The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  He was so thirsty.

  Splash!

  Don’t look. Don’t look.

  He turned his head away, closing his eyes as he did so, but with the rest of the orchestra that made up a house being so silent, the drips had the stage.

  Splash!

  Splash!

  He gritted his teeth; his eyes flashed open. And rested on something.

  Really?

  He looked at the purple plastic bucket. That was what you did in extremis, wasn’t it? Drink your own urine? Oh, for Christ’s sake, where was Emma? She couldn’t do this to him. She had no right. She— He abruptly stopped this line of mental raging: it had achieved nothing so far and would only send him into madness. As would shouting out for her. Not once had she acknowledged, let alone answered his roars of frustration. No, what he had to do was make a decision.

  How long was he prepared to dig his heels in for? At the beginning of this farce, he’d had no belief that she would keep him here like this, but now . . . well, he wasn’t so sure. The logical part of his brain that was still functioning (not much, to be honest, as it was gasping, in near collapse, with dehydration) told him she couldn’t possibly keep him here until he died. How would she explain such a thing?

  But the other part of his brain, the one that said, Wake up and smell the roses. Look what the mental bitch has done thus far, that part was standing over him, arms folded, eyes rolling, impatiently tapping its foot.

  And right now, that part of his brain was the louder.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Monday 26 February

  All Carrie wanted was a message: a call, a text. Something to reassure her that Adrian was alone in the house in Broadstairs. She briefly considered the alternative but couldn’t picture it. He’d told her the fling with Emma was a one-off he bitterly regretted, but what if she’d been too gullible, too stupid, and had fallen for a bucketload of lies?

  It didn’t really matter, her common sense told her, as she knew her own relationship with Adrian was over anyway, but actually, she thought angrily, it did. It mattered to her if her husband had fallen for someone else; it mattered because at one point she’d cared about their marriage deeply. Not once had he mentioned wanting to be with Emma and she needed to know if this was the real reason for their break-up.

  Why didn’t he text her? Just check how she was doing? Check how his son was doing?

  She felt Rory falling asleep on her shoulder, sated from his 3 a.m. feed, and so she gently laid him down in his Moses basket. Once he was settled, she rested her head back onto the pillows and the other unsettling problem niggled away at her. Those pictures and articles. What was Emma doing with them? Why was she so interested in her? There had been nothing about Adrian in her little collection.

  It frightened her. She imagined them together, entwined in bed. Emma already had an unexplained presence at one premature death. What if she was planning another? Was she, Carrie, in the way?

  She suddenly reached over to the bedside table and picked up her phone. If he wasn’t going to get in touch with her, she’d text him. She held the phone aloft, thumbs poised. What to say? It would come out as an accusation, especially if she texted now, in the dead of night. So what?

  She was being ridiculous. Of course they weren’t shacked up together in the beach house, Emma planning her demise.

  Shaking her head, she put down the phone and pulled the duvet over herself, looking for sleep.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  Monday 26 February

  Count them again. Count them! Well, no need to count them – just look at the number at the bottom of the screen. Thirty-one pages of beautiful script. Thirty-one! That meant thirty-one minutes of heart-stopping, spine-tingling television. More than half a BBC episode! Two-thirds of a commercial hour! This revelation was so powerful Emma had to fall back against the pillows and catch her breath. But it didn’t last long – the excitement propelled her back up again and she stared in wonder at the screen.

  Something was working; something was definitely working. She’d never written like this before, as if the words themselves were fighting to get out of her, landing in glorious technicolour on the screen. Characters shouting to be heard, waving at her to get her attention, telling her their stories and insisting she put down what they said. She could hardly type quickly enough, and then when she finished a scene, believing that was it, that the whole thing was a mirage and she was back in the desert, the ideas would once again come thick and fast, and she’d scribble them down in her notebook: twists to the story; character embellishments; further episodes.

  She looked up at the clock and was startled to see it was just after three in the morning. She’d spent the whole night writing and hadn’t thought of Adrian once. She popped out her earphones and that’s when she heard it. He was calling her, shouting her name.

  She considered. Maybe it was time to go and see him.

  EIGHTY

  Monday 26 February

  He could hear her coming downstairs and he ceased his shouting. She would be here in a minute. He’d made his decision, but it didn’t mean he would be offering it to her on a plate. He didn’t want to feel as though he’d lost.

  You’re in control here, he reminded himself. You’ll be free and you can start on your next big show. Adrian had been thinking a lot about Emma’s idea, and the more he rolled it around his head, the more convinced he was it had the makings of a winner. So what if it cost him half a million pounds to get his hands on it? It wasn’t like he didn’t have at least ten times that in the bank.

  He heard Emma go into the kitchen. He waited. She would come to him. And then she did. The door swung open and she stood in the frame, holding a glass of water and a plate of crackers.

  Adrian watched as she placed them on the floor a small distance from him, pushing them closer with the pizza peel, as if he were an animal that might attack at any moment. His first instinct was to drink and he quickly shuffled over to the water and started to take great gulps of it. It was so cool and pure he felt dizzy with ecstasy as it cascaded down his throat.

  ‘Not too fast,’ said Emma. ‘Isn’t that supposed to make you sick?’

  He’d heard that also, but it was too late. He’d emptied the glass and in fact wanted more. Instead, he took one of the crackers and devoured it, then heeding her advice, ate the second a little more slowly while he watched her watching him.

  ‘You broke the TV,’ she said, glancing at the wall.

  What? Oh yes. That felt like weeks ago now. ‘You left it on. Loud.’

  He sat up, somewhat lopsided because of the handcuff, but he wanted to be as close to her eye level as possible when he delivered his news. He could already feel the effects of the peasant-style meal: a clarity and strength were returning to his body that felt almost euphoric.

  ‘I’ve decided to pay you,’ he said. ‘Not because you deserve it, because you don’t. There was only ever one creator of Generation Rebel and that was me. But nonetheless, despite your irritating insistence and your stinking method of blackmail, I’m prepared to give you the sum you’ve asked for. Here are my conditions: when we work on the librarian show, and there’s no beating about the bush here with this, I see myself as the lead writer. I’m clearly the more experienced and a name on the commissioner lists. Oh, and I’m not writing any letter of apology – you can forget that. Consider this my final offer.’

  He sat there, head held high. She was just looking at him. Surprised, perhaps, that she’d got her own way. Well, it would sink in in a minute. He took another cracker off the plastic plate and placed it in his mouth. Just as his jaw was about to come down, a realization struck him. She’d brought him this food and water when she’d come into the room. Before he’d made his offer. Before she’d got what she wanted.

  Why?

  He took the cracker out of his mouth, suspicions gathering fast.

  ‘You brought me food,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I’d left it too long. Sorry about that.’ />
  ‘But you deliberately left it a long time. “Perhaps we need to speed up your decision-making,”’ he repeated in a mocking tone.

  ‘I know. But now there’s a change of plan.’

  Rage built at a ferocious rate from the pit of his stomach, up through his chest and exploded out of his mouth. ‘You fucking what? You’re not getting any more money. How dare you?’

  She held her hand up and he stopped talking, his breath ragged as he seethed.

  ‘I don’t want it anymore,’ said Emma.

  What the . . . ? What was she playing at? ‘Well, pardon me for not following, sweet cheeks, but it was my understanding that was why you’ve kept me shackled here like a goddamn animal for the last thirty-six hours.’

  ‘I know. And it was. But things have . . . changed.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Changed how?’

  She looked awkward then, evasive. But in the depths of her shifty eyes, there was something else he saw, something he would’ve noticed more clearly when she first came in the room if he hadn’t been dying of thirst.

  She looked happy.

  What had happened since he’d last seen her? Nothing miraculous – it wasn’t possible. She’d been upstairs all night. He suddenly realized something. She was fully dressed. It was the middle of the night and she was still fully dressed. She also looked wide awake, not like someone who’d been disturbed from sleep by his shouting. Which meant she hadn’t gone to bed. So what had she been doing up there?

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What are you doing upstairs?’

  ‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘Writing.’

  His mouth dropped. ‘Writing what?’ But he knew.

  ‘My idea,’ she said. ‘The librarian.’

  He felt a physical blow to his stomach as the realization hit home. She was writing without him. She’d taken the idea she’d dangled like a carrot in front of his nose and kept it for herself, the selfish, selfish bitch.

  With a deep sense of fear, Adrian knew in his gut that it was good. Whatever she was creating upstairs, it was something that would make people sit up and take notice. It would take her places.

  She didn’t need him anymore.

  ‘It’s only for another day, max,’ she said.

  Still stunned, he didn’t understand what she meant.

  She pointed. ‘The handcuffs.’

  As she left the room, he let out a terrible roar of rage and betrayal.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  Monday 26 February

  INT. BEACH HOUSE, DINING ROOM – NIGHT

  ADRIAN stares at EMMA with an intense hatred and then something strange starts to happen. His features begin to warp, become grotesque. The blacks of his pupils begin to spread, like inky pools filling his entire eyes; his skin coarsens and greys; the very humanness of him ebbs away and in its place is something indescribably evil. The evil thing smiles. Poised.

  In an instant the room snaps as cold as the Arctic. Emma trembles.

  The only sound is their breath, across a terrifying stillness. The tension is unbearable as we wait for the inevitable attack.

  CUT TO:

  Emma flung the image from her head. She couldn’t let him distract her now; he’d already taken so much from her. Don’t let him put you off your stride, she told herself sternly, banishing the fear, and when she opened up her laptop and looked again at the screen, the light from the page seemed to draw her in and she felt herself falling into the world that was calling her. Distantly, she could still hear Adrian shouting, but she put her earphones in and he faded away as her hands began to dance up and down the keyboard.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  Monday 26 February

  He’d kill her. He’d fucking kill her.

  He was raging like a pierced bull, incensed by the powerlessness that oozed through him. The depravity of being tethered, the humiliation of having his offer thrown back in his face, trampled on. He was sickened by the knowledge that if he’d only changed his mind sooner, if he hadn’t stubbornly held on, he’d be the one writing now, in the office upstairs, Emma feeding him ideas as he sat upon the throne of judgement at the desk, the ruler.

  Actually, no, none of this was his fault. She had no right to do this to him. She’d played with his feelings, toyed with him. Hey, she probably had never intended to share the idea with him in the first place; it was all just some sick punishment she was getting off on. At this, he let out another bellow of rage, yanking his cuffed hand again and again, even while knowing it was futile. And it hurt. God, it hurt so much. After a few seconds, he stopped, exhausted, and saw blood in the weal on his wrist. His reward for his outburst.

  Adrian shifted himself closer to the fireplace to ease the tension and pulled himself into a crouching position so he could prop his elbow on his knee to try and stop the metal cuff touching his wound.

  He stared into the grate, feeling miserable and helpless. After a while, his quads could stand it no more and he began to move his stiff body back down to the floor. Of course, his arm moved too, exacerbating the pain in the wound on his wrist, and he winced, but then something happened that took a moment or two to register.

  When he’d moved his arm, a tiny smattering of brick dust had fallen from the iron ring, or more accurately, from the spot where the iron ring was fixed onto the fireplace.

  He jiggled the handcuff a second time, yelping as he did so, but there it was again. Brick dust coming from the screw that held the iron ring to the fireplace wall. Which meant only one thing.

  It was loose.

  Excited, he sat up. Looked at it closely. With his uncuffed hand, he pulled directly on the ring itself. A tiny bit more dust came away from the fixing. Holy moly . . . Adrian stared. He yanked again at the ring. More dust. So it wasn’t exactly loose, but it wasn’t as tight as it had once been, and if he could get something between the screw and the brick, if he could chisel away, he might just be able to free himself.

  Quickly he looked around. In his tantrum, he’d kicked the plate and cup Emma had brought earlier out of reach and he cursed himself for his stupidity. He could’ve smashed the plate on the marble hearth and taken a sharp shard and scraped away at the brick. Damn! He scoured his reachable surroundings again for something, anything that might work, but there was nothing.

  Except maybe . . . A small piece of wood was tucked at the back of the fireplace, missed during the last sweep-out. He reached and grabbed it. It was about four inches long and thicker in the middle, flattening to a point at one end. With his free hand, he jabbed the pointed end into the minuscule space at the side of the screw. A puff of brick dust. His heart began to race. This could work. If he could keep chipping away, it would be just a matter of time before the screw got loose enough that he could pull it out of the wall.

  The adrenaline from this revelation kicked in with the food and water Emma had brought him earlier and he could feel it feeding his nerve endings, his muscles, bringing him back to life.

  Shit, why had he shouted so much? He got himself into a hunched position and began to work away at the brick, jabbing and scraping and watching the tiny clouds of dust fall away.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  Monday 26 February

  The sun crept up over the sea, dawn breaking on this cold February morning. The sky filled with a faint pink hue, and the few clouds became hot embers, ringed with fire.

  In the bedroom, Emma was oblivious. She was still working, as she had done the whole night, earphones in, the sounds of the outside world blocked out. A great sense of exhausted fulfilment was building in her as she was nearly finished. The marathon had almost been run. And then the last few lines were written and she was done.

  She stopped. Couldn’t quite believe it was over. She popped out the earphones and the spell was broken; she was back in the real world. The sound of a blackbird could be faintly heard through the window and she looked up, surprised. It was morning! She got off the bed, stretching out her
back, and looked outside at the sunrise. It felt like a personal welcome. A celebratory display to mark her achievement, for not only was she finished – She was finished! – but she’d done something that had been impossible for the last two years.

  She’d broken away from the anger that had caused her writer’s block. She let this sink in a moment and the enormity of it made her feel almost tearful. No, it was not a time to cry, even if they were tears of happiness. She stood tall as a tingling lightness swept over her, and she grinned at the sunrise, feeling strong and evangelical. She was a new person. She was reborn.

  Emma laughed delightedly and stretched out her arms. She glanced at her watch; it was only just past half six – and today she was going to call Liz. Take up her offer of the agent introduction. There was no reason to wait. But cashing in favours at dawn might not procure the right results and so she could afford some sleep. Just a couple of hours and then she’d ring. Emma made doubly sure she’d saved her script on her laptop and then got under the covers.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  Monday 26 February

  There was a hole now. A very definite hole against the side of the screw. When he moved the iron ring, it wobbled tauntingly, but it still wouldn’t come out. The screw must be long, buried deep into the brick.

  Adrian had worked at it all night, except for the moments he’d been so exhausted he’d had to lay his head down to rest and had found himself sleeping for snatches of time. After these moments, he’d woken with a new urgency and had jabbed the piece of wood into the growing gap in the brick again and again. The pain in his cuffed arm was almost unbearable in this position, but the sweet taste of freedom kept him going.