by Marc Horn
Elizabeth no longer shivers. ‘Nod if you know who I am.’ She nods. This surprises me. I did not think she would find this so quickly amongst her highly selective memories. From behind, I lift the bag slightly and rip the tape off her mouth. She takes deep breaths as if emerging from water in which she had almost drowned. ‘Speak,’ I say.
‘You are...you are...someone I didn’t phone.’ Her voice is shaky and pathetic. ‘...I’m sorry...I’m truly, honestly so sorry...’
She tries to resist as I place the tape back over her mouth, but I am more than strong enough to hold her head still with one hand. ‘Wrong, Elizabeth. Another cold night for you.’ I remove the blanket and leave the basement.
I have printed out hundreds of pages of articles relating to communist brainwashing. I spend a couple of hours refreshing my knowledge of these procedures, then I heat up a frozen pizza and eat it.
At midday, I wander down to the basement. As soon as Elizabeth comes into view, she slowly nods at me. It is a cautious, ominous, knowing nod, one that leads me to believe she has found me. I rip off the tape.
‘You are...you are the guy in the pub. The guy I introduced to Heather, my friend. The guy I pretended was my...boyfriend...’
‘What do I look like?’
‘I can’t...remember.’ Her breaths are rapid and her voice desperate.
‘We both know why you chose me. Describe me or I go.’
She is crying. I do not interrupt. After a couple of minutes she says, ‘You...you look…wrong.’ She waits for me to speak but I do not. Eventually, she realises she must continue. ‘Your face is...very large and round...and your nose and mouth and eyes are tiny. I am so sorry. I was cruel. But this will not work, you will be caught–’
I fix the tape against her mouth just as she starts to scream. ‘Because you screamed you will experience another cold night. You now live according to my rules. You will never scream.’ I take the bag off Elizabeth and sit down on my armchair.
‘You were right,’ I say as she looks at my face.
She turns away and closes her eyes.
‘Know what they used to call me at school?’
Looking down at her feet, she shakes her head.
‘Moonface.’
7
For Elizabeth’s sake, I wake at five a.m. She has spent just under thirty-four hours in my care. I have given her neither food nor water, and kept her shivering through two nights. All of this was absolutely necessary, and should not now have to continue.
In the basement, Elizabeth shakes like a leaf. I remove the binds from her waist, ankles and wrists, then sit in my chair. She looks lifelessly at me.
‘You are free, Elizabeth. Go.’
A spark of hope flickers in her eye.
‘Climb the stairs and the front door is just ahead.’
Her muscles flex as she struggles to push herself off the chair, and then, standing, she sways from side to side like a heroin addict. She takes a desperate step forward and collapses on the floor. Her shoulder connects with the ground first, since she is too slow and weak to reach out and break her fall with her hands. She cries and forces herself forwards like a slug. She strains to get on her hands and knees, but even crawling proves too difficult. She looks at the stairs and then her body slumps in defeat. She wails behind the tape.
I lift her back into the chair, reapply her restraints, and sit back in my chair.
‘You see, Elizabeth, I am in control. I know exactly how you will react. I engineer your reactions.’
I wrap the blanket around her body and take the tape off her mouth. ‘You have just survived two unpleasant nights. If you even think of ways to escape or be rescued, then the next one will be twice as unpleasant.’ I pick up a glass of water from beside my chair. ‘Open your mouth.’ Her drowsy eyes focus on the water and slowly she parts her lips. I press the rim of the glass against her mouth and tip it slightly. ‘Let it fill your throat and then swallow.’ She tries to obey me, but cannot manage it and coughs violently. I take the glass away. ‘Relax. Let the water fill your throat and then swallow. Do not panic or you will choke.’ This time she does it right. This is how you down a pint in one. Within a couple of seconds she finishes the contents of the glass. Then she gasps for breath.
‘Everything has changed, Elizabeth. All you have done and everything you knew is incompatible with me. You must adapt.’
Previously, I had used the basement for storage. Now, bar Elizabeth, me, and two portable air conditioners, it is empty. It is a dark, cold room, with grey walls and an overpowering musty smell. It is perfect for her.
She starts to look a little perkier. ‘Can you hear me, Elizabeth?’
‘Y...yes...I am still thirsty...and...hungry...’
‘I am going to reveal to you the fate of Victor Spinney.’
She cannot look at me. She will catch my eye for a second, and then look away. Her eyes are trained to fix only on beauty.
‘Victor was my best friend at grammar school.’ She closes her eyes, clearly forming the conclusion that I had killed him. That would mean her fate would be the same... ‘We parted ways eight years ago, after we finished Westwood Grammar. Yes, for your profiling, I am twenty-six.’ A mixture of relief and mistrust floods her features. I am really enjoying this. ‘My loyalty and desperation maintained our friendship, and nothing else. You see, Victor was a true bully. He ridiculed me, alienated me from everyone else and shattered every ounce of confidence I had.’
‘Why was he your friend?’ she croaks, trying to create a bond between us.
‘That is the last time you will speak without first being questioned. Do you understand?’
She nods, bows her head and I see tears drip onto the blanket.
‘Self-pity helps no one. You deserve to be here.’
I let this sink in for a few seconds before I continue.
‘Unfortunately, Victor and I shared the same route to school. So we started to talk and became friends. I knew his friendship would be tested once the teasing began, but when it did – two weeks after we had started grammar school – rather than defend me, Victor joined in. Though I was not surprised, I still felt devastated. I had convinced myself that the name-calling would end when I left primary school.
‘While my new peers exhausted themselves searching for a suitable nickname for me, Victor secured God-like status with “Moonface”. A fundamental flaw of his, an insatiable need to better everyone else...
‘On the way home he would always excuse his behaviour, saying: “I was just messing about, you know you’re my mate”. Eventually I realised this was just a ploy to earn my trust and have me open up to him. Then he would have more ammunition to present to the rest of the class...’
Parts of these recollections will lend me some warmth and humanity, which is detrimental, but still, she must know this story.
‘I forgave him for everything. Because, in my fragile youth, I needed to have a best friend, and only Victor bothered with me. I liked to go home and talk about him. I liked to have someone I could send a Christmas card to. And just as you, Elizabeth, will desperately crave, I needed some form of social contact...’
I feel nothing as I recite this story. I am hardened and cynical. It is simply my childhood and nothing more.
‘As we grew older, Victor’s abuse increased. But I would tirelessly condone everything he did and always see the best in him. Like all teenagers, I tried to conform to current trends, but Victor would publicly criticise my taste in everything – clothes, gadgets, computer games – items that he had advised me to buy! I saved up my pocket money for weeks to buy these goods, he knew that, yet he still took great pleasure in having me waste every penny.’
I go upstairs, fill up another glass with water and then feed it to Elizabeth. She drinks it correctly. I do not sit back down, instead I wander around the basement as I talk.
‘He knew he was my only friend. Yet he never involved me in his busy social life. Instead, he mocked every aspect of my existen
ce, fuelled by his adoring audience. And, to make matters worse, I was overly sensitive.
‘Victor was an extremely selfish, desensitised individual. He cared only about his own life. And his life had to be better than everyone else’s. Destroying people amused him. After we finished school, he went to university. Though I was far more intelligent than Victor, his psychological bullying affected my concentration and motivation, which my abysmal grades reflected. Regardless of this academic shortfall, my parents would not have paid my tuition fees anyway. So I got a job instead. And I still enjoy it. And I have made far more money than Victor ever would have done.’
I go upstairs and heat up some soup in a mug. Then I carry it down to the basement.
‘You have ten seconds to eat this,’ I say.
I tip the cup against her mouth. Foolishly, she takes her time as she consumes it, apparently savouring the taste. When the time is over I pull the mug away. It is just one inch less full. She gasps when I tip the rest on the floor in front of her. Then I continue with Victor’s story.
‘After leaving school, I filled out. I put on about four stone and became the toned Adonis you now adore.’ She does not smile. ‘Victor’s absence was an indescribable relief. My confidence started to increase and I became comfortable in myself.’ I notice a tiny amount of irony in her expression. She would not feel so comfortable in my skin – that is what she is thinking. ‘A couple of years after our separation, I saw Victor in a pub. I walked up to the bar, ordered a drink, turned around and there he was, sitting two tables away from me with his arm around an attractive girl. There were about ten people on his table, a mixture of males and females. Victor was grinning from ear to ear, and avoiding my stare. Whenever I looked over at him, he would start to laugh, despite the fact that no one was talking to him. He wanted me to realise how much better his life was than mine. I was a loser, out on my own. I had nothing while he was wrapped in fun, sex and laughter.
‘It was then that I decided to end it for him. I could have killed him, but I wanted more than that. In my eyes, revenge involved regret and despair. Victor would feel neither if he was dead. And I was determined that avenging myself would not impair my life in any way.’ I point to the soup on the ground. ‘You will not eat again until you finish that.’
She looks at me in disbelief, then bows her head again. The tears return.
‘Would you believe that Victor had the audacity to call me? Two days after I saw him at the pub, he left a message on my parents’ answer phone. “Moonface”, he said, “I saw you at the pub the other night. I didn’t get around to speaking to you. How’s it going? Give me a call, I’d like to know how you’re getting on. Speak soon”–’
‘I will eat it now,’ Elizabeth whispers.
I honour her request and remove her arm and stomach restraints. There is no need to remove the ankle ties – the soup is within her reach. She falls onto her hands, which barely manage to sustain her weight, and then she retches. She closes her eyes, extends her tongue and laps up the soup. I respect this decision. She has sensibly reasoned that at some point she would have to eat it, so it would better to do it while it is fresh, warm and still in liquid form.
While she cleans the floor, I continue. ‘Victor had always considered me a natural victim. But his life was incomplete without me. My misfortunes sustained him, so he called me.’
After several retches and much forced swallowing, the meal is finished. Elizabeth does not have the strength to lift herself back into her seat, so I assist her, lifting her up from beneath her arms.
‘In future you will you will do what you are told, won’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she replies with the most conviction I have heard since she has been here.
‘Now Victor is a drunken vagrant. He has no friends and nothing to gloat about.’ I smile. ‘That is revenge.’
8
Of all Elizabeth’s contacts, Rupert is the most active. It is the quantity, not content, of his text messages that reveal his lust – no single message hints at emotion.
I am not surprised when I see his face on her screen – wavy hair, polished teeth, bagless eyes and an unnatural tan that helps conceal acne scars beneath. Even though the picture was taken with a phone, and would probably not find itself on public display, Rupert posed for it. His head is angled towards the light, he looks away from the camera (no doubt to avoid red eye), and his expression is painfully managed – passionless and confident. I am sure that when Elizabeth took the photo, Rupert saw it as an essential element of his appeal. She would see it whenever he called and hopefully gaze at it when alone.
How can these people live like this?
His empty messages either invite her to events, or criticise someone she knows. It is as if he is prohibited from communicating feelings.
He is a perfect friend for Elizabeth – they are identical. Compatibility is most important when selecting friends. I smile. Perhaps that is why I have none. No, it is the modern world that denies me contact. Times in which Elizabeth formerly thrived. But she will no longer thrive in that environment. She will learn to resent it as much as me.
For a few minutes longer, I stare thoughtlessly at Rupert, then I replay my life as a handsome male... This is not the first time I have done this. And still I conclude with certainty that every piece of suffering would have been avoided. I bow my head and shake it. What a cruel twist of fate it is to be born ugly. It determines everything. A pretty barmaid attracts more male custom than financial incentives such as happy hours, and it is the same with pretty waitresses. Though these girls are most likely unavailable, men love to fantasise about pretty girls. It does not matter what she says, nor whether the food or atmosphere is good, it is simply an irresistible need to observe beauty.
Women are worse. They mix this blindness with rudeness and arrogance. They wait for men to come to them, and then break them if they appear visibly inferior.
This is the unforgiving world in which I live. I am one of the unfortunates. Though intellectually gifted, my physical shortcomings assign me the status of social reject. I am richer and more successful than most men my age, and yet no one wants to know me. PC Collingwell is interested only in deporting illegal immigrants, not in socialising with me.
His personal agenda has proved useful. Earlier today he arrested someone for immigration offences. Before I attended custody, I met PC Collingwell in the canteen while he was writing his arrest notes. I asked if I could borrow his pocket book so that I could photocopy the details he took from the prisoner. I knew he would not think twice about this. Such is my standing in his life, he happily passed me his pocket book which no doubt contained a wealth of information about individuals that is subject to data protection, and which I should not see. However, I had no interest in such information. I wanted PC Collingwell’s password for the Crime Reporting Information System.
The CRIS is the software program where all crimes are stored. I left the canteen and descended the stairs. I knew PC Collingwell would be too stupid to remember his passwords, and indeed, there they all were, listed on the back page of his notebook. I sat down at a computer terminal and logged onto the CRIS. I searched for Elizabeth as a victim. There were no hits, meaning that she had not yet been reported as a victim of crime – clearly the police were still treating it as a missing person enquiry. Unfortunately, I did not know where those enquiries were recorded, and I dared not probe PC Collingwell for the answer.
Elizabeth had been my prisoner for three days. Unless she’d been reported missing before, it would not be long before abduction was suspected and her details were transferred onto the CRIS. Now that I could access the system, I would be able to monitor police progress once the case opened.
What would Rupert think of Elizabeth now? She reeks of body odour, her make-up is faint and streaky and she is physically drained from sleep deprivation.
I dismantle and destroy both phones and then check on her.
‘How are you feeling, Elizabeth?’ She looks
at me like a puppy recently punished for misbehaving. Yet another tear seeps from the corner of her eye. I remove the tape from her mouth.
‘I-I will do anything...anything to get out of here...’
‘What are you suggesting?’
Her mouth and eyelids tighten as she tries to resist her emotions. ‘I will have sex with you,’ she whispers. ‘I will do anything sexual.’
‘You will not,’ I shout. ‘You and me will never share physical intimacy. You are a filthy, hideous, dead animal. You are nothing more than an experiment.’ She weeps. ‘I told you not to think of ways to escape. You have ignored me. Clearly you do not respect my authority-’
‘I do, Moonface, I do–’
I run up to her and grab her face. I lower myself so that our eyes are level. ‘Don’t you ever call me that again. I am nameless, do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
I replace the tape over her mouth and back away. ‘You have sacrificed your first shower. And extra food and water. And tonight you might freeze to death.’ I turn on the air conditioners, and leave the pathetic form whimpering in the basement.
I am irate and must relax. I am responsible for a prisoner. Anger breeds impulse and chaos, both of which will damage my strategy. I put Only Fools And Horses into my DVD player, knowing exactly which episode I want. It is the one where Rodney pretends he lives in an expensive area to impress Cassandra. I love it. It softens any mood. An amusing, fitting reminder to be yourself.
After this, I am in control again. I saunter into the computer room and log onto my online bank account. Once a day I check for any suspicious activity. There is none. My savings balance reads £158,619.19.
I earned most of this money over seven years ago, but seeing those six figures still thrills me. The transactions had actually profited me over £250,000, but I had used part of the money as a deposit for this house. And, as is tradition, I thank him for my online balance.
‘Mike Wickinton, you are a bad person, but thank you for my wealth.’