by Marc Horn
‘Really?’ I reply disinterestedly, glancing up briefly from my magazine.
‘Yeah. He was going on about some hot intelligence, trying to clear his name.’ I turn a page. ‘He’s on the Sex Offenders Register, but he reckons...’ PC Collingwell bursts into laughter. ‘He reckons he was set up by someone called “Moonface”!’
Instinctively I look up, and for that seemingly eternal moment my guilt is clear. Thank God it is Collingwell who sits opposite me. But, Victor had almost seen me! I was within feet of him in the station office! What if he had pointed at me? What then? My whole body trembles. I slip my hands under the table to hide them. ‘Moonface?’ I ask, feigning a painful smile.
‘Yeah, an old school friend of his, apparently. I found it quite funny so I asked a few questions. Spinney speaks well for a vaggie. He told me this Moonface confessed it to ‘im the other night, told Spinney he planted the kiddie porn in his house.’
I feel sick. I will not be able to eat. But I cannot leave, I cannot arouse suspicion. PC Collingwell finds the story funny. That is an enormous relief. What if they had taken Victor seriously? ‘Why would he do that?’ I ask.
‘’Cause Spinney bullied him at school. Seems unfair, don’t it?’ Collingwell grins. ‘You beat someone up at school and he retaliates by sticking you on the Sex Offenders Register!’
Never have I found it so difficult to laugh, but I have to, so I do so, agonisingly aware of my transparency. I must know something. It is vital. Whether it is foolish or not I ask, ‘Was he still drunk?’
‘More sober than I’ve ever seen him.’ I swallow hard. ‘The funniest part was the name... Moonface!’ PC Collingwell holds my terrified stare. ‘Guess why he’s called Moonface?’ I shrug weakly. ‘Cos he’s the ugliest bastard in the world!’
25
I wish I was fit. Never before have I felt such a need to run fast. My legs ache as I jog to the station, but I do not stop. I need isolation, to be at home where I can think. I feel certain that if I tackled my tangled mind in public, prying eyes would read my thoughts and expose my secret. Even in this stifling sunshine, my clothes are unnaturally sweaty. I look desperate and panicky. I stand out like someone who is harbouring a horrific piece of knowledge. I dash past the crowds in a haze. When I get home I lock the doors and collapse face down on my bed. For the meantime, I am safe. I cannot know how long this will last, but right now I have security.
My prominent thought is that Victor Spinney cannot destroy me. He cannot clear his name and expose everything I have done. That would be scandalous. He deserves to be exactly where he is; he is unworthy of a normal life. I punch my pillow, sinking my fist deep into the feathers. My anger caused this. I had to gloat at him, and have him understand that I was responsible for his disgraceful downfall. For six years I enjoyed his pain, safe in the knowledge that I would remain in the clear as long as I kept quiet. It had never bothered me that Victor had no idea who had framed him. I could easily resist the temptation to reveal that I had avenged his bullying. Many proficient criminals have been brought to justice because they could not keep their mouths shut. I knew I could. It was worth it to prolong his misery. And then, four nights ago, I may have sacrificed it, all because of my temper.
I had recalled the past, as I regularly did, but on that occasion it had been too much to take and I had felt the burning need to confront him. I had to kick him while he was down, feeling foolishly shielded by his paralytic state. It is obvious that the kidnapping has taken its toll on me. It has made me irrational, impulsive and dangerous. But there is no way I will allow Victor to set in motion my demise. I have always been smarter than him. I will crush any threat he poses.
But when I think of solutions, all I arrive at is murder, and I cannot do that. When I had decided, all those years ago, to seek revenge, I was adamant that murder was too lenient for Victor. That is still the case. No, I have to rectify my mistakes in some other way. Our lives must continue, unaltered by this new revelation.
I turn onto my back and slide my hands under my head. There is so much to fear. PC Collingwell is a tunnel-visioned officer who relies on stereotypes. He dismissed Victor’s claims because he is both a drunk and a sex offender. A professional officer might have investigated the allegation. That would entail searching my entire premises with a fine-toothed comb for any child pornography. That would lead them into the basement... I turn my head and bury it in the pillow. How could I do this to myself? How could I be so incompetent? Anger had caused me to assault Elizabeth with a pair of pliers, and afterwards I had fiercely regretted my actions. And now, that same anger has thrown my plan into jeopardy. Worst of all, Victor Spinney, bane of my life, is involved.
I leave my bed and walk to the kitchen. I switch on the kettle, drop a teabag in a mug, and add two heaped spoonfuls of sugar. Collingwell said that Victor was more sober than he had ever seen him. So I must prepare myself for the worst case scenario – Victor is cleaning up his act to clear his name. He knows the police will ignore him while he’s drunk. Once he is sober, if he persists enough, the police will have to entertain his claims. Victor does not know where I live, but he knows where my parents live. Regardless of that, it’s easy to trace a person. If the police visit me, they will not find what they are looking for, but they will find something far more sinister. And I will be finished...
Somehow, I have to intervene. Visiting Victor again will not help. He is determined. That is proven by his decision to wait four days before reporting me to the police. He wanted to be taken seriously and I doubt he’ll stop until he is absolved of his crimes. If I try to physically intervene it will merely demonstrate my anxiety and add fuel to his fire. I fill my mug with boiling water and stir. I don’t know what to do. Right now I feel that all I can do is hope Victor gives up. I will subtly extract information from PC Collingwell and hope that the commotion dies. Police officers do not like criminals. Once someone is convicted they are guilty, and once guilty the investigation is complete. I hope that is the case, but I hate to rely on chance. Chance works both ways – there is a chance that police officers could storm into my basement. But I cannot think of another solution. I gasp when the phone rings.
‘Hello, Chalk,’ Mother greets me.
‘Mother,’ I reply flatly, not in the mood to pretend.
‘I’m calling about the other night,’ she says. I feel like slamming the phone down. I don’t care about her limited, insubstantial feelings. If she dares to criticise the Sunday dish, then I will retaliate. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you had a girlfriend?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘We hadn’t seen you for two years and you didn’t even mention that you were living with someone.’
I swallow hard. I don’t understand. Clearly she had not seen Elizabeth in the basement. ‘I’m not,’ I say weakly.
‘Chalk, I saw ladies products in the bathroom. Why do you have to lie?’
I cover my face with my free hand. I am losing it. How could I have been so careless? I had furnished Elizabeth with bathroom products and left them in there. Mother had used the bathroom and snooped around. Oh Jesus! I am crumbling away. I cannot be trusted with this anymore. The cracks began a while back, but now I have been torn apart. I am a loner, and yet two people ̶ three including my father ̶ are unravelling my plan. I am such a fool! I need to think again! I need time to–
‘Chalk?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t address me like that!’
‘I’m sorry, Mother, but you shouldn’t have pried into my personal affairs.’ I am waffling. I am buying time. I don’t know what to say.
‘I am your mother, Chalk. Your father and I are interested to know what is going on. That’s why we visited.’
I laugh, a little nervously and a little crossly. My mind is racing, forming ideas and checking them for flaws. ‘You want to have something to tell the neighbours about your son,’ I say. A pause. I know exactly how my parents work. They can’t bear to be disapproved.
‘Well, yes, that would be nice.’
‘Then tell them the truth, Mother. I do not have a girlfriend, because I “look different to the others”.’ She will not remember that she said that twenty-one years ago, but it was an important statement in my development. ‘And you were right, crying doesn’t make it better, but I learned that money does.’ I take a breath, aware of the significance of my next words. ‘Those products are used by the prostitutes I hire to spend the night with me,’ I say, effectively ending our relationship. I hear Mother gasp for air. ‘They like to clean my sweat off them.’
Mother hangs up. For the last time, I can confidently say.
26
I pull off the sandbag and toss it towards the corner of the basement. Senses Shutdown was supposed to last a week, but my recent irrational conduct has forced me to cut it two days short. Now I have to rush, as time is an issue.
Her eyes flit about frantically, sweeping back and forth across the room, as if the past five days have taken from her something she longs to retrieve. Hopefully, her personality. I pull apart the ear defenders and send them in the direction of the sandbag, then I rip the black tape off her mouth. Elizabeth bows her head and remains silent. Her erratic, jumpy breaths soon become barely discernible. I can tell something significant has happened. I sit down opposite her and lean forward, my hand cupping my mouth. A scene from One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest materialises in my mind – Murphy, lying in bed, reduced to a vegetable, the fire and energy gone. I sit back fast and suck in air, until my stomach fully expands. Elizabeth is not a hero. She has not saved people and achieved what the system would not. She is no Murphy. I extinguish the film footage from my mind, but its space is swiftly filled by newly neutered pets. Their ability to recreate destroyed, many shun their owners for the rest of the day and absorb themselves in what I am certain is self-pity. What had they done to deserve it? Their owners wanted just them and not their offspring, so they eradicated the motherhood phase and the joy of bringing life into the world in order to ensure survival of the species. Imagine if a human being withheld that right from their own child. They would not dare... But this is different. Very different. This thing in front of me does not deserve sympathy. ‘Sit up,’ I say, and Elizabeth obeys immediately, like a soldier. Her teeth are grit, not in anger, but because her ears are particularly sensitive at this time. ‘What is my name?’ She studies me as if I am an organism beneath a microscope. Her mouth opens and shuts as if she is chewing gum. Then she whispers, ‘I don’t...I don’t...I don’t know what to call you.’
‘Do you know who I am?’ She nods. ‘Do you know why you are here?’
A long silence ensues. ‘I did something...very bad.’
She is a pitiful form in front of me. I have to fill my lungs with air to stay in control, to ignore the possible consequences of my actions. I had kept her hydrated and fed during Senses Shutdown. During the procedure I visited her four times a day, twice to give her water and twice to feed her soup. I allowed her only to drink, not to speak. Nor did I fully remove the sandbag or defenders. I simply ripped off the tape, forced the contents down her throat, reapplied the tape and left. It was not an opportunity for her to whinge or plead, nor to inhale large quantities of air, it was done to keep her alive. Only her mind was supposed to alter during Senses Shutdown, not her physical appearance. However, I can see her health has deteriorated and this worries me. ‘Senses Shutdown has been completed, Elizabeth. You will not spend another minute inside that sandbag.’ She does not react. I rub my stubble. ‘You may call me Chalk.’ Without looking up at me she nods. I sniff and look away. ‘Is there anything you would like to ask me?’ She shakes her head. ‘Would you like something to eat or drink?’ I cannot be ruthless right now. I am panicking.
‘Do you have pizza here?’ she asks.
‘Yes, yes I do. It is frozen and will take a short while to defrost, but I will prepare it for you.’
‘Thank you.’
Her face is lifeless. I untie her wrist restraints and hand her a cup of water. Her fingers open slowly and grip the cup weakly. I help her lift it to her mouth. As the liquid trickles down her throat I retract my hand and I am relieved to see that the cup does not fall. ‘You are dehydrated, but I will soon have you back to full health.’ I watch her emotionless features for a few seconds and then release her ankle and waist restraints. ‘You are mobile now, Elizabeth. While I am upstairs, move your limbs. I do not recommend that you leave your chair, as you are weak and disoriented and will probably lose your balance.’ The empty cup slips free from Elizabeth’s hand. A spark of fear emerges in her eyes. ‘It’s okay, Elizabeth.’ I pick up the cup. ‘I will fetch your pizza.’ I rush up to the kitchen and cook the pizza. When I return to the basement, Elizabeth is still in her chair, albeit in a more slumped position. ‘Here is a medium pizza. It is all yours.’ I place the plate on her lap. She takes a slice and ever-so-slowly chews it. She has not heard, seen, or said anything for five days. Neither has she chewed anything. And she smells foul. I could not allow her to use the cat litter during Senses Shutdown. So she has excreted and urinated in her own clothes. Of course, she was not permitted to cleanse herself either, so each day I killed any flies that were showing an interest in her, and checked that there were none beneath her blanket. Elizabeth’s chewing speed increases and before long she picks up the second slice. During Senses Shutdown I had regarded Elizabeth’s stench as a necessary part of the process and so had ignored it. Now, however, the smell overpowers me and tugs at my guilt. ‘When you have finished, you may use the bathroom toilet and then take a shower.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Tomorrow I will buy you some new clothes.’
It takes Elizabeth thirty minutes to eat the pizza. Though clearly full after three or four slices, she persevered with it, apparently conscious that such good luck may not again come her way.
When she stands she is very wobbly and I have to support her weight. Concerned that she may slip in the shower, I escort her around the basement a few times. At first it is as if she is a child taking her first few steps, but her balance quickly returns and after three circuits she is able to walk independently. ‘It is just like riding a bike,’ I joke, but she does not respond. I help Elizabeth climb the stairs and resist the urge to tell her to hand me her clothes so that I can wash them in the machine. ‘There is no time limit, Elizabeth,’ I say as she enters the bathroom, ‘you may take as long as you like.’ Just before I close the door I add, ‘Do not forget to clean your clothes in the toilet.’ While I wait for Elizabeth I think of the filthy state of her clothes. For five days, the urine and faeces have stagnated in her underwear, attracting bacteria and disease. I catch my breath and swallow hard. Poor Elizabeth. She did not deserve that! I run to my bedroom and lift my dressing robe off the hook. Then I open the bathroom door slightly. ‘Elizabeth?’
‘Yes?’
‘I am going to take your dirty clothes and clean them in my washing machine. You may wear my dressing robe. It is too big for you, but it is warm and clean.’
‘Okay. Thank you.’
I enter the bathroom, gather up her wet clothes and drop my robe on the carpet. As I am about to leave I hear her say ‘Chalk?’ I turn and face her. Just her head pokes out of the shower curtain. ‘Why did you do that to me?’ She looks at me as if I have betrayed her trust, as if we had a special bond that I had broken. As if what I had done was inexcusable. And, as I look at her sad, teary eyes, I feel that it was. If I open my mouth and speak my voice will reveal this. So I say nothing, and just carry her clothes out of the room.
27
The next morning, I do not feel rested. I cannot remember my dreams, but throughout the night they kept me restless.
After removing the tape, I sit in front of Elizabeth. She looks a great deal better than yesterday. ‘Did you sleep?’ I ask her.
‘Yes.’
My maroon robe looks enormous on her, but I will not mention this. ‘Is the robe comfortable?’
I remove her wrist restraints and pass her a cup of water which she quickly drinks. After this, I make her some soup which she consumes at a more leisurely pace.
‘May I ask you a question?’ she says softly.
There is an innocence about Elizabeth’s demeanour that I had not noticed before Senses Shutdown. This excites me. ‘You may,’ I reply.
‘How long have I been here?’
‘This is your sixteenth day.’
‘Okay,’ she responds nonchalantly.
The desperation is not there and that calculating mind seems absent. This is what I wanted, but my recent errors have caused marginal amounts of self-doubt, so I had only half expected it to happen. Still, I cannot be sure that I am right yet. ‘Would you like to leave?’
‘I am not ready to leave.’
Again, there is genuineness in her tone, her look and her delivery. I want to believe her. I feel inclined to believe her. I don’t have the time to doubt her. Perhaps this kidnapping has to become a gamble where all my stakes are on her word. ‘Why not?’ I ask.
‘Because you have not taught me enough.’
I study her. She is saying all the right things. I could not have hoped for better responses. They make me cynical. This is the girl who treated me like dirt. ‘What do you want to learn?’
‘How to stop hurting people.’ She looks at me. Her stare is now distant as if she sees through me and the walls, to a place far away. Though she says what I want to hear, her comments lack passion and belief. She is too robotic. But that, I feel, is a result of her senses being unemployed for five days, which has cost her some vigour. It is not that she doesn’t mean what she says. I get up and reapply her wrist restraints.