need the bathroom,’ he said, taking them two at a time. ‘Won’t be long.’

  ‘Use the cell,’ said Hannah. But he was already gone and her words tailed to nothing.

  She placed her backpack at her feet and zipped up her coat. Standing still, she became aware of a tittering sensation deep up inside. It was coming from the part of her body that usually only made itself known with monthly cramps. She held her breath, not sure if she’d imagined it, but then there it was again, a pulsing, fluttering feeling, sporadic, like corn kernels popping in the pan. She imagined the baby somersaulting in the dark and then the sensation seemed to spread, branching and splitting through the dormant circuitry of her stomach, heart and lungs, until finally it reached her face and, twitching and flickering, pushed her cheeks up into a smile.

  Jem reappeared and took her hand. Hannah frowned and stepped back, looking him up and down.

  ‘Are you going to be warm enough?’

  He considered his windbreaker’s meagre padding as if for the first time.

  ‘Good point.’ He smiled, dropped his bag to the floor and reached for one of the jumpers he’d left in the cell.

  All set, they went to the French doors and were about to step outside when there was a noise.

  ‘What was that?’ said Jem.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Hannah. ‘Let’s go.’

  But then the noise happened again, louder than before. A low, muffled moan.

  Next door. It was coming through the wall.

  They strained their ears and were rewarded with a single word.

  ‘Help.’

  Pru.

  ‘She has her daughter staying,’ said Hannah. She released her fingers from the door handle only to grab it again. ‘But maybe she’s out.’

  They looked toward the pond and the yellow glow of Queen’s Crescent, buttery in the distance.

  ‘You should go check,’ said Jem. ‘We’ve got time.’

  She let go of the door and kissed him.

  ‘I’ll be quick,’ she said, grabbing Pru’s keys from the drawer.

  Jem watched her go and then he turned back to the pond and the mansions’ yellow glow. Blood pounded in his ears.

  Hannah let herself into Pru’s house and stopped, listening. Silence and then a whimper, slight, like a child murmuring in its sleep. She followed the sound through to the kitchen and found Pru lying on her side in the middle of the floor. Her eyes were closed and a heart-shaped bruise bloomed purple on her cheek.

  ‘Pru?’ she said, kneeling beside her. She realised the old lady’s toes were pointed and that she was moving her feet up and down in a scissoring motion, as if swimming. She remembered that Pru had once told her that at times during her journey across the Channel, the rowing boat accompanying her had dropped back out of sight and that those minutes alone, legs kicking through the black with no speck of land in sight, still gave her nightmares to this day.

  Hannah took her hand and squeezed it.

  I’m here.

  Someone’s here.

  ‘I was looking out the window to see Ted coming home,’ said Pru, opening her eyes. ‘That man was hanging around the front again.’ It was as if she’d misplaced something and was now recounting the details, walking back through the steps to the moment she’d last seen it. ‘He saw me looking and then he came up close and banged on the glass. I ran to call the police.’

  Hannah clocked the usual blast radius of food scraps and sodden teabags around the bin. No doubt Pru had slipped, fallen and possibly passed out. How long she’d been on the floor was anyone’s guess. She fetched her a cushion and a rug and, once she was comfortable, used the wall-mounted landline to call for an ambulance. The operator told her that help was on its way and instructed her to leave the front door open.

  She did as they asked and returned to the kitchen to see Jem peering over the fence.

  ‘Hannah?’ The glass in the French doors made it sound like he was underwater.

  After giving Pru’s hand another squeeze she went outside. The flagstones were scratchy with frost and the temperature made her eyes water.

  ‘Pru’s had a fall,’ she said, trying to still the tremor in her voice. ‘I’ve called for help. I’ll stay with her till they arrive.

  Jem nodded.

  Again, she was grateful that he didn’t question this, that even now, his instinct was to do the right thing.

  When she returned to Pru she found her shivering, the rug having slipped from her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, leaning over to tuck it back in. ‘Help is coming.’

  Pru groaned.

  ‘I should wear my button, but I forget.’ She grabbed hold of the oval round Hannah’s neck, so similar to the device everyone was always nagging her to wear. Looking at it, Hannah realised she’d been so focused on the last stage of their leaving preparations that she’d forgotten to take it off.

  ‘Press in case of emergency,’ said Pru, parroting the phrase Hannah had drilled into her. Then she placed her finger on the red button and pushed down hard.

  ‘No,’ said Hannah, pulling away. But it was too late.

  Staggering to her feet, she ripped off the device, placed it on the cou
nter and retreated to the other side of the kitchen, as if it was a bomb about to explode. Then under her breath she began to beg. ‘Please,’ she said, hoping Pru hadn’t pressed it all the way down, ‘please, please, please.’ It felt like she was falling off the side of a building. She knew she was going to hit the ground, but still there was a moment, this moment, when her feet had first left the ledge that was like an opening in time, a fraction of a second where it still seemed possible that she might grab onto something, claw her way back up and collapse onto the roof’s dusty tarmac, heart yammering.

  Jem appeared at the fence holding her regular phone, the screen lit blue with an incoming call.

  Impact.

  Hannah went out to join him. The ringtone nagged through the night air and Hannah had to stop herself from covering her ears.

  ‘Why would they be phoning?’ he said, showing her the caller ID.

  The Domestic Prison Service.

  Hannah knew the protocol. If the red button was activated they’d send someone out to check on her within half an hour, whether she answered or not.

  ‘You need to go,’ she said, letting the call ring out. ‘Now, before the guards arrive.’

  Jem was confused at first and then, once Hannah had relayed what had happened, resolute.

  ‘No,’ he said, and for the first time she heard the crackle of fear in his voice. ‘We leave together or not at all.’

  She pushed back on her heels, her mind scrambling for another solution. Maybe they should deal with the guards head-on? Have Jem get back inside the cell and then, when they arrived, tell them she’d pressed the button by mistake. Pretend everything was normal. They could set off across the ice as soon as they’d gone. But no, it was protocol for them to reset the fence codes after any call-out, false alarm or not.

  ‘This is our only chance.’ She reached up on her tiptoes to kiss him. ‘You’re wasting time. Go. I’ll follow after.’ A few streets away they heard a siren scream. The ambulance. ‘Please,’ said Hannah. ‘I won’t be far behind.’

  He didn’t move. Desperate, Hannah was trying to figure some other way out when he hooked his thumbs through his rucksack and stepped back.

  ‘I’ll meet you in the garage?’

  Hannah nodded and he set off toward the bottom of the garden at pace, baseball cap pulled low.

  Her relief was momentary. They were meant to be doing this as a couple, melting away into the night, and now they were separated, about to be tracked like game.

  She waited until he disappeared through the gate and down the steps to the shore and then she returned inside to Pru and the sound of people knocking on the open front door.

  Paramedics.

  ‘In here,’ she shouted. Then quietly to Pru, ‘The doctors.’

  A man and a woman came through to the kitchen, capable in uniforms of bottle green. They shouldered heavy bags and were full of ‘hello’s’ and ‘what have we here’s’ that made Pru’s fall feel jolly and manageable and like they’d all been friends for years.

  Hannah explained the situation and they set to work. Annabel arrived soon after, shopping in hand.

  ‘Mum!’ she said, rushing to Pru’s side.

  With Pru taken care of Hannah slunk away, down the hall and out the still open door. No sooner had she stepped onto the front path than she was greeted by a van pulling up on the other side of the road.

  Guards.

  Heart bouncing, she foxholed back inside before they could see her. In the living room she turned off the lights and took up a position by the bay window just in time to see six guards and one of their temp DLOs tumble out of the van. The DLO knocked on her front door and when no one answered, a battering ram was produced.

  Three thumps and they were in.

  Hannah tugged at the straps on her backpack. It seemed heavier somehow, harder to carry. She tried to regulate her breathing but her lungs were sieged with panic, the blood vessels small and tight. There was no way she could chance it across the pond now, even via Pru’s garden; there was too much risk of being seen. She wondered if she should wait it out, make a break for it once they’d been and gone, but who knew how long they’d stick around once they discovered she and Jem were missing.

  She looked at the street. It was empty, the cars shadowed by brittle light.

  Maybe being separated wasn’t such a bad thing?

  Jem might not have been able to go out the front but she could. Alone, she could skip the pond completely, get to the crescent the long way, on foot.

  Back in the hall she peeped out the door, checking for guards or passers-by. Once she was sure there was no one around she took her chance.

  She wanted to run but the pavement was slithery with ice and so she had to marionette her way forward, her steps jerky. She hadn’t gone far when she heard the fizz and beep of a radio back near the house. One of the guards had come outside. A van door slammed shut.

  Not looking back, she continued her way down the street, toward the Crescent, toward Jem.

  She’d experienced love before with John, she was sure of it, no matter how flawed their marriage had turned out to be; but she’d never realised it could make you this brave, that it could give you the courage to do anything: stroll barefoot through fire, open your arms to a bullet, leap high across a deep ravine with nothing to catch your fall but the jag of distant boulders.

  Jem

  I thought I was home and dry. No one had a clue I was to blame for the missing bitcoin. Lucas was going to get the treatment he needed. Everything was fine.

  Then I did something stupid.

  After that everything went terribly, terribly wrong.

  Once I’ve stored the hard drive with the rest of my stuff in Brixton I go to work. I need the job – besides, not turning up would mark me out as a suspect.

  On my way to the staffroom I see Monty in the office. Trussed in a too-small shirt and trousers, his mouth is open. His braces twinkle and every now and again his tongue reaches up and sweeps across the tangle of metal and teeth. He’s torn the place apart. The desk is full of holes where the drawers once were and every shelf is empty, the floor spread with boxes and papers.

  In the staffroom Chickie is putting on his apron while Maya hangs up her coat. I smile hello but Maya looks away, her hand over her mouth, and as she reaches down to pick up her bag she flinches, as if she’s pulled a muscle.

  ‘Don’t mind her,’ says Chickie once she’s gone, ‘rough day.’ He nods at the sound of banging and swearing coming from the office down the hall. ‘A ton of cash has gone missing. Or he’s misplaced it.’ He heads off to start his shift. ‘Either way, his head is on the block.’

  ‘How much?’ I call after him. Until I hook the drive up to a laptop I’ve no idea if it’s anywhere near enough to help Lucas reach his total.

  ‘Thirty grand.’ Chickie draws a line across his neck. ‘Monty is officially cancelled.’

  It’s the start of the Easter weekend and the bar is heaving. I’m glad. After last night’s burglary I’ve got two days to replace my stolen rent money. Seven hundred quid. Acquiring that amount of cash in such a short amount of time is going to be tricky but if I’m smart and choose the right targets I might be OK.

  I move through the crowd, a stack of dirty pint glasses tucked against one arm, my other hand fanning people’s inside and outside pockets and bags. I filter their possessions for wallets and purses, my fingers tracing the edges of phones, travelcards and lipsticks.

  Every time I hit gold I store the booty in my front jeans pocket and then as soon as I get a chance I go off to the toilets to check my haul.

  I’m doing well – three hundred quid and counting – when I open a brown leather wallet with a Met Police ID inside.

  I drop it like it’s hot, then immediately pick it back up. I pride myself on taking things without people realising, but there are no guarantees. What if the copper notices his wallet gone and decides to kick up a fuss? He could be out there now, accusing people, trying to figu
re out who did it. He might request the bar CCTV, see the moment I passed by.

  It’s not worth the risk.

  I’ll go out there now, put it back before he can clock it’s missing.

  Hannah

  Queen’s Crescent was quiet, the pavement deserted. Hannah headed toward the abandoned mansion, giddy at having made it there without incident. All she had to do now was get inside the grounds without being seen.

  She’d spent the journey trying to re-version the second part of the plan. The guards would have put out an alert as soon as they discovered them both gone, their mugshots emailed to Customs and Immigration. It might make sense to hold off on the ferry crossing until things had died down; head out of London and then hang around in Kent for a while, somewhere near the port. They could lie low, sleep in the car, and then, when their faces were no longer all over the nightly news, make the crossing into France.

  She reached the stone pillar that marked the entrance to the property and shrank back into the dim to consider her options. The walls were seven feet high, the iron gates even higher, a chain wrapped round their middle.

  The bolt cutters she’d bought were waiting in the garage where they were no good to her.

  She looked next door, at Maraschino’s house. Every window was alight, the garden illuminated by a circular formation of white lanterns. Maybe she should try to access the mansion through it? She could manufacture some pretext for her visit and then, once she was in, try to find a way to slip out the back, through the hole in the fence to next door. But no, that was too ridiculous. Maraschino might not even be home and even if she were to inveigle her way inside it wasn’t like they weren’t going to notice if she suddenly vanished. Her only option was to scale the gates and drop down to the other side.

  The front of the gate was covered in an elaborate spread of curlicued iron, designed to look like a tree branching out toward the edges. Hannah wedged her foot against the bottom-most flourish, grabbed the bars and pulled herself up to the next available toehold. Rust flaked off in her palm, the metal beneath freezing. She kept going but the higher she got, the fewer the points of leverage, until finally, a metre away from the top of the gate, she ran out of toeholds altogether. She decided to press the insides of her feet against the bars and propel herself up the rest of the way. Her technique worked and she scooched a few more inches without issue, but the rust here was much worse than below and soon her feet were scrabbling against the crumbling bars for purchase. One foot slipped and then the other. She dangled there a few seconds, hands burning with cold, then she fell to the floor, her rucksack breaking her fall as she crashed back against the gates.