Look Behind You

by Sibel Hodge

  Look Behind You

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  PART ONE

  TAKEN

  1

  Pain everywhere. My back, my wrists, my legs. Even my hair hurts.

  The worst of it is in my head. Hot, white shards of pain stabbing my skull. The effort of opening my eyes sends waves of nausea crashing through me.

  Engulfing darkness. I can’t tell where the blackness ends and I begin. Why is it so, so dark?

  I try again. Close my eyelids. Open. Close. Open. Nothingness still smothers me. I can’t see a thing.

  Where am I? Am I dead?

  Slowly, my senses return. Cold, rough hardness below me, against my back. The musty smell of damp earth. The sound of…I strain to listen, but all I hear is the pulse roaring in my ears, my heartbeat banging against my ribs, air whistling through my nostrils. And something else now. Drip. Drip. Drip.

  I can feel and hear, so I can’t be dead. But what’s happened to me? Have I been in an accident?

  That’s it. An accident. I’m in hospital. I’m lying on an operating table, and the anaesthetic is wearing off, leaving me in between sleep and wakefulness. That’s why I can’t move. That’s why I hurt so much. The same thing happened once to someone I knew. She was in the middle of an appendectomy and woke up. Just like that! She couldn’t feel a thing and couldn’t move, but she could see everything the doctors were doing. She could speak, too. They were shocked when she told them all she could see them.

  Can I speak?

  ‘Hello?’ I try, but my mouth feels stuffed with cotton wool, my voice distorted and muffled.

  So why can’t I see? Why is it so dark? Was it a car accident? A bomb blast? Terrorist attack?

  I inhale a shallow breath. It doesn’t smell like a hospital. There’s none of the usual disinfectant and antiseptic odour. And what am I lying on? A trolley? A bed?

  I move my right hand away from my stomach to touch what’s underneath me, and my left hand moves, too.

  How can that be? Why are they stuck together?

  I lift my head up instinctively, even though I can’t see a thing, and the pain surges forward, piercing through my eyeballs. The fingers on each hand seek out the opposite ones, touching, feeling. Something rough binds my wrists together. A rope, I think. I touch the scratchy material. Yes, definitely a rope. I pull my hands apart. No, they won’t budge.

  Why am I restrained? What have I done?

  A fragment of memory hovers on the edge of my consciousness. Something about…being held down in a bed. Tied to a bed. Screaming. No…it’s gone.

  So, again, think. Why am I restrained? Have I tried to hurt myself? Hurt someone else?

  I feel around my right side with both hands. Is that concrete I’m lying on? Brick? I’m not sure. It’s not smooth like a trolley. Not comfortable like a bed. I can’t feel sheets underneath me. I bring my hands up to touch my face and head. Running them over me, I can feel something gritty. Dirt, maybe. I wince as my hand touches a huge, swollen lump on the side of my head just above my right ear. Scalding pain sends black and white stars flashing before my eyes. My stomach lurches, and I roll onto my side and vomit. Hot, acidic bile burns my throat. Tears sting my eyes. I groan, clutching my head in my hands, and roll onto my back again with rasping breaths.

  Then the blackness isn’t just in front of my eyes anymore. It’s in my head, too, as I sink into unconsciousness.

  ~~~~

  How long have I been asleep? An hour? A day? Two days?

  I’ve got hunger pangs, but I’m not hungry. Far from it. My stomach contracts in spasms at the thought of food. I’m thirsty, though. My throat is as dry as an African plain. I swallow. Lick my cracked, dry lips.

  I try to move, but I’m stiff. So stiff. The parts that don’t hurt are either numb or tingling with pins and needles. I move my legs only to find they’re restrained, too, and won’t budge. More rope? I wiggle my toes; that’s about all I can manage.

  If I’m not in hospital, I must be in prison, then. Solitary confinement. But something is wrong with that theory. Prisoners aren’t restrained with rope. They’d use handcuffs.

  Right. Think.

  My ankles and wrists are tied. I’m somewhere damp, mouldy. Lying on the bare ground. Slowly, I bring my knees to my chest. My left ankle screams in pain.

  ‘Argh!’ I cry out, my voice echoing off walls I can’t even see. I’m fully clothed. Wearing…a dress…flat ankle boots. OK, good. What else?

  I don’t know.

  ‘Hello?’ My voice is hoarse, croaky.

  No reply. Just the sound of dripping somewhere.

  I must be underground. That’s what the earthy mouldiness smells like. Underground with darkness suffocating me. And I’m tied up. My body hurts. My head is killing me. But I can’t be in hospital, and I can’t be in prison, so what does that leave me with?

  I’ve been kidnapped!

  As the thought pops into my head, my stomach clenches. My heartbeat thumps wildly. I fight the urge to vomit again. I gulp in deep breaths of stale air. In. Out. Come on; breathe. In. Out. Don’t panic. Think!

  Who would kidnap me? Why?

  Think!

  We’re not rich. Comfortable, I suppose you’d say. Not well off enough for someone to want a ransom. That means there’s some other, sinister reason. Am I being buried alive in this darkness? Or kept for…Oh, my God! Kept here to be raped and murdered. Or tortured and murdered. Is it a good sign I’m not already dead, or does it mean things will get much, much worse?

  I shiver uncontrollably. I don’t know if it’s from the cold or fear. Maybe both. I’m damp between my legs. I’ve wet myself, so I must’ve been here a while.

  Clenching my hands together, I concentrate on trying not to hyperventilate while I think about what I really know.

  I know I’m Chloe Benson. I’m twenty-seven years old. Married to Liam. I live at 16 Poplar Close in the Hertfordshire town of Welwyn Garden City. I teach English at Downham College. Liam works for Devon Pharmaceutical. So, as I said, we’re comfortable, but not rich rich.

  Liam will be wondering where I am. He’ll call the police. They’ll send out a search party for me. They’ll find me. Won’t they? But where the hell am I? How will they know where to look?

  I bite down on my lip to stop a scream escaping.

  Quiet. I must be quiet. If someone’s keeping me here, I don’t want them to know I’m awake. They might be close by, listening to my every move. I’m alive, at least for the moment. I want to keep it that way.

  What’s the last thing I remember?

  The pain in my head makes it hard to think. My memories are hazy, fuzzy round the edges, like an out of focus photograph.

  I remember…a party. Drinks flowing. An unseasonably warm March evening. Someone’s house. My house. Yes, that’s it. Liam’s fortieth birthday party. A surprise for him. Something I hoped would cheer him up. Make things better between us. It’s been…difficult lately. Whatever I do isn’t right for him. Shouting, swearing at me. Those looks he gives me. He’s stressed with work. Stressed with life, I suppose, the usual. So, the party…yes, the party was to show him how much I still care about him. And afterwards… I was going to tell him something. Something important. I try to grasp for more but I can’t find it. It’s hidden somewhere in my head. My best friend Sara wasn’t there. She was leaving for India the day before. Not that I could’ve invited her anyway; Liam hates her. Just Liam’s friends and work colleagues were there. I can’t picture anyone specific, though.

  Is it still March now? The party is the last thing I can really remember. The rest is just dense muchness.

  Muchness? Is that a word? No, mushiness.

  I curl up my toes. Clench and
unclench my fingers. Must bring some warmth back. Stop the cramps. Must move. Must keep calm. Must get out of here. I want to stay alive.

  I roll onto my side, brace my palms on the cold ground and push myself up into a sitting position. My head throbs. Dizziness engulfs me.

  Breathe slowly. Come on, Chloe. In. Out. You can do this.

  I swallow away the bile scorching my throat and wait. Five minutes. Ten. Just breathe. Adjust. Take your time.

  But I don’t know how much time I have before whoever has taken me comes back.

  Move. I have to move. Do something. I will the pain in my head to stop, but it doesn’t.

  I shuffle forwards along the floor on my backside with slow, shaky movements. I don’t get far before my feet hit something. I reach out and touch the obstruction with bound hands, my fingers connecting with cold roughness. Brick. A brick wall.

  I roll onto my knees. Pressing my hands into the floor, I lift up until I’m standing. Everything sways. I rest my palms on the wall for support and take more gulps of air. I’m weak, and the adrenaline coursing through me is the only thing stopping me from collapsing.

  The rope around my ankles is tight, and my feet only move about a centimetre independently of each other as I shuffle left along the edge of the wall, touching it with my hands. It doesn’t take long to meet the corner of another wall. I stop and breathe deeply before going back the way I’ve come. When I get to another corner, I calculate the wall is about seven metres long. I carry on about five metres going to my right, along this new wall, then another corner. It’s painstakingly slow. Round I go, until I’m pretty sure I’ve ended up where I started.

  That’s when it really hits me, and a guttural cry escapes from my throat. I collapse to the floor, banging my knees on the solid ground.

  I’m in some kind of underground tomb.

  2

  No, no, no, no! This is a dream. A nightmare. It has to be.

  Or maybe I’m going mad. This is a hallucination of some kind. Have I taken drugs that have messed with the chemical reactions in my brain?

  Reaction, reaction, reaction. That seems familiar somehow.

  No. I can’t be asleep, and I can’t be drugged. I can feel pain. I can hear dripping. I can smell dankness and decay. Therefore, I must be awake, and I must be compos mentis.

  Fingers of dread squeeze my insides. Fear slices through me. Someone has put me in this place. Someone has kidnapped and abandoned me in an underground tomb. Have they left me here to die, or are they coming back? Which would be preferable? To die down here alone, or be tortured, raped, and killed?

  I cram a fist in my mouth to stop from yelling out. Hot tears slide down my cheeks. I have to get out of here. Somehow. But my head…oh, my head.

  I roll onto my side, clutching my head in my tethered hands. It just hurts so much. And…

  ~~~~

  I open my eyes and stare into the black void that’s dark as a grave. I’ve been asleep again, dreaming of my honeymoon in Minorca. How many years ago? How long have we been married? Two years, I think. Depending on what date it is now.

  Shit! Why can’t I remember?

  Anyway, the dream. Yes, we rented a villa in the middle of nowhere and stocked up on supplies for BBQs. Salad, locally caught fish, wine, regional cheeses, fresh bread. Just us and our little hideout in the sun. Things were perfect between us then. Every day Liam told me how much he loved me. How the minute he saw me he knew I was the one for him. How proud he was that I was now his wife. We made love every chance we could get. We drove to the beach a couple of days and swam in the clear sea, so warm it was like a bath.

  Sea.

  Water.

  How long can you survive without water? If you’re stranded in a boat in the middle of the ocean, you can’t drink the water. Too salty. I’ve heard of people drinking their own piss to stay alive. The thought makes me gag.

  My throat is so dry my tongue feels swollen, as if it’s too big for my mouth. I wiggle my tongue around frantically, working up some saliva, then swallow. Wiggle. Swallow. Can you last on saliva alone?

  I stretch my trembling arms above my head. Flex my legs and toes. Sit up. The dizziness is back again, so I rest my head in my hands until it subsides. I shiver, teeth chattering, biting my tongue. I taste blood.

  Right, Chloe, move!

  ‘Yes,’ I say aloud. The sound bounces back, mocking me in the darkness. I breathe on my hands, hoping to bring some warmth back. If I can stop the shaking, I can think calmly, rationally. I can’t die down here. No. No, no, no. ‘So…’ I say to myself. ‘Move.’ I manoeuvre into a standing position again and stumble straight ahead to the nearest wall, hands outstretched.

  There. Rough brick.

  I reach up and can touch the ceiling if I stand on tiptoes. Could it be a basement? A tunnel? Cellar?

  I strain to listen again. No sounds apart from the dripping somewhere. Is it in here or behind the walls? Water, dripping.

  No, don’t think about water. I wiggle my tongue again. Swallow.

  A thought strikes me through the terror. If there’s a way in, there must be a way out. Unless I’m bricked up in here. But the walls feel old, covered in grime and slime. The render between the bricks crumbles slightly as I dig in my fingernails.

  I start at the top of the wall, fingers splayed over it, trying to find something. What am I looking for? My brain is fuzzy for a moment. Oh, yes, an opening. The only way I can get out of here is to stay alert. Think. Be methodical. I’m used to being methodical. At home, anyway. That’s how Liam likes things. A place for everything and everything in its place.

  A picture of my kitchen cupboards flashes into my head. Tins, jars, bottles, everything in a perfect line, as if placed there by a magic, ruler-toting fairy. Labels facing outwards. A regulation centimetre gap between them. No clutter in sight. Just the way he likes everything.

  Fingers moving over the wall for I don’t know how long.

  Nothing.

  I come to the corner and rest the lump on my head against the cold wall. Relief from the pain for a minute. Numbness. Ah, that’s nice.

  Come on. Come on. Move.

  I work my away along the wall. About half way across, right at the bottom, my fingers hit a rough edge. Part of the brick is broken and protruding out.

  My heartbeat flutters, stops, and kick-starts again.

  I sit awkwardly on the floor and press the rope around my wrists against the jagged brick, working my arms back and forth. Saw, saw, saw. It’s tiring. I’m tired right down to the marrow of my bones. Want to sleep.

  My head grows heavy. My eyes roll back.

  ~~~~

  I jerk awake. Where am I?

  Blackness.

  Omigod. It all comes back to me. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.

  Something furry touches my hand. I shriek, scrambling away on my backside across the floor. What was that? A rat? A mouse?

  ‘It won’t kill you,’ I say aloud. No, the rat won’t kill me.

  Don’t want to die.

  Think!

  I wiggle my tongue. Swallow.

  The brick! I shuffle back and attack the rope against it again, moving my hands back and forth. Rub. Rest. Rub. Rest. Wiggle. Swallow. Rub. Rest.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been at this. It doesn’t matter. I can’t give up.

  It’s too slow. I’ll be here forever. He might come back before I manage to free myself. I rub in a frenzy then, counting each movement back and forth against the brick. I need to focus my mind on something that won’t make me completely fall apart.

  One. Two. Three. Twenty. Counting, counting. Sixty. Two hundred.

  My arms seize up with cramp. I’m going too fast. Lying on my side to rest, I listen to the terror screaming within me. I start counting again. When I get to a hundred and fifty, I’ll start rubbing once more. One. Five. Eighty-one. Three. No, I’m going backwards.

  Wake up!

  I blink rapidly to stop my eyes c
losing.

  Come on. Try again.

  Rub. Rest. Rub. Rest. Wiggle. Swallow.

  After what feels like an eternity, part of the rope gives way a little. Yes, I’m getting somewhere!

  Drip. Drip. Drip. Fucking dripping noise pressing into my ears! Shut up!

  Rub. Rub. Rub.

  Finally, my hands come apart from each other as I break through the rope. I take a deep breath and remove the rest of the binding still around my wrists. My hands shake, and I wonder what will get me first. Hypothermia. Dehydration. Starvation. Fear.

  No. Nothing will get me. I’ll find a way out.

  I circle my wrists, attempting to get some circulation back. Pump my fists, and the blood rushes to my fingers. That’s a little better.

  My ankles. Untie them. Yes, that’s it. I find a knot on the rope, my fingernails digging in, trying to lift up an edge.

  Come on!

  There. A knot.

  Wiggle. Swallow.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  After I manage to claw the knot loose, I unwind the rope from my ankles and try to stand up, which sends stars exploding behind my eyes again. My legs tremble, and I immediately fall onto all fours.

  Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. That’s it.

  I get up slowly and hold the wall for support. You can do this. Don’t give up now. If you give up, you die.

  I wait. One minute passes. Two.

  I resume my searching of the wall. It’s easier now that I can walk properly, even though I have to concentrate on telling my legs to stop shaking. I run my hands along it and get to the next corner. Nothing.

  ‘There must be an opening somewhere!’ My voice sounds like the screech from a murder of crows taking flight.

  Murder. Why would someone want to murder me? Leave me down here to die? Or are they coming back? Is anyone looking for me yet?

  What will Liam say if I don’t come home?

  I picture my funeral in my head. Not many people there. Liam, of course, with a look of…what’s that on his face? Pity? Regret? Anger? A few colleagues who work at the college. My boss, Theresa. Jordan. I smile when I think about Jordan. His kind smile, the warm hazel eyes that seem to see things I don’t tell him. Sara will still be in India somewhere. Is that it? The sum of my life boiling down to just a few people? I know why, of course. Liam never liked my friends, so gradually it was easier just to let them drop off one by one. Easier, yes. Anything for a quiet life.