by Marc Horn
A week ago, Adam Abdullah would have been boarding the first plan back to Somalia. But now I cannot be bothered to complete the paperwork. Releasing him is the most effective use of my time. Yes, the government pay for my time, but during my career I have saved them hundreds of thousands. The pitiful wages I receive do not come close to justifying my hard work. So now I am clawing back some profits. I find that all I want to do is see Elizabeth.
Back in the basement, I release Elizabeth’s wrists and waist and remove the tape from her mouth. Then she leans forwards and picks up the fresh mug of soup. ‘Thank you,’ she says.
‘I should think so. All this hospitality is free.’ Silence. ‘But your sympathy is unwarranted. I am quite rich... In fact, maybe I should enlighten you about another bully from my past...’ She looks up at me. ‘...Mike Wickinton was a calculating, inventive person. I was acutely aware of his potential to become very successful.’ Elizabeth places the now-empty mug on the floor. ‘Wickinton was friends with Victor Spinney. Remember him?’
‘Yes, he was your best friend.’
‘Indeed. Good.’ I smile. ‘...Wickinton only occasionally joined in with the bullying towards me, as he was intensely focused on his academic achievements. Unlike Victor, he would never sacrifice his studies to torment me. I was there for temporary comic relief.’ Elizabeth holds my gaze. ‘He had superb acumen - in business studies he could identify ways to increase profits in any given scenario. Mikewickinton.com... that would be his website, he told us. He predicted that he would be a millionaire before his twenty-first birthday, and encouraged us to log onto his website in three years to see proof.’ I grin at Elizabeth. I am especially proud of this story. ‘I logged on years before that. And before Wickinton himself did…’
I look to see if Elizabeth has guessed the rest. She may have - she looks fascinated. It may be that finally I am appealing to her a little.
‘... I took his domain name.’ A smile breaks across my face. ‘I...I became the owner of mikewickinton.com...’ I fill my lungs with air. ‘It was a momentous occasion, the best I had ever felt. Wickinton had bragged about this website for years, but it belonged to me, the guy he had abused for so many years...’ I turn serious. ‘Then he became my victim… And I did not stop there. I did not want him to outsmart me. I assumed ownership of mikewickinton.co.uk, mikewickinton.net, mikewickinton.org, mikewickinton.uk... all of them. Though I was certain his ego would force him to stick with.com, I eliminated any opportunity for him to avoid negotiating with me.’
I expect Elizabeth to praise me, but she does not. ‘...Wickinton paid me £252,500 for mikewickinton.com... And I made him pay me in person. See, I was in control. I could demand anything. So I smiled smugly as he transferred the money into my account. He tried to detach himself, but his bitterness was apparent. The bigger picture obviously drove him on, but for me it was a great day. He had paid me a quarter of a million for bullying me...’ Elizabeth does not know what to say, nor how to look. She is straight faced. ‘Wickinton is indeed a millionaire, but I exposed his stupidity. I beat him and no amount of money can change that...’
‘May I use the toilet?’ Elizabeth asks.
Disappointed that she has not responded to my story, I release her restraints and leave the basement. Minutes later I return to see she is sitting back in her seat. I immobilise her, then look at the drawer. A soft pile of excrement lies on top of the soil. Again, this disappoints me. I had thought that by now she would be more sensible. And I had thought I would be in better spirits. But can I really expect Elizabeth to worship me? I have kidnapped her. She is here against her will. It will take a lot longer for her to warm to me.
I cannot shake free my despair however, so I decide to wind up some geeks. I log onto lightsaberon.com and criticise Revenge of the Sith... ‘Yoda and Obi-Wan are cowards,’ I write. ‘They ran off to save their own skins when the galaxy was plunged into darkness; Padme died too soon for Leia to have remembered her in Return of the Jedi; Lord Vader had no reason to live after he learns of Padme’s death; if you want to hide Anakin’s son from the emperor, then perhaps you should assign him a different surname...’ I post this and, still feeling dejected, order a pizza and eat it while I watch a film.
That night I have a wet dream about Elizabeth. When I recall it, it disgusts me. She could not excite me like that. How could I imagine such a vile thing? Elizabeth is the most repulsive of people. I could never enjoy intimacy with her. She is damaged, sick and self-absorbed. Such a vision disturbs me.
Sweating and cold, I bury my face in the pillow and close my eyes. I try to empty my mind and succumb to the void. The void however is soon filled with Elizabeth quivering and terrified in the basement, her tiny toes numb and blue, her butchered finger throbbing and her cute face stained with tears. I realise I forgot to cover her with the blanket. I must correct this now. No! I do not care about her. Her comfort is irrelevant. She is here to learn, not enjoy herself.
As I try to sleep, she haunts me. I had not anticipated this. I was not meant to suffer. I know it is irrational, but I cannot relax. How is she stimulating these emotions? I hate her. She is here because she treated me like vermin. I must enjoy her distress.
Twenty minutes later I head down to the basement and throw the blanket over her.
‘Thank you,’ she says, as I storm up the stairs.
15
A fly buzzes around Elizabeth’s stool. If nothing is done the drawer will soon be crawling with maggots. I will not warn Elizabeth of this. She should by now know how to survive.
I hand her three eggs, three slices of bread, then place the full kettle and spoon on the floor. I plug the kettle into the wall. ‘Three egg sandwiches, Elizabeth.’
She looks confused for a second, and then thanks me. The egg she broke four days ago is now a solid splash of glue on the floor.
‘Would you like to clean your living space?’ I ask, nodding towards the mess.
‘Yes please.’
I hand her a rag and then sit in my chair. She stares blankly at it, then bends over and rubs the mess with it. Of course it merely causes the surface to flake. Elizabeth pauses, drops the rag on her lap, plops the eggs in the kettle and then switches it on. Then she sits back and waits for it to boil.
‘Have you used a train recently?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you notice much eye contact between passengers?’
‘Erm...not really.’
‘Not really?’
‘A couple of guys looked at...me.’
‘For how long?’
‘A second.’
I smile. ‘Actually, Elizabeth, they most likely stared at you for the entire journey.’
She moves her head as if to shake it, but stops herself – I let her think about this for a couple of minutes before I continue.
‘They might only have looked directly at you for one second, but for the remainder of the journey they watched your reflection in the window.’
‘Okay.’
‘You have seen someone’s reflection in the window before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Indeed. It gives a clear, defined image. And this is how people observe their surroundings – if a passenger makes a strange noise, rather than look directly at them, the person opposite will look at them via the glass; an attractive female will be drooled over via the glass; an aggressive youth will be studied via the glass... But why?’
‘...Because...it is safer.’
‘In relation to the youth, partly, but I am looking for the reason that links all three.’
Elizabeth thinks. I allow her time to do so. Minutes later the rising steam obscures her face. She has said nothing. She does not know. The kettle boils.
‘Looking at people makes us feel awkward,’ I say. ‘So we sneak inconspicuous glances to avoid eye contact. Have you ever caught someone looking at your reflection?’
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘When you did, he turned his head away as fast as he
could, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
I nod. ‘He did not want you to look back at him. He was embarrassed of his own image, that’s why he wanted to keep his interest secret. That is how most of us are - afraid of being observed. And sub-consciously we know most other people do not want to be looked at, so we do it discreetly.’ I place my hands behind my head and let this point sink in. ‘Do you think many people are content with their appearance?’
Elizabeth leans forwards and spoons out the eggs. ‘No.’ She starts to remove one of the egg shells.
‘Correct. Most of us would be happier living with bags over our heads.’
Elizabeth places the shell-less egg on a piece of bread. She is about to place another slice on top.
‘Just fold the slice over, that way you can use one egg per slice,’ I say helpfully.
She obliges.
‘Living by reflections, that’s what we do. How can that be right?’
‘I don’t know,’ Elizabeth replies, clearly not wanting to commit herself.
‘That is how we are raised, Elizabeth. That is why the world is such a bad place.’
Elizabeth takes a bite of her sandwich and then opens her mouth to let the egg cool.
‘The more attractive you are, the easier it is. However, these lucky people are not satisfied and criticise those less fortunate.’ Elizabeth looks up guiltily. I wait a few seconds and then continue. ‘Yesterday, I saw a yuppie businessman part ways with a beautiful girl.’ Elizabeth holds my gaze. ‘”Bye love” he said as he rushed off. And it struck me that if you changed the spelling of his farewell to read “buy love”, it summed up his situation. That is what he had done - used his wealth to acquire her. I am not prepared to “buy love”. I want a girl to like me. It always frustrated me that arrogant, self-important high-flyers had girlfriends, because they did not deserve them. It took me a while to realise that these girls were equally as shallow. That knowledge, however, did not ease my loneliness.’
Elizabeth stops eating for a second, and then slowly continues. I watch her. After finishing the sandwich, still ravenous, she hammers away at the second egg and peels off the shell. Then she places the egg on the slice of bread and folds the bread over it.
‘Who are you looking for, Elizabeth?’ I feel a shiver as I ask this.
She finishes her mouthful and says, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Would you prefer someone to fall in love with you at a nightclub, or when you have just stepped out of the shower?’
‘When I have stepped out of the shower.’
I want to believe her, but I know she is lying. ‘Which would Rupert prefer?’
She stops chewing and looks at me.
‘I have read his text messages. He wants you.’
Her eyes swell with tears. ‘Not like this...’
This devastates me. ‘You are still concerned about your beauty?’ I say, my voice breaking a little.
‘It’s what they know,’ she cries.
‘Is it how you want to be known?’ I ask.
‘No, but...but I am...trapped.’
This observation dampens my rising anger. Such perception to accept that she is trapped outside too.
‘Why can you not break free, Elizabeth?’ I whisper. ‘Why?’
She thinks. ‘...I’m too self-conscious...’
‘Yes, Elizabeth! Like me, like everyone, but it holds us back. Do you see this?’
She nods and then bows her head.
‘You have nothing to be ashamed of,’ I say, fighting an urge to hold her hand. Trembling, she returns her little sandwich to her mouth. I feel like crying. I am experiencing agonising pain. My better judgement carries me out of the room and into my back garden.
A cloudless, vivid sky... I suck in air and regulate my breathing. Something unexpected is happening to me. Something I must destroy. Such feelings are futile. They will crush me. They will finish me. If I do not expel them, I will spend the rest of my life regretting them. I am not a fool. I am in control, not Elizabeth. I dictate what happens to both of us. But I am battling with the most powerful emotion known to man.
16
That afternoon, while I use the toilet, I revise my brainwashing notes. Unlike other males, I sit on the toilet while I urinate. Standing up is unhygienic. It leaves urine deposits everywhere…
I have achieved the first three stages of mind control. There are five, and Elizabeth is currently at stage four – she is prepared to change. It is taking longer than I had expected, because she is stronger than I had anticipated. Naturally then, proceedings have been more brutal than I had wanted, but it was necessary to assume control.
In my mind I picture Elizabeth’s wounded finger and then worry that it might turn septic. It is insanitary down there and the bacteria will infect her finger. I drop my papers, clean myself, grab the first aid kit in the cabinet and rush downstairs...
I try to appear nonchalant as I hold the injured finger. Elizabeth stares at me as I unscrew the antiseptic cream.
‘What should I call you?’ she asks.
Avoiding her eyes, I squeeze a blob of cream onto her finger and then work it into the skin around the nail. ‘Mr Cutter,’ I say.
‘Okay.’
Carefully, I insert the nozzle beneath the broken nail and squeeze until cream lifts the nail. Then I secure the nail to her finger with a plaster. I replace the cap, close the first aid kit, and sit back in my chair.
‘Thank you, Mr Cutter,’ she says.
This makes me squirm. But I cannot allow her to use my Christian name. She is my enemy. I must not forget that.
‘When a beautiful lady walks past me, how do you think I react, Elizabeth?’
‘Most guys would stare at her.’
‘And I?’
‘You would not.’
‘Exactly! I do not want to feed her ego.’ I look at the kettle on the floor and shudder. How careless of me to leave it there. Fortunately she has not used the boiling water to scald herself. In her state, that is a danger. When she is alone, nothing potentially harmful must be accessible.
I notice that the mess on the floor has gone. The rag, now wet, lays folded on the floor, next to her chair. I look over at the drawer, and see four small flies buzzing around Elizabeth’s toilet. They infuriate me. How dare they bring their disease here, to Elizabeth! I will make them suffer. I will torture them... I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
‘You must cover your waste with the earth,’ I tell her. ‘Then the flies will go...’ I place my hands over my face and then run my fingers over my scalp. I am frustrated with myself.
‘What’s the matter, Mr Cutter?’
‘It’s Chalk!’ I shout. ‘My name is Chalk!’
My temper frightens her – she backs into her seat.
I sigh. ‘In fact it is Chalk with a question mark on the end... My parents could not decide if ‘Chalk’ was appropriate, so my birth certificate reads Chalk with a question mark... They are a pair of idiots.’
Elizabeth mouths a word but does not speak it.
‘I must be the only person who has a punctuation mark after his Christian name.’
Incredibly, Elizabeth has the audacity to smile. Unprepared for this, I look uncomfortably away.
‘...These women...these women spend hours dressing themselves before they leave their homes, and they want men to look at them. But when you do look, they look back in disgust... They wear tight tops that accentuate their cleavage and then judge you for looking!’
Elizabeth nods.
‘They need you to look to sustain their ego,’ I explain, ‘and they need to disapprove to show you’re beneath them. How utterly selfish!’
Elizabeth tries to hide her guilt. She was like that.
‘So I do not fulfil their needs. I do not look at these pigs. Even when one sits opposite me, I will not acknowledge her.’
Elizabeth rings her bell and then looks awkwardly at me. I remove her restraints and leave the room. When I return a coupl
e of minutes later, I see only earth exposed in the drawer. There are no flies. I tie Elizabeth back to the chair.
‘When I was fourteen, I asked for a coat for Christmas. I had seen it in a fashion shop and thought it looked extremely cool. It seemed my judgement was correct, because when I wore it back to school Victor did not criticise it. Neither did he compliment it, but saying nothing meant he liked it. A couple of weeks later, I accidentally left the coat at his house. When he returned it to me the next day, a tiny piece of the lining had been ripped and the front pocket had been stained with a pea sized amount of cooking fat.’ Elizabeth looks sympathetic. ‘I was devastated. I could not accept to myself that Victor had done it. That would leave my life in turmoil. I needed him and he could do no wrong.
‘Years later, I accepted that he had done it. He had damaged my coat because it was the one thing I possessed that he envied. Because it was the one thing I owned that I loved. He could not tolerate my happiness. I had to be a victim in every capacity...’
Elizabeth no longer hates me. Her expression betrays the feelings inside her. You cannot pity someone you loathe.
‘To understand what I did to Victor, first you have to know him.’
She nods. Her lips are dry and tiny scabs are evident where she had once bled. Her hair is brittle and her skin pale. But she looks the healthiest she has since being here.
‘Do you want to take a shower?’ I ask.
‘Yes please.’
In the bathroom I add lip balm and a bottle of moisturiser to her available products. It joins the shampoo and shower gel. Then, after a brief inner conflict, I add a toothbrush too. But no toothpaste. I draw the line there.
Elizabeth makes it to the bathroom unassisted. I am pleased to note that she is regaining strength.
While she is showering, I hear something on the TV that catches my attention. Cautiously, I inch into the lounge and see Elizabeth’s face on the screen. A delightful thrill electrifies me. It is a request for help to locate a missing person. Only I know where she is. I have fooled the world. I have kidnapped her. Her fate is in my hands. Suffer, you people. Suffer for what you have done...