She fidgeted in her seat, deeply disappointed. Such an opportunity! Why waste it by writing something derivative? She sat forward, chin on her hands; there they go again – she would bet a tenner that a rival in the spy’s department would report him to the boss as a maverick, a loose cannon and unworthy of the mission, and his career would hang in the balance unless he could rapidly prove himself. A few seconds later, that was exactly what happened.
Frustrated, Emma jumped up and left the room.
SEVENTY-FOUR
Sunday 25 February
Adrian watched Emma cautiously as she charged into the room and turned on the TV: what was this all about?
‘Have you seen this?’ said Emma, pointing at the screen.
He looked up. It was the new primetime spy show that had been lauded for months. By the tone of Emma’s voice, she wasn’t that impressed.
‘It’s just a rehash of every spy show you’ve seen before,’ she said. ‘Oh my goodness, did you hear that?’
Adrian had heard it and he had to admit, as dialogue went, it wasn’t that impressive. ‘Where did she come from?’ he asked suddenly, as a female character appeared on the screen.
‘She’s supposed to be in mourning,’ said Emma drily. ‘I guess he’s too hot for her to resist.’
‘No, no, no,’ protested Adrian, as the female character led the spy to her bedroom. ‘It’s mad!’
‘Bonkers,’ agreed Emma, and they both laughed.
‘So you reckon you could do better?’ said Adrian. He kept on watching the screen in an attempt to sound casual.
She turned and looked at him. ‘Yes,’ she said, although he could tell she was hesitant, nervous almost.
‘What’s your idea?’ he asked, as nonchalantly as he could.
Her gaze turned sceptical, but she didn’t shoot him down in flames.
‘As I said, it’s about a librarian, a timid, unassuming woman. Her local library is threatened with closure and she has to prove there are two hundred visitors a week in order to persuade the council to keep it open. So she starts to offer the things in the community that austerity has cut.’
He immediately felt a frisson of intrigue. ‘Go on.’
‘As the library grows in popularity so the community gets stronger and she gets more powerful. She ultimately goes from this timorous lady to a local kingpin. Kind of like a female Mafioso. And then someone crosses her, so she has a vengeance to play out.’
‘And?’
‘What?’
He waved his hand. ‘What’s the vengeance?’
She was looking at him hard. ‘Are you having a laugh?’
He feigned innocence. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘You think I’m so dumb I’m going to tell you the whole thing?’
‘I didn’t say that—’
‘You are unbelievable.’ She suddenly went to the in-built shelving behind the television, rummaged around, flinging DVDs off the shelf until she found what she was looking for. Then she angrily popped a case open and stuffed a DVD into the machine. He flinched at her rough handling and had half a mind to tell her to be careful, but sensing her mood, decided to keep schtum. The TV screen came alive, and as soon as he looked up, he knew what she’d put on. Emma pressed the remote control so that the screen jumped forward a couple of chapters. The midway point of Generation Rebel’s first episode blasted into the room.
‘You see that?’ said Emma, jabbing her finger at the screen. ‘That scene there where that girl is being told that she has to drop her football club and stay after school for extra lessons in maths for the foreseeable in order not to let the school’s overall grades drop? That girl was in my class.’ She fast-forwarded a bit further. Pointed at the screen again. ‘That girl who’s emailing her teacher to say she’s unable to go to school because of anxiety attacks – that character is a version of several girls in my school.’ She kept on pressing buttons, fast-forwarding the picture, then playing it again. ‘“Pep talk” assembly!’ she said, her eyes blazing at him, then going back to the screen. ‘Teacher’s marriage on the rocks because he can’t cope! Twenty-second test and they’re still in the first term!’ Then she pressed a few buttons and played a new episode. ‘That girl there, crying in the bath, holding a knife to her wrists – that girl is a version of my best friend’s little sister.’
Emma stopped, breathless, and Adrian watched her. She was visibly upset. OK, so she obviously went to a very high-pressure school. They can’t have all been like that, although actually, he’d heard that most were; the continued pressure to get good exams results to keep the Ofsted vultures at bay was putting the mental health of the kids today at risk. He recognized the passion in her, the way a writer draws on personal experience to write something powerful and send a message. He’d had moments like that himself.
His conscience stabbed at him. Maybe he had overstepped the mark. Perhaps he’d robbed her of more than just her project; perhaps he’d stolen part of her make-up, stripped her soul. She was watching him, waiting for him to say something. Now would be the time to admit to what he’d done and apologize.
The seconds ticked on and he wrestled with himself. He looked at her and in her eyes was a mixture of things: expectation, hope, pleading. He took a deep breath.
‘Could’ve happened to anyone.’
Her face fell and then grew thunderous. Adrian braced himself, but then she unexpectedly started, eyes wide, throwing him. She stared at him, a beatific smile on her face. And then suddenly she left the room.
He heard her run upstairs and he was alone.
Goddamn it, what was going on now? She was so frustrating. But that idea . . . the Mafioso librarian . . . Adrian could tell there was something good about it, something fresh.
And all of a sudden he wanted it. It suited him perfectly. It wasn’t quite there yet, but between them, they’d build on it. He’d write it brilliantly, he just knew. He imagined Liz’s face when he told her, saw her eyes light up as he knew his had just done. He felt the thrill of the big-name cast signing up to act in it. Saw the army of crew working to make it, to bring his scripts to life, and he saw the gushing reviews, the impressive audience figures and the BAFTA nomination. He saw his peers making a point of crossing a room to speak to him, to congratulate him.
Adrian considered Emma. She was good. Really good. Better than she knew. Maybe he should rethink this situation he was in. Be a little more generous. He could stand to benefit quite a lot. She could be his ticket out of the hellhole he’d found himself in, and he wasn’t just thinking about his position on the marble hearth. This idea could propel him to a new level of fame.
But she wanted half a million pounds! And the most humiliating piece of writing he’d ever have to do. An apology! In public! Having to admit Generation Rebel wasn’t all his. He cringed angrily at the thought. No way, not while there was breath still in his body. He seethed, wishing he was free so he could just get up and fly upstairs to where she was hiding out. Put his hands round her neck and let her know she couldn’t do this to him.
Generation Rebel was still blaring on the TV on the wall in front of him. He waited, but she didn’t come back. He shouted her name, several times, but he was ignored. For Christ’s sake, he was hungry! He was thirsty! And he was stuck to this goddamn fireplace with a total nut for a jailer!
Adrian suddenly jolted, sleep snatched from him again in an endless torturous circle of agony. Every time he dropped off, Generation Rebel would lurch him awake. He closed his eyes and groaned in pain, his nerve endings shredded. The TV erupted again.
He opened a bloodshot eye; it was still there. The remote control. A piece of small, black plastic that was the key to his peace. It was on the sideboard, out of reach. One push, one tiny push of a button and he could be put out of his misery.
Generation Rebel’s relentless attack continued. How he craved silence. He put his free hand over his head, trying to block out the racket, but it just battered at his arms, finding a way into his ea
rs, his brain. Adrian yelled out, an angry, frustrated, animalistic roar, then lay there, half whimpering.
Right in his line of sight was the plastic beaker Emma had left for him the first night she’d cuffed him. He quietened, hope blooming. If he was careful, he might be able to do it.
Adrian stretched out his fingers and grabbed the cup. He weighed it in his hand, turning it this way and that. It was heavy as plastic cups go – he’d insisted Carrie get the expensive ones. If they were going to have patio ‘glassware’, he wanted his G&T to be in something solid. He sat himself up as best he could, half propped up on his elbow. He closed one eye, squinting at the TV. Raised up the hand holding the cup. You’ve only got one chance, he reminded himself grimly. Don’t mess it up. Then he pulled his arm back and threw the cup in the direction of the TV as hard as he could. It crashed into the screen and in an instant it cracked and blacked out.
Adrian whooped, pumping his arm in the air. What a shot! He fell back down, exhausted but euphoric. Ah, the blissful silence. It caressed his ears. His body began to relax, muscles growing heavy with relief. The lights he could do less about, but he could pull the duvet over his head to block out the worst.
He lay there for a while floating on an enchanted cloud. Sleep crept its tendrils nearer and he felt himself begin to drift. As his brain started to scurry around, locking doors and turning off lights, he suddenly had a thought of Carrie and he wondered how she was doing, alone in their house. Was she missing him? How long would it take before she realized something might be wrong and tried to get hold of him? Heart sinking, he knew it would be several more days, perhaps even weeks, as Emma had effectively told her to back off.
The lights in his head suddenly switched back on. There must be someone who’d be missing him. Someone who’d become concerned, raise an alarm? There was an entire film crew shooting his work, but he knew they were deeply wrapped up in their demanding task of filming. Yes, the director might notice he hadn’t been around for a while, but his concern would last for a few minutes at most. He wasn’t part of the machinery; no one actually needed him. He was wallpaper, really.
What about Liz? He owed her an idea. Something that he knew she was getting deeply sceptical about him ever delivering. He’d brushed her off with so many excuses, her prompts had diminished of late. And anyway, she’d probably check in with Carrie, who would just repeat what she’d been told: he was at the beach house working – doing what he was supposed to be doing – and if they left him alone, he’d come up with the goods.
Maybe his friends. He’d lost touch with many, as they all seemed to be acquiring babies, who grew into demanding young children, and he just didn’t have any interest in spending his spare time having his conversations interrupted several times a minute, or getting on his hands and knees to play a mind-numbingly dull game.
No. Adrian began to realize there was nobody who would miss him for quite some time. He was very much alone.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Sunday 25 February
The words came to her slowly, a gradual trickle like the tiny stream she’d seen suddenly appear in the middle of the African dust bowl on those nature programmes on TV. As if out of nowhere, the water carved a much-needed darkening streak through the parched landscape. She was afraid the words would dry up, no match for the long, barren drought she’d endured. What if it wasn’t real? A false start? But she banished those thoughts as soon as they appeared and just concentrated on the script that was beginning to emerge on her laptop screen. A mere embryo at the moment, but still . . .
Something had happened when she’d been in the dining room with Adrian earlier. The half-idea that she’d struggled with for so long had suddenly grown a new branch, had flourished. She’d felt something that hadn’t happened to her in absolutely ages. A tiny flicker of excitement, a minuscule flame, which she was nursing right now, tending carefully so that it would stay alight.
I’m writing again! came the internal whisper, hardly daring to make itself heard. She came to the end of a scene and paused. What would happen next? The answer didn’t come immediately, and in order to dodge the looming panic, she plumped up the pillows behind her. Sat back on the bed for a moment and thought. Power corrupts, she reminded herself. Power corrupts. And then it came to her; the trickle continued. She leaned forward with a new energy and continued to type.
SEVENTY-SIX
Sunday 25 February
He was so terribly thirsty.
Adrian listened to Emma move around upstairs. She was sleeping in the front spare bedroom: he could tell by where her footsteps fell. It had an en suite and he heard the toilet flush. A short time afterwards, he followed her footsteps as she came downstairs and went into the kitchen. He heard her open a cupboard, then help herself to his water, cascading from his tap. Christ, he was so thirsty.
He rolled onto his back, his shackled arm twisting at an uncomfortable angle, and looked across at the window. It was pitch-black outside, so he could see nothing but the room reflected back at him. Somewhere out there were the dense pine trees that surrounded his house. Behind these trees was Geraldine’s place. He remembered the day he’d looked around his soon-to-be house, delighted with the privacy and distance from the neighbours. He’d stood in the back garden, gazing up in appreciation, thinking he and Carrie could maybe get a hot tub installed. He imagined sultry summer nights, the two of them naked in the frothing water, cold champagne on ice.
What he’d give to take a chainsaw and fell every single one of those trees now.
A blustery wind blew rain against the windowpane. Everywhere, the sensation of water being close and yet so out of reach. It was torture.
He rolled back onto his right side so he was facing the door. He longed, ached to get up. Sitting was awkward, as the cuffs kept his arm so low, and of course standing was out of the question. He had to piss kneeling, his cock held over the goddamn bucket, which stank. Thank God he’d not had to do anything else. At least that was one good outcome of not being given any food.
The marble hearth was digging into his shoulder again and in a flare of anger and frustration he punched it. His knuckles cracked against the stone and he yelped and held them to his mouth. Stupid idea. It didn’t matter which way he turned his body, it dug into him. His shoulder, his neck, his head. He deeply regretted using up the rest of the blister pack of paracetamol so quickly to abate what now seemed to have been a trifling headache. Some of it would have helped numb his pain.
He tried propping himself up and the hearth’s cold hardness grated on his elbow. How he wished he hadn’t insisted on it. There had been nothing there when they’d moved in; the fireplaces had been covered up, to make way for something more modern. But he’d wanted to renovate. Take the house back to its original glory! He’d paid an eye-popping amount for a professional to remove the plasterboard, and he remembered feeling as if he’d struck gold when behind it was revealed the original 1930s cast-iron surround and tiles. The builder had suggested replacing the whole lot, including the iron rings he was now shackled to, but he’d refused in some nostalgic wave of preservation. Big mistake. There had been no hearth and he’d gone to a specialist shop and insisted on a slab of black marble that gleamed. The same black marble that was now trying to slice his arm in two by some slow, torturous method, like a blunt knife trying to amputate a limb.
Why hadn’t he got a hearth made of thick foam or a finely sprung mattress? He groaned yearningly at the idea, almost feeling a soft, supportive cradle beneath him, and then snapped his eyes wide open. No. He mustn’t think like that, because that meant he was accepting where he was, what he was doing on the floor. He had to get free, get out. He yanked the cuffs again, even while knowing it was futile, and yelped as they cut into his wrist. Where was the key? Emma must have taken it out of the picture frame that hung on the office wall. Over the long hours lying there, he’d scanned the room as best he could from his low vantage point, but the small piece of metal wasn’t at ankle or knee level.
Any surface that was hip-height or above he had no view of. She wouldn’t leave it in here, anyway; she’d have it hidden away somewhere – perhaps in the room she was sleeping in.
His mood darkened at thoughts of Emma. That crazy, loopy girl. How long was she going to keep him here? More worryingly, how long was she going to deprive him of food and drink? He could smell something divine. It was her toast from the kitchen: thick, warm slices spread with melted, dripping butter. The bitch. It was sending him into madness. All he could think about was water, long, cool gulps of the stuff, and cramming his face full of toast, an entire loaf of it.
He hated her so much. Hated her for tethering him like an animal. For making him feel so angry and helpless, and for blackmailing him. It was laughable that she wanted an apology – so she could resurrect her career, presumably. Well, when he was done with her, any career she might have had would be ripped to shreds until it was completely unsalvageable.
But, then, she did have good ideas. That idea she’d been talking about earlier had the makings of something bloody brilliant. For a short moment, he envisaged a scenario in which they teamed up, her coming up with something rough, perhaps hesitantly voicing her thoughts, then him sitting at his desk, screen in front of him, shaping and moulding it, the sculptor of the two, the true artist.
He was suddenly startled by the sound of her going upstairs again. Was she not even going to come in? Water, he needed water.
‘Emma!’ he shouted, or at least that had been the intention, but his vocal cords seemed to have dried up. ‘Emma!’ he shouted, again and again, bellowing as loudly as he could.
In response, he heard the door of the spare room close.
Fuck’s sake!
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Monday 26 February
It had stopped raining sometime around three in the morning, and a short time afterwards, Adrian had been alerted to the fact there was some sort of blockage in the guttering outside his bedroom window. He knew this because the bedroom was right above the dining room and the leaves, or whatever had caused the obstruction, had built up with water, which dripped down, past the bedroom window, down, down to outside the dining-room window, through his line of vision to the leaves of the patio rose below. Drip! Drip! A torturous, rhythmic sound that ended with a splash as the rose leaf bent under the weight of the drop, which then exploded in some sort of aqueous firework, sending a tiny spray against the window.
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