My Girl

by Jack Jordan

  ‘Say that name again and I’ll break both of your ankles so that you never walk again. Is that what you want?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Paige.’

  ‘Who do you belong to?’

  ‘You. I’m yours.’

  He let go of my ankle, walked up the stairs and turned off the light. As I listened to him lock the door to my prison, I lay on the bed and smiled in the dark.

  I am Chloe. I have been inside this basement for three years. I am seven months pregnant. He has taken my arm, my freedom, and my innocence, but he can never know my thoughts, and he will never take my baby.

  ***

  I woke up from the sharp pain inside my belly. It was swollen and taut, and the shooting sensation burned inside me for over a minute. I sat up and went to touch my stomach, but couldn’t: my right hand was cuffed, and my left hand had been taken from me a long time ago. Liquid gushed out of me and soaked the bed, as though my stomach had burst.

  My waters have broken. But I thought he said I was only seven months pregnant? Why is this happening now?

  Part of me was longing for the baby to arrive so I was no longer alone, hour after hour, day after day. The other part of me wished that it didn’t exist – not because I didn’t love the baby, but because I was too young to be a mother. What sort of life could I give the baby, living down there in the dark?

  The water felt slimy and was already turning cold on my skin, but being free of it felt so good: the pressure I had been carrying all these months had finally been released. But then a new pressure began to build, as though my ribs were being pushed out of their cage and my organs were being crushed. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead as I whimpered in the dark, breathing short, fast breaths. The sharp pain shot through my stomach again, as though the baby was ripping me apart from the inside; I could feel it moving, I could feel my whole body changing, morphing for what was to come. I clenched my teeth through the pain, groaning like an injured animal, and dug the heels of my feet into the bed until the pain lessened again.

  Where is he? Can’t he hear me? I can’t give birth on my own, with my only hand cuffed to the bed. He has to come down. He has to hear me.

  I screamed out his name just before the next contraction came.

  I’m going to die. The baby is going to die. Is that what is happening? Is that why it hurts so much?

  Blood appeared on my bottom lip where I had sunk my teeth into it during the contraction. I screamed for Maxim again until my voice was hoarse.

  For the first time since the abduction, I was happy to hear the key turn in the lock and his footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘It’s coming!’

  ‘But it’s too early – you’re only seven months!’

  ‘Maxim, please help me! It hurts!’

  I was so happy to see him; so happy that I didn’t have to go through it alone. His eyelids were puffy and his hair was wild, and he was dressed in grey flannel pyjamas. He rushed around the basement, disorientated from sleep, and ran the tap to fill the washing-up bowl with water. He went to find the bag he had packed for when the baby came. For months he had read books on how to care for a baby; he had learnt the stages and symptoms of pregnancy, and had watched videos on the internet to prepare for the delivery. He brought the bag over to the bed, and checked how many centimetres I was dilated; it felt like he was prodding an open wound. He rushed back to the sink to get the bowl, which he placed at the foot of the bed; he took a cloth from the bowl and sat beside me against the bedframe and pressed the cool wet cloth to my clammy forehead. He wiped it over my neck, my chest, and swollen, taut stomach. He rubbed it softly between my legs and removed the cuff from my wrist.

  ‘It hurts so much.’

  ‘It will be over soon. Only one more centimetre and you’ll be able to start pushing.’

  ‘Already?’ I looked up at him, terrified, wishing I didn’t have to push, feel the pain, and have such a responsibility.

  He held my hand.

  ‘You can do this. You’re ready.’

  I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t have a chance to reply as the next wave of agony burned in my belly as though I had been stabbed and the blade was being twisted. I gritted my teeth and groaned, digging my heels into the bed again, and squeezed Maxim’s hand as hard as I could.

  ‘You’re ready to push,’ he said, his breath sour from sleep.

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘You have to. You can do it. I have to go to the end of the bed now.’

  He moved to the end of the bed and tucked towels beneath my bum and thighs. I heard the snap of disposable gloves.

  ‘You need to push now.’

  I pushed, and screamed from the pain and the pressure.

  ‘Keep pushing. Come on.’

  Sweat and tears poured down my face and my hand gripped the bed sheet until it twisted around my fist. I had to stop, to breathe, but pushed again when I felt the pressure moving downward, through me. From behind my closed eyelids, explosions of white lights flashed with the pain. I could smell blood, faeces, and sweat.

  ‘One more push!’

  I screamed, clenched my teeth until I thought they would shatter, pushed until I felt as though my head was going to explode and my belly was about to burst.

  And then I heard the first cry of my baby.

  TWENTY

  Once I became a mother, Maxim freed me of the handcuff. I was a prisoner, but given freedom of the whole room. Being able to walk when I pleased, use a real toilet rather than the metal bowl, and wash myself rather than be washed by Maxim’s hands felt so good. He had fitted a small bath and a toilet in the basement. They were old and stained, and I was only allowed cold water, but I didn’t care. I would shiver in the freezing cold water and tell myself it was worth it. For the first time since he took me, I finally had some control.

  I wanted to wean John from breastfeeding once Mary arrived, but Maxim was adamant that it was the best thing for John: he was getting the nourishment he needed, and he would be smarter and healthier because of it. Every time I mentioned it, Maxim read aloud articles that he had cut out of newspapers, and told me how good breast milk was for infants. I was breastfeeding two children: one newborn, and one toddler with teeth.

  I sat on the rocking chair, with John suckling from one breast and Mary from the other. John would get possessive – he had never had to share his mother’s milk before – but he was getting better, although I had to scold him sometimes for biting my nipple.

  For three years I had swollen breasts that lactated without warning and stained the few T-shirts I had; they felt rock hard as though stones were blocking the milk ducts. A couple of times I noticed blood in the milk around the seal of John’s mouth. I loved my children, but I hated feeding them. Every time I sat on the rocking chair with John on my lap and Mary held by my good arm, I had to try and calm my racing heart and brace myself for the pain.

  One day, while breastfeeding my two children on the rocking chair, I worked out that I was twenty. Twenty years old with two children, both fathered by my uncle. He chose their names; he even chose mine – I wasn’t Chloe anymore, I didn’t dare say the word aloud. I was Paige, my uncle’s property, a clone of my mum, who he had been obsessed with all his life.

  I couldn’t understand him. How could a man be in love with his sister? How could he imprison me – his niece – and pretend I was a younger version of my mum? How could he have babies with me? The more I tried to work it out, the less sane I felt. Trying to understand the darkness of his mind took me to places in my own that frightened me. I learnt not to question his motives, or try to understand how his brain worked. I nodded, followed orders, let him call me by my mother’s name. I would do anything to survive.

  I decided to stop thinking of Mum and Dad after a few years. Thinking of them just hurt too much, and watching their faces disappear from my memory was like a dagger to my heart. I could no longer remember the sounds of the
ir voices, or what they looked like. They were disintegrating from my mind like crumbling sand, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. All I could do was force myself to think of other things.

  So many memories were gone. I couldn’t remember the sound of birds singing, or waves crashing on the shore; names of films and songs were muddled up. Everything was changing and there was nothing I could do as my past, and the world outside the basement walls, disappeared. All I knew then was the life I lived within the basement, day after day, night after night, with my two precious children and their father, my uncle, my worst nightmare. Everyone must have believed I was dead by then, for no one had come looking for me. Maxim was so comfortable with our life in the basement, it was as though he had nothing to fear – and that was the most terrifying thing of all.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The basement was always so damp in the mornings. I could see my own breath in the air. The strip lighting on the ceiling flickered. I always hated the harshness of the lighting in there; the brightness gave me headaches. My youngest son Jacob was still asleep, wrapped up in the sheet we shared when he was too ill to sleep in his cot. His pale two-year-old body looked so delicate. I slipped out from under the sheet and walked across the cold floor to the kitchen and took my shawl from the peg on the wall to wrap tightly around myself. Mary and John were still sleeping, snoozing back to back, both sucking their thumbs on the small single bed in the main living area, tucked away in the corner. John was seven and Mary had just turned five. I often dreamt of a bigger place for them to live in: their own bedrooms; carpeted floor; and window after window, rather than endless plain walls.

  The children didn’t know about the world outside the basement. They thought the only people who existed were themselves, their father and me. They had never seen an animal, or clouds in the sky, or breathed fresh air into their lungs; they had never seen the sun rise or set. All they knew were the walls of the room and everything in it. They were none the wiser, and seemed to exist with the innocence that I had lost when I woke up in the basement for the first time.

  I boiled the kettle. Mary and John would be up soon. The sound always roused them. I used to put off having my first cup of tea of the day, just to get an hour to myself, but I craved the heat of the mug in my hand and the tea warming my throat. They would be up and wanting breakfast before I had even taken a sip. Jacob wouldn’t wake for a while; he seemed to sleep more and more in those days.

  Mary’s eyes flickered open and focused on me. I smiled at her, and she smiled back. As I poured boiled water into the mug, I felt Mary’s arms wrap around my hips. When I looked down, I saw Mary staring up at me with so much love in those dark green eyes.

  What did I ever do to deserve you?

  The shadows around her eyes were getting darker, or maybe her skin was getting paler. I took my mug and my clinging daughter over to the heater. Mary turned it on as we settled down in front of it and relished the orange glow bathing our cold skin. I put the mug on the floor, grabbed the blanket from the sofa, and threw it around us. We shrank inwards towards the warmth.

  ‘When will Daddy come home?’

  ‘Dinnertime. Like every day.’

  ‘Sometimes he is here in the morning.’

  ‘Only if he is so tired he falls asleep. We don’t need him to be here every night anyway, do we? He snores.’

  Mary giggled as I mimicked the sound he made.

  ‘Where does Daddy go when he’s not here?’

  ‘To work.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s how he earns money to pay for our food and our clothes.’

  She thought about it, while staring into the orange glare of the heater.

  ‘Where does Daddy sleep?’

  ‘Daddy has his own room. Like this one.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Above us.’

  She frowned and looked up at the cracked ceiling and the wooden rafters. Telling Mary that her father lived above us was like telling a young girl from the outside world that her father had a house on Mars.

  ‘Can we go up there?’

  ‘It’s only for Daddy.’ I couldn’t talk about it anymore; my throat was tightening at the thought of the outside world.

  ‘Can I have some?’ Her orange eyes flickered towards the mug.

  ‘It’s hot. Give it a minute.’

  She nodded and leaned her head against my chest. Her shoulder pressed against the bruise on my ribs, which made me flinch.

  ‘Why was Daddy angry?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now. Here, have some tea, but blow on it first.’

  Mary sat up and blew on the surface of the tea before she took a sip, with the mug cupped in her small, pale hands. She looked up at me with a satisfied, milky smile.

  You’re my everything.

  Jacob began to cough; the phlegm crackled in his small lungs.

  ‘When will Jacob get better?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘He isn’t fun anymore.’

  ‘He’s tired, sweetheart. Being sick makes people tired.’

  ‘But he has been sick for ages. I think he’s faking.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. He will be better soon and will be lots of fun again.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ John said from behind us, sleepily rubbing his eyes awake.

  ‘Good morning to you, too.’

  I stood up and put my mug of tea on the table so I could ruffle his hair.

  ‘Cereal?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ they both said. They knew to be polite.

  I leaned down to get the box of cereal from the cupboard and winced at the pain from my bruised ribs, sucking air through gritted teeth. Jacob coughed in his sleep, and each breath he took seemed to sound wheezier than the last.

  I knew it would be over soon. I knew our lives were about to get worse.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The recycled air was heavy and stale, meaning I could never quite catch my breath. I didn’t do much with my days: I tended to the children, I cleaned the basement and forever swept up mice droppings that were always replaced if I dared to turn away. I cooked; I waited for Maxim to return. Even though I was mostly idle, I was always exhausted – we all were. It was as though the unnatural light leeched the life from our skin and bones, or the trapped air was toxic, killing us with each breath we took.

  ‘Mum…’

  Mary’s voice broke me out of one of my idle trances. I had been sitting in the rocking chair, staring at the wall, imagining a window that looked out over rolling fields and a cloudless blue sky. I envied the children sometimes. They had no idea what they were missing.

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘Jacob is bleeding.’

  She looked even paler than usual. Worry plagued her eyes.

  My stomach clenched like a fist. By the look in Mary’s eyes, it was bad.

  I rushed to the bedroom and saw Jacob lying on the white sheets; blood ran from his nose and onto the sheets. He was covered in beads of sweat. He hadn’t looked too bad when I settled him down for his nap.

  ‘Jacob!’

  I climbed onto the bed and took him in my arms. Blood stained my T-shirt. Mary waited at the end of the bed with tears in her eyes.

  ‘Get me a damp cloth, Mary.’

  She nodded quickly and rushed out of sight.

  I looked down at Jacob: eyes closed, mouth open, bloody rivers running down to his chin.

  ‘I’m here, baby, I’m here.’

  The heat practically radiated from him, and his skin felt clammy. I took off his pyjamas to keep him cool and held him to my chest; the pyjamas were damp with sweat and blood. His skin was hot, but his sweat was cold. His heart was racing so fast, and I could see his eyes were moving behind their lids.

  Mary ran back with the wet cloth. It was soaked and dripped on the floor.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ I said, as I tried to smile. I wrung the cloth and held it to his forehead. ‘Go and play, Mary. There isn’t anything to worry about.’
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br />   ‘I’m sorry,’ Mary said, her bottom lip quivering.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I said he was faking. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Sweetheart, that doesn’t matter. You’re a brilliant sister. Now go and play with John. Jacob’s fine now. I’ll look after him.’

  Mary wiped her eyes as the tears fell; I could tell she longed for a cuddle, but she knew that Jacob needed me more. She turned away sniffling.

  I wiped the blood away from Jacob’s face with the damp cloth, and then the back of his neck, his arms, his chest, in the hope that it would cool him down.

  ‘I love you so much,’ I whispered.

  Slowly, his eyes began to open. He looked up at me from my lap. He was so tired, and so weak, that I couldn’t help but tear up at the sight of him. It was as though he was asking me: Why? Why is this happening?

  All I wanted to do was make him better, to rid his lungs of the infection that seemed to be drawing the life from him. I vowed to find a way to save us all. I didn’t know how; I didn’t know when – but I knew that I had to try, and soon.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I hid beneath the basement stairs and told the children we were playing a game. Once Daddy came down, John and Mary had to tell him I was sleeping, and they had drawings to show him. They drew the pictures especially, working on them all day as I crouched beneath the stairs with Jacob held to me with my good arm, waiting to hear the key turn in the lock. I waited there for hours, longing to pee, to eat, but I feared that the moment I did so, he would appear at the top of the stairs and I would miss my chance.

  I had been torn: if I wanted to save Jacob, I had to leave John and Mary behind. There was no way all of us could escape. If I waited any longer, Jacob might not make it. I stayed up all night trying to figure out a way for all of us to leave the basement, but it couldn’t be done: I had to leave them behind.

  I heard the key turn in the lock and my mouth instantly became dry. I listened to his feet on the stairs, coming closer and closer until he was right above my head, and then I saw his feet on the stairs before me, and heard him talking with the children as he reached the ground. They did what I told them to do – they said I was sleeping and took him to their drawings, his back to the stairs. My heart was racing and sweat covered my body. I was so frightened, I wanted to stay with the children, but then I felt Jacob struggling to breathe, and I knew I had to try. I had to save him.