She's Mine

by Claire S. Lewis

  ‘Oh Scarlett, you never give up, do you? Look at the state of me.’ She points to her bandaged right shoulder. ‘It’s impossible. I can’t move my arm. Anyway, I just told you. I’m terrified of swimming. I can’t do it.’

  Gently, I give her a hug. I know it’s a desperate plan but I’m not giving up.

  ‘Then I’ll get the dinghy and come back for you. Just be ready to climb out of the porthole. You can manage that, can’t you?’

  As the dinghy disappears from view behind the catamaran, I carefully raise the gun using both hands and take two successive shots perfectly aimed at the fixings on the porthole.

  ‘Bullseye!’

  I toss the pistol down onto the bed.

  ‘There’s one bullet left. I’m off. If this doesn’t work, you’ll just have to use the gun to defend yourself.’

  34

  Scarlett

  ‘You’re going to have to be brave, and you might have to be brutal,’ I say to Christina as I force open the broken porthole. ‘If she comes down here, take control. Surprise her with the gun. Make her your hostage. Keep her here as long as you can. Better still, get out of the cabin and lock her in.’ I try to sound more confident than I feel. Christina’s not much of a fighter at the best of times. With only one good arm she’ll be a pushover.

  I crouch on the lower rim of the porthole and dive into the steely grey water. It’s colder than I expected. The churning waves drag me back against the hull. Eventually I manage to kick myself away from the yacht and get into my stride for a long, hard swim round to the stern where the dinghy is tied up. Each stroke is painful as I fight against the current. It takes me so long battling the waves that when I get to the dinghy, spluttering and out of breath, I find Gabrielle has already unloaded all the gasoline cans, pulled it out of the water onto the trampoline and secured it to the yacht with a heavy-duty metal chain.

  So that’s that – there’s no way I can release the dinghy. There’s no escape.

  I climb up until my head is just above the level of the deck and I can see into the saloon. Even out here with the sea breeze tangling my hair, the stink of gasoline reaches me. Gabrielle is strolling round the saloon, cigarette in one hand, and a jerry can in the other, pouring petrol out in a continuous stream over the wooden floorboards of the saloon. There’s a heap of empty cans discarded in a corner on the deck. That woman really is nuts. If she drops her cigarette, the whole thing will go up like a flaming rocket.

  She empties the last jerry can then casually kicks it out to the deck and heads down the steps to the cabins. This is my chance. Our only hope now is to get an SOS out to the coastguard. If the coastguard picks up our distress call, and alerts the police, there’s a chance we’ll be rescued. If not, we’re done for. I just pray Christina can keep Gabrielle below deck long enough for me to send the message.

  When Gabrielle is out of sight, I race to the control station and run my fingers over knobs and switches trying to figure out how to send out an SOS. As I do so, I hear raised voices coming from the cabin. At last I manage to activate the distress button. Thank God! Just then things start to kick off down below – screaming and shouting, the cabin door opening and slamming, followed by the clatter of footsteps on the stairs.

  Gabrielle must have got hold of the gun… it’s over!

  I run for cover.

  At the back of the saloon I find an empty store cupboard and squeeze inside.

  *

  I have no idea how long I’ve been crouching here in the dark – expecting to hear a gunshot ringing out any second. But it doesn’t come. The Phantasea’s been sailing under power for most of that time. I hear the rumble of the engine and the rush of water beneath me as the catamaran tacks upwind from one heading to another. I wonder where she’s taking us? Is she heading for the open sea before setting fire to the boat?

  I hear the grinding of the anchor being dropped and then the engine is switched off. Then all is still, save for the endless lapping of waves and the rise and fall of the catamaran in the swell – this combined with the intoxicating fug of petrol fumes, is truly nauseating.

  My split-second decision to hide in the cupboard doesn’t seem so smart now after someone – it must be Gabrielle – walked past the door that I’d left slightly ajar and kicked it closed. Now rather than a predator waiting for my moment to pounce, I’m a captive once again.

  Fortunately, the door is slatted and made of plywood with a flimsy catch, so if I shove all my weight against it, I should be able to break it down. Trapped in the dark, I’m able to decipher two almost identical voices. There’s Christina’s, restrained, private school-educated tones, with the hint of a transatlantic accent over the top. And that must be Gabrielle, almost indistinguishable from Christina, but a touch more brittle and clipped – vintage Made In Chelsea. Christina’s gone silent now and Gabrielle is doing all the talking, speaking in a flat, relentless monotone as if she’s reading from a text.

  The cupboard’s only just deep enough for me to sit down on the wooden floor with my knees bent up to my chin.

  Relax. Breathe.

  I’ve endured this claustrophobia once before in a performance of The Tempest when I was made to get inside a ‘sea chest’ while the whole cast leapt and vaulted over it as the ship went down in the storm.

  Thump, thump, crash…Keep breathing, keep counting… When you get to one hundred it will all be over and you can push up the lid and leap out triumphantly onto the stage.

  But that was playacting – this is for real. How did it come to this? Me, stuck here in a box, at the mercy of this psychotic woman?

  I wriggle my toes as cramp sets in. Every muscle in my back and lower legs is killing me. Through the slats, I see two pairs of legs from mid-thigh downwards, slim, suntanned and shapely. Identical. The same firm line of muscle, the same curvature at the calf, the same structure of the knee. The sort of legs that belong to rich women. One pair of legs is sliding in and out of my field of vision, as Gabrielle (it must be her) moves round the cabin. The other pair of legs is bent at the knee – that must be Christina perched up on one of the leather bar stools – and bound at the ankle with several turns of thick rope. So now Gabrielle has tied her up. I see Christina’s feet twisting round and round as she tries to loosen the rope.

  The walking legs move into my field of vision. I hold my breath as a hand comes into view – it looks identical to Christina’s hand but there’s a wedding band and a large engagement ring on the fourth finger. The hand is clenching a knife, a short fisherman’s knife, of a kind that might be used to gut a fish. It belongs to the walking legs.

  Oh my God, she’s going to stab her!

  I kick my bent legs as hard as I can against the locked cupboard door. The wood splinters, the catch breaks and I tumble onto the floor. I leap to my feet and lunge towards Gabrielle, hoping that the shock of my sudden appearance will be enough to make her freeze. But instead of showing any sign of alarm, she turns to face me, the knife held in mid-air like the paintbrush of an artist interrupted in her work.

  ‘I was wondering how long it would take for you to come out of your rat hole!’

  She throws back her head and laughs while I stand there at a loss what to do next.

  ‘I’ve been hearing you scratching away in there ever since we set sail.’

  So, she knew I was there all the time. She’s been playing cat-and-mouse with me again. It suited her to have me out of the way while she tied up Christina and set up her props. Instinctively, I sense that I have to confront this woman – any sign of weakness or vulnerability and she’ll pounce.

  ‘What the hell have you done with Katie?’ I yell. ‘Where is she?’

  She feigns ignorance. ‘You know exactly who I’m talking about.’ I position myself between her and Christina. ‘What have you done with her? The little girl you stole from the beach…’

  Gabrielle steps right up to me, gesturing with the knife to emphasise her words. ‘Rescued. You insolent, irresponsible girl. I re
scued her,’ she says. ‘Damien’s taking good care of her. She’s safe now, much safer than she ever was with you. It was on your watch that she almost drowned don’t forget!’

  Well, that hurt!

  There’s no point trying to have a sensible conversation with someone brandishing a knife. I turn my attention to Christina. She’s leaning backwards with her eyes closed, rigid with pain. As well as having her feet bound, her arms are pinned behind the backrest of the bar stool, held fast by a thick belt strapped round her torso. Her shoulder must be killing her.

  Gabrielle shoves me to one side and kicks her in the shins, hard.

  ‘Wake up,’ she orders. This is all your fault.’ She punctuates her speech by hammering an empty vodka bottle down onto the table – bang, bang, bang – as she paces up and down the saloon. ‘You destroyed my marriage… You broke my heart… You stole my husband… You stole my baby… I’ve taken back what was mine and now you’re going to pay.’

  Christina opens her eyes. ‘You lying, vicious bitch,’ she says.

  It’s astonishing. If it weren’t for the knife and the belt and the rope, they could be mistaken for teenage sisters squabbling over a botched date after a boozy party.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ I blurt out. ‘Why have you tied her up?’

  I dodge behind the barstool and struggle to undo the buckle of the belt.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ says Gabrielle. She speaks slowly, confident and in control. ‘She chose that belt for me in Venice.’ Her tone is hostile yet smooth. ‘I always hated it. Finally I’ve found a good use for it.’

  She smiles and drags over another bar stool.

  ‘Do come and sit down,’ she says, as if she’s inviting me to join the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. ‘In married life, three is company and two is none. Hey Lara – Oscar Wilde. You must remember that from your Oxford days. The same goes for us twins.’ She pats Christina’s knee. ‘We always get along so much better when we’re in a threesome, don’t we Lara? We’re not so good at being alone together.’ She flicks the blade of the knife to direct me to the barstool next to Christina. ‘Welcome to the Last Chance Saloon!’ she says pointedly.

  I’m scared she’ll lose it if I challenge her, so I play along and sit down quietly.

  A thick bundle of papers tied together with a black ribbon lies among the clutter of empty bottles on the bar in front of Christina.

  IN THE CASE OF KENEDEY V HAMILTON

  The heading reads. As Gabrielle pours herself a glass of vodka, I peer over to read the summary of proceedings at the top of the page. If I understand the legal jargon correctly, the documents relate to the legal battle over parental rights and custody of Katie in relation to the ‘aborted’ surrogacy.

  So now I’m beginning to understand why Gabrielle lured Christina on to this yacht and is subjecting her to such intimidation and abuse. She’s planning to keep her hostage, until she’s broken her down and forced her to sign the legal papers giving herself adoption rights over Katie and the legal status as Katie’s mother. She’s taken the law into her own hands.

  Ceremoniously, she frees one of Christina’s arms from the belt and hands her a pen. She’s not as crazy as she seems.

  In one swift movement, Christina picks up the pen and hurls it as hard as she can across the saloon.

  ‘You just made a big mistake, sister,’ says Gabrielle without even turning to look at Christina. She hooks the knife inside her belt and pours me a shot.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Go on. Knock it back. Chill out.’ she says. ‘You look like a rabbit caught in the headlights. You’re making me nervous.’

  From the way Gabrielle’s swaying around, I can tell she’s had more than a few shots already even though she’s speaking every word with absolute precision. The wild glint in her eyes also suggests she’s been neglecting to take her medication!

  She takes another cigarette from a packet of Lucky Strike open on the table and reaches for the matches. Her hands are shaking.

  ‘Stop! Are you crazy?’ I shout. The floor is drenched with petrol I remember with horror.

  I make a grab for the matches but she gets there first.

  ‘I always live dangerously.’

  She strikes the match and the flame flickers before her eyes.

  35

  Newspaper Cutting

  27 December 2010 The Stratford Herald

  Have you seen this? It’s the newspaper cutting from the Stratford Herald reporting the accident, with the headline, ‘Christmas Day Tragedy at Clandon Bridge.’ The local hack took a pretty good shot – interesting composition – angled down along the masonry arches of the bridge to the river below, and in the gloom of the pillars there’s the plucky little red E-type Jag, almost fully submerged, only the boot visible above the swirling, murky water.

  The print is grainy but you can just make out the personalised number plate,

  ‘JAM1E’ – so uncool but so James!

  While I was locked away in the psychiatric hospital the year after the accident, I had time for introspection and remorse. Repent at leisure, they say. Well, I had time to relive every twist and turn in our drama.

  It’s very convenient to write my role as the ‘wicked witch’, or the ‘bad fairy.’ But this is no fairy tale, and you are no Snow White or Sleeping Beauty… no hapless damsel in distress. We are made of the same DNA.

  At the time, I was so angry with you and with James that all I could think about was keeping out of jail. I was blind to the pity of it all.

  We fought over him like a plaything. We tore him apart. Yes, Lara, you played your part. You must take your share of the blame.

  You played your part in killing James as surely as if you had been the one to wrap the strap round his neck.

  But he was also to blame. Loving us both. That was his vice. Two for the price of one. He thought he could get one of us for free – greedy, self-indulgent fool.

  In the end, he paid the full price.

  Now it’s your turn.

  *

  After Gabrielle had had her fix of French cinema classics for the afternoon, the family sat down together for Mrs Kennedy’s customary festive supper of poached salmon and cold salads followed by sherry trifle and Victoria sponge. Then Gabrielle and James set off to the village pub for their traditional Christmas Eve get together with old school friends of Gabrielle’s. The plan was to spend the evening at the pub and then go onto the church in Stratford where Gabrielle’s father was preaching at the Christmas midnight mass. James was driving the little red Jaguar, showing off as he tore round the bends on the country lanes.

  ‘Slow down, you idiot,’ said Gabrielle. ‘You may have a death wish, but I don’t want to die tonight.’

  At the pub, they joined the group bunched around tables in the corner near the log fire. There was much kissing and banter and catching up on old times. Gabrielle’s friends were also Lara’s friends. To those who had stayed behind, they remained the beautiful, jet-setting, alpha-female Kennedy twins, who had escaped from a boring provincial setting to the glamour of Chelsea and New York. Gabrielle had kept up with a few of her Stratford friends but Lara had deliberately cut herself off – an attempt to break out of the toxic triangle in which she was trapped. The friends were curious. Where was Lara now? Did she have children? Was she married? What was she up to? Gabrielle answered curtly. The last person she wanted to talk about was her twin – the subject bored her to distraction.

  Gabrielle offered to buy a round of drinks to get away from the inquisition.

  ‘Give me your wallet,’ she said to James. ‘I haven’t got any cash.’

  He was deep in conversation with a man who had introduced himself as one of her former boyfriends. That wasn’t the way she would have described him. They were discussing the merits of the latest edition of Jaguar sports car.

  James dug into his jeans pocket for his wallet and handed it over without a pause in the conversation, without even giving her a glance.

 
‘I’ll take you out for a spin on Boxing Day,’ he said to the man. ‘It’s a beautiful car.’

  At the bar, Gabrielle opened the wallet and fingered awkwardly through the collection of random business cards and receipts with which it was stuffed until she found two crisp twenty pound notes. As she pulled them out, a couple of business cards fell out along with something else – a photograph, folded in four. Her bandaged fingers were making her clumsy. She opened it out.

  A picture of her and James in Venice, just after they got engaged. Ah! That was such a wonderful trip. Rather sweet of James to keep that in his wallet after all these years. Perhaps she was being a bit hard on him. If only the bitch would stop harassing him the whole time, perhaps they could still work things out. Once the surrogacy was over and they were home with their new baby, they could make a fresh start.

  The light was dim in the pub. She held the picture up to the wall light to take a closer look. Her face dropped. The photograph was of James and of the Bridge of Sighs in Venice, but she was not the woman leaning back against James in the gondola.

  She had never worn French braids.

  As she folded the photograph again, she noticed the date, written in pencil on the back.

  12 May 2010.

  The full horror of the affair dawned on her.

  My God! She was carrying my baby. She was more than two weeks into the surrogacy.

  She felt the urge to smash something, to grab the glasses and bottles resting on the bar and sling them to the floor. She wished Lara had never been born. I should have wrapped the cord round her neck and strangled her in the womb. She’s been the cause of all my misery since the very day we were born.

  She looked across to James, still boasting and bragging to his new best friend on the other side of the bar.

  And as for him, I’ve always known he was a coward and a cheat but I never imagined that he could be such a moral degenerate. One of these days, I’m going to make him pay.

  They drove in silence from the pub to the church for midnight mass. Gabrielle was driving – holding the steering wheel gingerly with her sore, bandaged hands.