Stolen

by Lucy Christopher

  Then you were loading me onto the stretcher again, tightening bandages and rope around me. Pain crunched my insides, as if someone had a hand in my stomach and was twisting.

  “Open your eyes,” you were saying. “Open them.”

  Your hair was hanging down toward me. Strands of it dripped drops of water onto my nose. You called to the camel to stand. She rumbled like the thunder, protesting. You tapped the stick against her and I felt her surge forward, first her front legs rising, then her back ones.

  “Come on now, lady,” you called.

  It was still raining, but only a little, the drops light like summer sprinklers. I opened my mouth and felt the water against my tongue and teeth. I think it was the only thing that kept me going then, that rain. Each drop was like some sort of remedy, healing me … keeping me conscious.

  The rain fell, and the camel ran.

  After a time—I don’t know how long—we got to the car. You whooshed down the camel underneath the small collection of trees nearby and untied me. Then you led the camel away. I heard the strain and grumble of the engine as you tried to move the car; I heard moaning from the camel. I tried desperately hard to keep my eyes open. I looked at the sky—blue-gray again—and I looked at the trees. The veins of blood were still on the bark, just as before. Insects were feeding there, drinking up the red sap. There were flies on my own skin, too, buzzing and stepping all over me. I smelled the moisture of freshly rained-on earth. The car roared and snarled, churning the sand. You were shouting to the camel. A stick snapped somewhere.

  You came back to me with blankets and water. Made me drink. You spoke constantly, but your words were just background noise; like wind against the sand, or radio static. Then you grabbed my arm and stuck something sharp into it. I felt something rushing into my veins. I woke up a bit after that.

  “We’ve got to hurry,” you were saying.

  You lifted me and carried me to the car. There was oil and dirt and sweat on your skin. You smelled like gasoline. The car was growling, expectant. You paused before placing me inside.

  “Do you want to say good-bye?” you said.

  You clicked your tongue and the camel came toward us. Her huge face came right up to me as she sniffed at my cheek. Her harness was gone. I reached out and touched her velvet nose, but the soft sensation didn’t fully reach my fingers until I’d moved them away from her.

  “This is it,” you murmured.

  “How will you find her again?” I tried to say. “How will she find you?”

  You didn’t answer. You just kept staring straight ahead at the camel, your eyes slightly glazed.

  “Good-bye, girl,” you said softly.

  You clicked your tongue again and the camel rumbled in reply. She stepped back, away from the car. You bundled me into the backseat, leaning me against the window to keep my leg straight. You shut the door. I saw you pat the camel’s neck one last time as you passed her.

  You revved the engine to get the car moving, your foot pumping the accelerator. The tires spun on the sand. I watched the camel through the window. As the car edged off, she started trotting. You went faster and she moved into a lope. She ran beside us. I leaned my cheek against the window and thought things to her. I didn’t want her to be left, to be on her own again. How would she find her herd? How would she find you?

  Eventually, you pulled away. She stumbled in the sand, trying to keep up, then she slowed to a trot, getting farther and farther behind. She tipped her head back and moaned as we went. I wanted to moan then, too. If I’d had the energy, I would have. I turned my head, watching her until she became a tiny speck in the distance. She stood, still watching us.

  “Good-bye,” I whispered.

  The car bounced and slid in the sand. Stones flicked up and hit the window. I gripped the seat. Every swerve and sway sent a stab of pain through my muscles.

  “Hang in there,” you said.

  But it was difficult. After a while, my eyes closed again. I felt myself sinking down in the seat. The venom traveled up my body, poisoning me quietly. It turned my limbs stiff and hard. It made me dream that my feet grew through the car door and sank down into the sand. My skin turned into dry bark and my arms into branches. My fingers were soft whispering leaves.

  I was vaguely aware of something shaking. My body was moving sideways, but I didn’t know how. The movement kept going. Something was speaking to me. The wind, or the sand, or something, was calling my name.

  “Gemma … Gem,” it said. “We’re almost there.”

  But my body wouldn’t respond. I tried to open my eyes. Nothing worked. My body was rigid. My fingers twitched and swayed with the breeze. Then I felt your hand on my cheek, cool and dry.

  “Wake up, Gem,” you were saying. “Wake up, please.”

  I tried moving my face again, straining the muscles in my forehead. And this time I did it. I slid my eyes open. Just a crack. But it was all I needed. I saw you. You were twisting around from the front seat, one hand on the wheel, one hand on me. Behind you, through the windshield, towered a huge mountain of dirt.

  “The mine site,” you said.

  Again you forced a tablet of soft leaves into my mouth, much more bitter than the last.

  “Chew,” you said. “Stay awake.”

  You turned back to the front and suddenly the car stopped jerking so much. We’d hit a dirt track. It was hard and well used. My head pressed against the window as you put your foot to the floor, dust rising up around us. Compared to the rough ground that I’d got used to, the car felt like it was flying. As we got closer I could see huge trucks moving on top of the mountain, towers and chutes and large metal tanks beside it. There were more buildings around the base, white dust in the sky. Red dirt was everywhere else, and other colors, too … browns and whites, oranges and blacks. There were piles of stones. No trees.

  I chewed, tasting the antiseptic bitterness of the leaves. I blinked and forced my eyes to stay open. I’d been dreaming of that moment for weeks, that first glimpse of life outside your desert home. But right then, it didn’t feel real. Buildings, telegraph poles, trucks, and rubble blurred into the same thing, all swirling into a red smudge behind the window. Everything looked hot and burned.

  You skidded, wheels spinning, toward the buildings. I gasped as the force of your turn spread pain into my shoulders. It felt like barbed wire under my skin. You roared down a street with small square buildings on either side. Houses? It got harder for me to breathe. It was hotter in that place; the air was thicker somehow, heavy with mine dust. My eyes started to shut.

  You swung into a driveway. There was another squarish, makeshift building there. I gasped as the pain hit me again. I closed my eyes and pressed my cheek against the cool glass of the window. Every breath was more difficult than the last. You leaped out of the car, not bothering to turn it off. You were yelling something toward the building, but I don’t know what. My hearing was fading now, too. Everything was slower and quieter around me. My body was closing down, shutting up shop. Everything was fuzzy, like a dream. Nothing was real.

  I heard another voice yelling, too. Then the door I was leaning against opened and I fell back. Your arms were there, catching me. Something pressed against my nose and mouth. There was a smell of something clinical. And then, suddenly, I could breathe a little better. You were leaning over me, lifting me up. But I couldn’t really feel you. Only your skin brushing against the tip of my fingers. I could feel that.

  You took me into a room. Laid me on a table. A man stood over me. I saw him when he pulled open my eyelids. He said something to me. Then he put something into my arm. From somewhere far away, I felt a small jab of pain. Then a mask went over my face. And I could breathe again.

  Then we were driving fast. I could see sky through the windows: blue, with orange streaks of sunset. You skidded to a stop. The door opened. And you were picking me up again. You were running, my body swaying in your arms. But I wasn’t in pain. From very far away I heard the sound of
your feet, slapping against tarmac. There was another sound, too. A rhythmic grumbling. Mechanical thunder. Someone in white was waiting.

  “Name? Age?” I heard a lady’s voice, again from a long way away, like she was talking from another world.

  You carried me inside the plane, laid me on something soft. Then you started to pull away. I reached out and grabbed your hand, locked my fingers around yours. I wouldn’t let go. I didn’t want to be left alone with these strangers. I looked up at you, found your eyes. You hesitated, glanced back outside at the tarmac and flatness and red land beyond … then back at me. You nodded slightly as you sat. You started talking to me. I don’t know what you said. But there were tears in your eyes.

  My ears felt thick, and the machine moved around me. The person in white was back. Another mask on my face. Air. More things jabbed into my arm. I just kept watching you. You were the only thing that could keep my eyes open. But my chest was sinking, down through the soft mattress, down through the plane’s floor … I was under an avalanche. The sky turned orange around us, the land red beneath us. We were flying into the sun.

  Then the plane was dipping down and bumping and I was being pushed out of it. Wheeled across tarmac. It was dark, but lights were winking in the distance. The mask was taken from my face. You were running beside me. Running like you’d been running in the sand beside the camel. This time you were holding my hand, your fingers tight. Your eyes never left mine. There was a building. I went through a set of sliding doors.

  Then we stopped. A man was asking you questions, pushing you back. You were shouting, pointing. Then you looked at me … really looked at me. Your eyes were desperate, wanting something … finding something. Maybe. Your eyes became wet as they traveled over me, lingering on my legs, my face, my eyes. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. You turned back to the man, yelled something at him. Then you stepped up to my stretcher. You leaned over me. Stroked my face.

  “Good-bye, Gem,” you whispered. “You’ll be OK.”

  You touched the ring on my finger as you started to pull away.

  No. I shook my head. No.

  I grabbed at you. Got a hold on your elbow. My fingers grasped at your skin. And with all the strength I had, I pulled at you. I pulled you toward me. You let me. You came down easily. And then, suddenly, you were right there. I ran my fingers up your arm onto your bare chest, feeling for your heat. I gripped the back of your neck, my fingers twisting in your hair.

  Then, with my final bit of strength, I pulled your face toward me. My head left the pillow to get to you. Your skin was almost touching mine. Your mouth so close. I felt the roughness of your beard. I felt your warm breath, smelled the sour eucalyptus. I tasted your dirt and salt and sweat. Your lips were soft against my skin.

  And then, you were being pulled off me. You were being held. And I fell back. I looked for you, found your eyes as I was wheeled away. I could still taste your salt on my lips.

  You didn’t cry. You didn’t move. You just stood there, like a rock, watching me, while the hospital staff closed in around you. You were the hunted one now. I wanted to lift my hand, wanted to say thank you. But I could only watch as I was wheeled backward through a flapping door. Plastic edges fluttered against my arms as I was pulled through. I pushed myself up, wanting to keep you in sight. You brought your hand to your mouth. You opened your fingers and blew something at me. It looked like a kiss. But I saw the sand hang in the air for a moment before it fell toward the floor.

  Then the plastic doors shut and other, colder, fingers felt for my face. Another mask went over my mouth. Plastic straps pinched my cheeks. And then, breathing became easy. But it didn’t matter. The world all went black anyway.

  I sank down. Everything was cold, and dark, and very far away. A blurred hum of machines surrounded me, the distant drone of voices …

  “Who is this girl anyway?”

  “She’s fading on us …”

  “Bring her into intensive …”

  Then,

  nothing.

  A sharp chemical smell. Stiff sheets against my skin, heavy on my chest. Wires plugged into my arms. Something was beeping. When I tried to find it, it started beeping faster. I was cold. My body wasn’t so numb, more sore. Kind of empty. There were four shadowy walls around me. No windows. When I looked at one wall, it felt like the others were closing in.

  It was such a tiny room. You weren’t in it.

  Only me.

  Another time I felt someone’s fingers, cold against my arm, wrapping something around me.

  “Where’s Ty?” I said.

  “Who?” It was a lady’s voice, oldish.

  “Where’s Ty?”

  The fingers stopped moving. A sigh.

  “You don’t have to worry about him anymore,” the voice said gently. “He’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  The fingers slipped down to my wrist and pressed against it, their tips so cold. “Your parents are on their way.”

  I slept.

  There was blood between my legs … my period, arrived at last. Only a few weeks late. They say fear dries it up sometimes. I lay there, too numb to feel embarrassed, watching the nurse change the sheets.

  I slept again, wanting a dream.

  I heard Mum’s voice first, high and shrill, echoing down the corridor toward me.

  “We left as soon as we possibly could,” she said. “Where is she?”

  Her heels clicked quickly, getting louder.

  Dad’s voice was quiet in the background, talking to a third voice.

  “She’s been in a venom-induced coma,” that voice was saying. “She’ll feel strange for some time.”

  Then suddenly, they were all in my room: Mum and Dad and a white-coated doctor. There was a policeman at the door. Mum was grabbing me, smothering me with her soft wool cardigan and expensive perfume. She was sobbing into my shoulders. Dad was standing behind her. He was smiling, his whole face wrinkling up with it, which confused me for a moment because Dad never used to smile like that. Not at me anyway, not that I can remember. Then everyone was talking, asking questions, and staring…. I looked from Mum to Dad to the doctor. There was too much noise. I watched their mouths, opening and closing, but couldn’t take in their words. I shook my head.

  Then, almost at the same time, they all went quiet. They stared at me, expectantly, waiting for me to respond.

  Mum pulled back, studying my face. And I opened my mouth. I wanted to speak to them. I wanted to talk. I did. A part of me, a large part, was so glad to see them that I wanted to burst into tears. But I couldn’t cry, couldn’t say one word. Nothing would come out. I couldn’t even raise my arms for a hug. Not then. Not right away.

  Mum made up for me, though, releasing floods of tears. “Oh, Gemma, it must have been terrible for you,” she sobbed. “But now we’re here, I promise it will be all right. You don’t have to worry. You’re safe.”

  There was something awkward about the words she said, as if she were trying to convince herself more than me. I tried to smile back. I really did. Every muscle in my face hurt from the effort. And there was pain thudding through my forehead. The lights in that room were so bright.

  I had to shut my eyes.

  Later, Mum came back in by herself. Her eyes were red and tired-looking. She’d changed her shirt to a peach-colored one, freshly ironed and sweet-smelling.

  “We shouldn’t have all come together,” she said. “It must have been difficult for you … after having no one for so long, no one except for …”

  She couldn’t say your name; her face curled up in pain as soon as she even thought of you. I nodded, motioning that I understood, and she continued.

  “The doctors have told me how hard it is sometimes for people to adapt back to one’s real life. I know I can’t expect you to …” Her face wrestled with an emotion I couldn’t read. I frowned. “I don’t even know what he’s done to you,” she whispered. “You seem different somehow.” She had to look away, biting he
r lip. She breathed deeply until she regained her composure. “And we were so very worried, Gemma,” she added, “thinking we’d never … that you’d never …”

  Tears were on her face again, making her mascara run. In a previous life she would have hated that. I watched the black lines streak down her cheeks. She reached across to my hand, and I let her take it. Her fingers were cold and thin, her nails long. She felt the ring that you had given me. I stiffened, watching her twist it around my finger, seeing the colors glint.

  “Did you have this before?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Got it on Portobello Road,” I lied. “It’s fake.”

  “I don’t remember it.”

  Silence settled between us. Mum bit the edge of her lip. Eventually she leaned back, twisting her fingers in her lap. I put my hand under the sheets. I brought my other hand across and pulled the ring off my finger. Mum looked at me carefully, concern frowning her face.

  “The nurse said you were asking about him,” she said.

  “I was wondering …”

  “I know, it’s understandable.” She leaned across and stroked the side of my face. “But you don’t have to wonder anymore, love, you don’t even need to think about him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They have him, Gemma,” she whispered. “He turned himself in at the hospital. The police will need a statement from you soon.”

  “And if I don’t want to …?”

  “You have to. It’s the best thing.” She tucked the sheets around me tighter. “Once you’ve given your statement, the police can charge him. We’ll be one step closer to getting that monster locked up. And that is what you want, isn’t it?” Her voice was hesitant.

  I shook my head. “He’s not a monster,” I said quietly.