Undercurrent

by J. A. Baker

  I kick my shoes off and flop into an armchair in the living room, overcome with a sudden bout of exhaustion. I mustn’t fall asleep. I still have so much to do. Clothes and toiletries to pack. She can’t stay in those ragged, grimy trousers indefinitely. And at some point she is going to need a bath. I lean my head back and let it rest on the back of the chair, mentally counting off the tasks I have to do for Suzie.

  Sleep comes quickly, deep and sound full of dreams about water, raging streams pulling people under, swirling riptides and frothing currents that drag everyone away. The continual ringing of the phone wakes me, snapping me out of my deep slumber. I stagger up onto my feet to get it but it stops before I get there. My mind is foggy. Tom. Will he back in New York yet? Or still at the airport? I have no idea of what time it is or how long I’ve slept for. Furious at having missed his call, I march through to the study to see Martyn. He has his nose stuck into some medical journal or other and ignores me as I stand at the door, anger scratching at me.

  “Didn’t you hear the phone ringing? Christ you could have answered it!”

  He lowers the book and smiles at me, then shrugs his shoulders and places the book down with a thump, the noise causing me to flinch. A searing pain runs up the back of my scalp and sits behind my eyes; throbbing, insistent.

  “I can’t answer it Phoebe. You know I can’t.”

  “Why on earth not?” I screech, furious at his lackadaisical attitude. Do I have to do everything round here? I am utterly exhausted by it all.

  “You know why not,” he replies. The look on his face scares me. Not sarcasm, not happiness, more a look of helplessness and resignation. I purse my lips and turn away. His voice echoes around the hushed stillness of the house,

  “Look at me Phoebe. Just look at me!”

  Something in his voice sets my nerves jangling. Not anger. He isn’t in one of his raging tempers. He is insistent, despondent. His voiced laced with hopelessness. I spin back around and stare at him. He looks different, his face lined, his features pinched and shrunken. He stands up and all of a sudden he has the appearance of somebody much older. A horribly troubled and decrepit old man. One of his shoulders is hanging to one side and his legs wobble about under him as he shuffles out from behind his large mahogany desk. His skin is colourless and mottled and as he begins to walk toward me I can see a trail of something on the floor at his feet. It follows him through the room and as I step closer I am horrified to see a long line of blood seeping out from somewhere on his body, dark and viscous, a huge oil slick pooling at his feet. I want to scream but nothing will come. Has he done it again? Hurt somebody and they are here in the house? Hidden somewhere, dying or dead as we speak? Or are they outside in the dark being dragged away by the intense swell of the river? A huge wall of freezing water lapping over them, pulling them downstream. Something tells me that isn’t the case. And I know it isn’t Anna’s blood. I cleaned that up thoroughly, mopping and sterilising until I could see my face in every inch of floor space. The vice around my head tightens as I try to work out what is going on. And then Martyn turns and I see it - the huge hole at the back of his head from which blood is pulsing in gigantic, rhythmic waves. A deep, cavernous split that runs across the base of his skull and up over the top of his head. I stagger backwards, struggling to think straight. I am unable to do anything. Words refuse to come as my throat thickens and begins to close up. I slump to the floor overcome with horror and confusion. When I look up he is standing over me - Martyn, my Martyn - a shadow of his former self, his leaning body crooked and lifeless, a river of scarlet escaping from the deep hole in his head. Vomit rises and spills out of me. I lift my head and stare at the figure in front of me, the Martyn I no longer recognise. All I can hear are his words clanging and reverberating in my head as everything tilts and blurs. The room spins as he bends down and leans over me, a trail of blood stained saliva dripping from his mouth as he hollers in my face, “This is your fault Phoebe. It’s about time you accepted that. Everything that’s happened is all because of you!”

  Thirty Two

  Apart from one tiny lamp in the corner that is emitting just enough light to allow Anna to make out vague shapes and outlines, she is blanketed in darkness. Somebody’s front room. That’s where she is. In a stranger’s living room. In what street or town is a complete mystery to her. There is no sound. She is pretty sure she is alone but can’t be absolutely certain. She has to be careful here. The last thing she wants is for Phoebe to descend on her and pump her full of more drugs.

  Despite feeling cold and shivery, her skin is coated with a clammy sheen and the pain in her head hasn’t eased up. In fact it’s worse. It feels as if a bullet has ripped through it. The searing pain runs around the back of her neck and up behind her eyes making her feel woozy and nauseous. She tries to sit up, the throbbing sensation heightening and increasing in force with every movement she takes. Bit by bit, using her hands to rest on, she manages to shuffle herself into a partial upright position and leans back, small clouds of heat puffing out of her nostrils, warming up the air in front of her face. Her cheeks burn as she inhales deeply in an attempt to get more oxygen into her lungs. She stops and listens for any kind of movement nearby. Nothing. No footsteps or creaking floorboards. Just complete silence. She prays she is alone. Dear god, please let her be alone here. The thought of Phoebe making a sudden appearance with her manic expression and psychotic behaviour makes her feel sick.

  She blinks and tries to regulate her breathing. Panicking will only exacerbate things. She must stay calm. Saliva builds in her mouth and she has to swallow it back, the tape too tight to allow her to move her lips even the slightest inch. The lower half of her face is starting to turn numb and the top half is in agony. Every time she tries to shuffle her way into another position the pain behind her eyes intensifies and the rope tying her hands together has rubbed away the thin skin around her wrists, leaving her with weeping sores and blisters. A lump rises in her throat. It sits there, immobile until she squeezes her eyes shut and forces it back down. She will not cry. Under no circumstances will she allow herself to cry. What she needs to do right now is think clearly and gather what little strength she has left to get out of this place and away from the clutches of Phoebe; a woman so unhinged it is utterly terrifying. How did Anna not see what was right in front of her eyes all along? It’s all so clear now. Phoebe’s whole life is one huge fabrication. The woman is psychotic. Completely delusional. It makes perfect sense now, ushering Anna out of the house when offering help and asking to see him; claiming he was napping whenever she was in the house. Nobody saw or heard him because he doesn’t exist; he’s just a figment of her imagination. Anna emits a low, desperate groan. How could she have been so blind? And worst of all, how could she have been so pathetically naive? Seeing the newspaper clippings that had fallen out of the wooden box had been like a physical blow. How anybody could lie about such a dreadful thing is beyond her. And more importantly, why would they? That poor man had multiple injuries and stood no chance of surviving. According to the article, he fell over the edge of the cliff and bounced hundreds of feet, almost to the bottom, hitting every boulder and crag on the way down.

  There was another cutting about a woman. A missing person. Just like she is now. Anna has no idea who the woman is. Or was. She swallows back a mouthful of vomit. The word was is probably more fitting.

  And then the final one, barely legible, tattered and browned with age, about a child drowning in the river and some possible suspicious circumstances surrounding her death. The stuff of nightmares. And as Phoebe said, now Anna knows her secret, she will go to any lengths to make sure she never returns home to tell anybody. Well, that is not going to happen. Not while she has an ounce of strength left in her body. She will fight that horrific woman till the very end if she has to, but come what may, Anna will get back home. God knows what Mike and the boys think has happened to her. Her mind races, trying to envisage every possible scenario. Are they racing around lookin
g for her? Do they think she’s dead and are dredging the river at this very minute? She stops herself. Second guessing is a pointless way to spend her time, which is without doubt at the moment, very precious indeed. Phoebe will be back. She has no idea when but she will be back. How long has she kept her captive? Anna tries to count it up. Three days? Four? Her family will be in complete meltdown. She is a monster, this Phoebe - unpredictable, deranged. And she could walk in the door at any minute. Anna has to act quickly. With limited strength, a raging thirst and a head that feels like a grenade exploded in there, she begins to rock. She tilts herself backwards and forwards over and over until she eventually gives a colossal push and manages to stand upright, her hands and ankles still tightly bound. The room swims and her stomach heaves as she staggers to keep her balance. She stops for a minute to right herself and looks around. Still no sound or movement from anywhere in the house. What now? The vague shapes begin to take on sharper edges as Anna hobbles over to a doorway. She feels her way through it and into another room. Long and dark. A hallway? She trips on a rug which bunches up under her feet and finds herself catapulted forward into the side of a tall cabinet. She hits it with her shoulder which sends her bouncing back over but somehow she manages to stay upright. Anna stops for a minute waiting for the sickness, which is rising in her gut, to abate. After a minute she staggers on, moving backwards, sidled up against the wall and feeling her way with her fingers behind her back to help keep her upright until she enters a larger room. She drags herself along the wall and immediately recognises the hard, angular edges. A kitchen. She is definitely in a kitchen. Her fingers trace their way over a series of wooden doors, over the long chrome handles and finally up to a set of drawers. Shadows gradually take form and in a limited fashion, Anna begins to see her way around. Opening each drawer with her hands tied behind her back is easier than she anticipated but being able to see the contents of each one proves way more difficult. With a growing rage she hops around, dragging them open bending and twisting her body until each top drawer is jutting out, their contents too grainy to discern in the poor light. Except for one. Anna’s heart gallops around her chest. Coiling her way over to it like an upright snake, she peers down at an array of cutlery that gives off a tiny glint, the silver reflected in the smallest sliver of light peeking in from a gap in the blinds. Mismatching teaspoons and forks, butter knives, small scissors. Too tiny to be of any real use. And then something else. Anna feels a small gallop start up in her chest. Bingo. A knife. She has no idea how this is going to work, but it is. She will make it work. She has to. It’s her only option. If she stays here and does nothing, she is without a doubt, a dead woman.

  She inches her way closer to the drawer. Turning sideways on, she lifts her arms and manoeuvres her hands then gently traces them over the blade of a large silver serrated knife, it’s thin, jagged edges scaring her as she contemplates its capabilities. That blade could either be her key to freedom, or with one wrong movement, her demise. Her wrists ache as she tries to pick it up and with limited dexterity, twist it round to cut at the rope. Even after a few attempts, Anna can see it is a waste of energy. The whole thing is physically impossible. She leans back against the kitchen counter to think, the knife still precariously balanced between her fingers. Slumping down, Anna sits on the floor, her brain ticking over with ideas, many ridiculous and unfeasible, some possible but difficult to execute. Her head thumps, a sickly sensation ever present deep down in her stomach. One idea however, sticks in her mind, probably the only one that has a chance of working. Resting the knife beside her on the tiles, she brings her knees up to her chin and bit by bit, forces her bound hands under her bottom. Her knuckles graze against the stone flooring and her shoulders feel as if they are about to pop out of their sockets. She stops every few seconds to catch her breath, then very slowly, shuffles about, her slim hips gradually working their way through the narrow gap, her arms lodged painfully under her bottom. Her breath is ragged. A hot and sour taste floods her mouth. She swallows to stem the retch that she feels rising in her belly. She cannot allow herself to be sick. The pounding in her head increases while she waits for the feeling to pass. She mustn’t stop for too long. She has a fear that she won’t be able to muster up the energy to finish this task if she stops for too long. She has to keep the adrenalin flowing no matter what. A vision of an egg-timer flashes in her head, her energy the grains of sand slowly disappearing, leaving her body until she is completely empty. A vacant vessel with nothing left to give. She has to keep going, pain or no pain, sickness or no sickness. With one last mighty effort and a loud grunt, Anna loops her hands round her backside in a swift movement and up behind her knees. She stops, her nostrils flaring, her eyes wide as she pants for breath before rolling on her back and squirming about to try to hook her feet through her hands. It’s exhausting and difficult and so very, very painful. But not impossible. There is no way she has come this far to give in. Both her hands and feet are tied too tight to wriggle one through the other, but there has to be a way. The knife sits next to her, tempting her with its possibilities. She moves her bottom over to where the knife lay and scrapes her knuckles over the cold, hard floor to pick it up. Holding the handle as tightly as she can, Anna brings her feet up and begins to hack at the twine binding her ankles. She is surprised by how soft it is, its texture more woollen than the coarse fibres of rope she expected to feel. Her hands are slippery and she has to stop every few seconds to keep her fingers clasped around the handle which keeps wobbling about and sliding out of her grip. Developing a rhythm, Anna saws slowly, dragging her feet backwards and forwards until she feels a soft but definite ping beneath her palms as the threads of the rope begin to snap and break. She keeps going, her body now attuned to the delicate feeling each strand makes as it collapses beneath the sharp edge of the blade, until eventually she feels a sensation that brings tears to her eyes. With a final snap, her legs fall apart, her ankles free of the constraints that have held her prisoner for days. Gasping with exhilaration and exhaustion, Anna puts the knife down and turns it around so the handle is facing away from her. She leans forward, holding the handle from underneath. It’s awkward and possibly dangerous but she is determined to try it. She brings her knees up and rests her elbows on each one to take the weight of her arms and starts the process all over again. With a precision and strength she wasn’t aware she possessed, Anna saws, slowly and deliberately, occasionally slipping and cutting the soft skin under her forearms before retrieving the knife and starting all over again. Blood trickles down her arms and over her fingers, greasy and warm. She won’t allow it to stop her. What are a few cuts compared with what may lay in store if she doesn’t get out of here? Imbued with a sudden burst of energy, Anna clasps the knife tighter and hacks away until she feels the wonderful sensation of material slackening and giving way under the unrelenting friction of the blade as she draws it over the twine time and time again, fibres ripping free and snapping, the feeling so beautiful, she cries. Hot tears roll down her face and drip onto her blood smeared hands. One last thread to go and she has done it. She drops the knife and pushes her hands apart, until the rope finally rips and her hands spring free. Snot and tears mix as she scrambles up off the floor, sliding around wildly, her ankles numb from being held together for so long. She is overwhelmed with dizziness and euphoria but can’t stop to celebrate. Not enough time to stop. Holding herself steady, Anna brings her hand up to the tape on her mouth and pinches the corner before ripping it back and letting out an almighty howl. She gingerly brings her shaking hand up to her lips, expecting to feel loose flaps of skin after tearing half of her mouth away. Everything feels intact. Hot and wet with blood, but still there. Staggering over to a wall, Anna feels her way along it until a familiar feeling of plastic comes under her groping fingers. She presses down as firmly as she can and a light comes on overhead. Blinking and squinting against its harsh glare, Anna gives herself a few seconds then looks around. She is standing at the entrance of a large kitc
hen that is all but empty. She can see now that the drawers she pulled open contain the bare minimum. Some tea-towels, a few utensils and a couple of yellow dusters. Anna hangs onto the edge of one of the drawers, still lightheaded and nauseous. Suddenly terrified of being seen, she switches the light back off. She cannot risk being caught, not after coming so far. And she can’t allow herself any time to hang around. She has got to get out of this place as quickly as possible. She has no idea where Phoebe is. For all she knows she could be upstairs, in the garage, anywhere nearby, ready to pounce. Blackout blinds cover every window and she finds herself praying that she isn’t locked in a remote farmhouse in the back end of beyond, otherwise her Houdini escape act will have been in vain. Teetering through the house, Anna heads towards the front door. It’s locked. Of course it’s locked. What did she expect? Her deeply unstable neighbour has been nothing if not precise. Anna rattles at the handle in anger and lets out a frustrated growl, her lips cracking as she does so. Turning on her heel, she stalks from room to room looking for another way out. The house is large and sparsely furnished with no obvious means of escape. Anna tries the back door but isn’t surprised to find that locked too. She hunts around for anything remotely resembling a key box but in a house so empty it quickly becomes obvious that she is well and truly locked in. A prisoner in somebody else’s home. The need to get out swells in her chest and without warning the walls begin to close in. She feels herself starting to hyperventilate and squeezes her eyes shut to try to control her breathing. Opening them again, she can see that all of the windows are double glazed and she knows breaking them won’t be easy. But it’s worth a try. It may well be her only way out of here. Anna pulls up the blinds and stares at the top opening windows. She surveys the thickness of the glass, wondering if a chair would be enough to take out the entire pane cleanly or if it would simply bounce back aggravating her growing sense of claustrophobia. Her eyes sweep over the glass and stop. She blinks and stares hard. She narrows her eyes, wanting to be sure she actually saw it and isn’t hallucinating. Her heart speeds up and a rush of adrenaline heats up her freezing skin. It’s there. It is actually there. Not a hallucination from the drugs. It is definitely there. She pictures Phoebe’s stern face and smiles. Not so careful after all. A small key is sticking out of one of the window locks, tiny and gleaming and very possibly the most alluring thing she has ever seen. She reaches up and carefully pulls at it. It slides out with ease and she wraps her fingers around the tiny metal object, holding it tightly in her hand. It is cold smooth and sits perfectly in the creases of her palm. The key to freedom.