by Alex Lake
What would happen to her? Would she last? Physically? Mentally? How long before she lost her mind? How long before she beat out her own brains against the wall?
She had no idea. And she did not want to find out.
In fact, she was terrified of finding out.
14
Sarah’s mouth was drier than she had ever thought possible, and she was gripped by an incessant thirst. Since Jean had put her down here she had eaten and drunk nothing, and she was now feeling the effects. She needed to drink, and soon.
She had, though, a more immediate problem.
She had to go to the toilet. What had started as insistent urges had become painful cramps and were now a more or less constant ache in her bowels, an ache which was powerful enough to overcome her revulsion at the thought of what it would entail to put an end to it.
She took a deep breath and moved as far as she could to her right. When the chain was taut she squatted, hooked her hands in the waistband of her pajama pants and pulled them down, then moved – to use an expression much more delicate than the reality – her bowels.
The relief was welcome, but the stench was overpowering. She considered taking off an item of clothing and covering the feces with it, but that raised another problem.
She was getting cold.
What was she going to do when winter came? Winters in Maine were harsh, temperatures falling below freezing for days and weeks on end. She would need more clothes, or a heat source.
Except for the fact she wouldn’t be here then. She would find a way out. One way or another, she would find a way out.
It was another few hours – Sarah had no idea how many – before the door opened again and Jean came in.
Jean looked at the pile of feces. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘So little Miss Perfect’s shit does stink, after all.’
Sarah looked at her, blinking. ‘Can you clean it up, Jean? Please. Or I’ll do it. Give me a plastic bag and a scoop and I’ll take care of it.’
Jean ignored her. She tapped her forefinger against her lips. ‘The problem with this bomb shelter is that it was never finished,’ she said. ‘They didn’t put in the plumbing or the electrics. Maybe they ran out of cash, or the Cold War thawed. Anyway, I didn’t come down here to talk to you about the plumbing.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘I came to let you know the big event happened. Ben told the kids. Miles and Faye, anyway. Obviously, Kim is too young to understand. Honestly, I think Faye is, too, but that’s beside the point.’
Sarah let out a gasp, which turned into a sob. She pictured Ben sitting on the couch, one arm around Miles, Faye on his lap, saw the confusion on their faces, watched as it turned to shock, then disbelief, then tear-streaked agony.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Please, Jean. I don’t want to hear any more.’
‘They didn’t take it well,’ Jean continued. She shook her head. ‘But how do you tell your kids about this kind of thing? You have to explain it calmly – Mommy’s gone away and won’t be coming back – and then start to help them deal with their grief.’
Jean picked up the cigarette packet from the corner of the room and lit up. In her other hand she held a half-drunk bottle of coke. It was all Sarah could look at.
‘He didn’t tell them it was suicide,’ Jean said. ‘I suppose he will, later. He just told them you were dead.’
Sarah closed her eyes. This might not have been Jean’s original plan, but she couldn’t have stumbled on a better way to torture somebody. It was the worst possible situation for a wife and mother to be in: knowing her family was suffering unnecessarily but being unable to do a single damn thing about it. It was like watching her children run blindfolded toward a cliff from behind a soundproofed glass window.
‘Drink,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Jean threw the bottle of coke to her.
‘Here you go,’ she said.
Sarah untwisted the cap and sipped it; she was not a soda drinker, but in her thirst it was delicious.
She noticed that the smell of the smoke from Jean was masking the stench from her feces; if she had her own it would help block it out entirely.
‘Can I have a cigarette?’ Sarah said.
Jean raised an eyebrow. ‘You?’ she said. ‘You smoke?’
‘I used to,’ Sarah said. ‘A bit. In college. It’s been a long time. I think I can still remember how.’
‘Wow,’ Jean said. ‘Look at you. The minute there’s a lick of trouble, you reach for the smokes.’
A lick of trouble? Sarah thought. She was hardly reaching for the smokes because someone had told her her thighs looked big in a new pair of jeans. She was locked in a psychopath’s basement, a psychopath who happened to be her oldest friend.
If ever there was a pass for smoking – and draining a large glass of neat vodka, along with some prescription opiates – this was it.
‘Sorry to let you down,’ Sarah said.
Jean shrugged. ‘No skin off my nose,’ she said. She took out a cigarette and rolled it across the floor to Sarah. Then she tossed the lighter to her. She was keeping her distance; even though Sarah was chained to the wall she could still grab her, and Jean did not need to risk that.
Sarah picked up the lighter. It was a Zippo. It was inscribed: To Jack, Love you always, Jean. Jesus. She still used – without any qualms – the lighter of the man she had killed.
Sarah lit the cigarette and inhaled. The smoke caught in her throat and she coughed, her body rejecting it. Everything about it was foul: the acrid taste, the sensation of her body rejecting a poison, the malign glow of the tip of the cigarette. It was amazing anyone got started.
After a few drags, though, her body remembered that she used to partake, from time to time, and she managed to keep the smoke down.
It was a small victory.
‘Jean,’ she said. ‘What happens now?’
‘You stay down here,’ Jean said. ‘And I keep you updated on what’s going on. How the kids are doing. How Ben and I are getting along.’ She grinned. ‘We can compare notes, after I fuck him. And then, when I’ve decided it’s been long enough – probably when I’ve fully taken your place with Ben and the kids, maybe moved into your house – you’ll get your choice. Starvation, dehydration, suffocation. One, two or three.’ She shrugged. ‘The thing is, there’s no need to hurry from my point of view. You can’t go anywhere, and as far as the rest of the world is concerned you’re already dead. Only I know you’re down here, Sarah, so to all intents and purposes you’re mine to do whatever I want with. You’re nobody now, Sarah.’
‘I’m still a person,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m a human being, Jean. A mother. A wife. A friend. I have the right to— ’
Jean’s voice rose to a shrill shout. ‘You don’t have any rights. Down here you are mine. So what if you think you have a right to this or that or the other? There’s only me, Sarah, and I don’t give a rat’s ass about your rights, which means they don’t exist. Funny, isn’t it? Something we think of as so fundamental – our so-called human rights – can vanish so easily. So get used to this, you second-rate bitch: I can do whatever I want to you and it doesn’t matter. You don’t exist anymore, Sarah. You’re gone. The world is moving on without you, while you’re down here, a non-person who no longer matters.’
‘Jean,’ Sarah said, her chest tight, her breath short. ‘Don’t you have any shred of feeling for me? I’m a human being, Jean.’
Jean shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re nothing, Sarah. Don’t you see? You’re already dead. This is just your journey to hell.’
15
Ben lay on the bed he and Sarah had bought together. To his left, Miles slept. Faye’s head was on his chest. It had taken a long time to get them to go to sleep, Faye especially. Every time he had felt her body relax, heard her breathing lengthen and deepen, she had jolted awake.
But now she was – thankfully – asleep.
He felt a surge of anger at Sarah. It had been the same pattern all day: one moment utter grief, a void at t
he thought of life without her, and then rage. How could she have done this? She could have talked to him. He would have found a way to help her. There were ways to deal with this kind of thing: medication, hospitalization, therapy.
And she, a doctor, should have known it.
On his bedside table his phone buzzed. He picked it up; a text message from Jean.
Hi. Tough day, huh? I made some meals for you for the week. Stuff you can reheat. Can I drop them off?
Jean. What a superstar. If anyone had anything to get depressed about, it was her. She’d had a hard life. He knew it didn’t work like that; depression was an illness. But still. She’d had more than her fair share of bad shit happen to her and she simply got on with it.
And she’d been amazing since he’d come home to Sarah’s note. She had her own kids to look after, but she found a way to make time – and now food – for him and his kids. Thank God for her.
He texted back.
Sure. I just got the kids to sleep so now is perfect.
He slipped his arm out from underneath Faye and stood up. He went down to the kitchen – he paused outside Kim’s room and listened for any noises, but she was asleep – and poured himself a glass of wine – a small one. He’d drunk way too much whiskey the day before, which was not a habit that was going to establish itself. He was not going to become a drunk because of this. His kids deserved better. Sarah might have given up on them, but he wasn’t going to.
He sat on the couch. She was gone. His wife, the mother of his kids, was gone. She would never walk into this room again, never come to the couch and sit next to him with a glass of wine and tell him about her day.
He’d called Ian Molyneux who had come to take the note. He’d been a sympathetic cop, not a cop who thought Sarah would show up sometime. Ben could tell Molyneux was thinking, I’ve seen it all before and I pity this poor bastard, pity him because his wife is now another sad statistic in the column marked Suicide.
Ben closed his eyes. It was hard to believe.
A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. He opened it and let Jean in. She was carrying a tote bag full of plastic containers.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Thanks for coming.’
She walked into the kitchen and unloaded the bag.
‘There’s a pasta Bolognese,’ she said. ‘Some chili. Fish pie. A meatloaf. All stuff you can freeze and reheat.’ She gave him a sad smile. ‘Comfort food.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I truly appreciate it. This must have taken hours.’
‘My pleasure,’ she said. ‘I got a sitter this evening. She’s with them now.’
Ben felt for his wallet. ‘Can I pay for her?’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have to.’
Jean waved his offer away. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s the least I can do, given what’s happened.’
‘Then please let me offer you a glass of wine.’
Jean nodded. ‘Thank you.’ She gestured to the kitchen table. ‘But you sit down. I’ll get it.’
‘No,’ Ben said. ‘You’ve done—’
‘Sit down, Ben,’ Jean said. ‘Take a moment to relax.’
Ben smiled. ‘OK,’ he said. He sat on one of the kitchen chairs, his elbows on the table. ‘Thanks.’
Jean poured a glass of wine and sat at the end of the table, at right angles to him. He thought he detected a faint smell of cigarette smoke on her, but then it was gone.
‘I still can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t seem real.’
‘I know.’ He felt tears come to his eyes. ‘This could all have been avoided, Jean. That’s the worst thing about it. If only she’d talked to me about it.’
‘I’m not sure she knew herself,’ Jean said. ‘I can’t remember the name, but I don’t think she even knew what she was doing.’
‘Dissociative fugue,’ Ben said. ‘Which makes me feel worse. Rachel told me that might be what it was. I should have done something, Jean. I feel so fucking guilty.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Jean said. ‘I don’t think there’s anything you could have done. And I’m no psychologist, but I’m pretty sure feeling guilty is normal.’
‘None of this seems normal. I don’t know how I’m going to get through it. I mean, the kids. Fuck. It’s going to be so hard for them.’
‘They’ll get through it,’ Jean said. ‘People do. My kids did. I won’t say it was easy, but they did it.’
Ben looked at her. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘It helps to know someone else went through the same thing. And made it.’
‘And I’ll be here for you,’ Jean said. ‘Every step of the way.’ She put a hand on his forearm. ‘Whatever you need, whenever you need it, say the word.’
She stood up picked up his wineglass.
‘Another?’
‘A small one,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to lose myself in the bottom of a bottle.’
Jean went to the fridge. She refilled the glass and put it back on the table.
‘There you go,’ she said. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. ‘You’ll get through this.’ She moved behind him and dug her thumbs into the muscles and the base of his neck. ‘Wow. Your shoulders are tight. It’s no surprise, I guess. I worked as a masseuse, back in the day,’ she said. ‘At the Sebasco Resort. One of my many summer jobs. Let me work on you for a few moments.’
Ben leaned forward. ‘That feels good,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
He started to close his eyes. The pressure was – for a moment – a relief. As he relaxed, there was a creak from the stairs.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Dad?’ It was Faye’s voice. ‘Dad? I can’t sleep. I want Mom.’
Ben looked at Jean. ‘I need to go,’ he said. He gestured at the food. ‘Thanks again.’
16
The click of the lock. The crack of light, unbearably bright at first, then, as her eyes adjusted, Jean’s silhouette.
She would have recognized it anywhere. The shape of her head, her narrow hips, the way she held her elbows slightly raised, as though preparing to defend herself. It was a body she had seen thousands, maybe tens of thousands of times. Utterly familiar.
She’d thought Jean – the person – was just as familiar, but it turned out she wasn’t.
It turned out she didn’t know her at all.
Jean closed the door and switched on the headlamp. Sarah turned her head, dazzled by the beam.
‘Please,’ she croaked. ‘Turn it off.’
Jean clicked a switch and the light went from white to red. It was less dazzling, but it painted the room in a sinister hue.
‘Here,’ Jean said. She was holding a bottle of water and a sandwich in a Ziploc bag. She tossed them to Sarah. She still did not want to get too near to her captive. It was a wise decision; she obviously had experience. Sarah wondered whether it extended beyond Daniel and Paul. ‘You need to keep your strength up.’
Sarah ignored them.
‘Eat,’ Jean said. ‘You’ll fade away.’
She was right. Sarah was starving, and felt the onset of a fever, but she didn’t want to show it to Jean. It made no practical difference, but it felt good to defy her in whatever small way she could.
In fact, it made all the difference in the world.
‘Maybe I’ll take them away,’ Jean said. ‘If you don’t want them.’
Sarah’s hand twitched out; it was a convulsive, involuntary reaction at the threat, but she managed to pull it back.
Jean laughed. ‘You can pretend you’re not going to wolf them down as soon as I’m out of here, but we both know it’s only for show.’ She shook her head. ‘Pathetic bitch. This is typical of you. It’s why you’re in this situation in the first place. You don’t know what matters. You think your little show of defiance is important, but it’s nothing. Nothing. That’s the difference between people like you and me, Sarah. Like me and the rest of the world, really. I see things for what they truly are. You don’t.’
Sarah didn’t reply. She didn
’t need to; Jean’s grandiosity, her high self-regard, her sense she was different, better, than other people was characteristic of a certain group of people.
It was characteristic of psychopaths.
‘Anyway,’ Jean continued. ‘Don’t you want to know how Ben’s doing? I went to see him.’
‘No,’ Sarah said. ‘Don’t tell me.’
‘Come on now, Sarah,’ Jean said. ‘He’s your husband! He’s in distress! And you don’t even want to know how he is? What kind of heartless bitch are you?’ She shook her head. ‘The truth is, he’s well rid of you.’
Sarah looked away. She didn’t want to hear this; it caused a physical ache in her guts.
‘He had the kids in bed. It was tough. They’re very upset and it was hard to get them to sleep. I promised to help with them. Be there for them.’
Sarah gave a low groan. She pictured Jean with Miles and Faye and Kim, holding them, saying soothing words to them. She retched.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not my kids. Please, Jean. Leave them alone.’
‘They’ll need me,’ Jean said. ‘Their mom is dead. How can you deny them a woman’s love?’
‘You’re the last thing they need,’ Sarah said. ‘You’re the last thing anyone needs.’
‘I don’t think Ben agrees. He was very tense, Sarah. Very angry at you. He doesn’t understand why you did what you did. I agreed; suicide is such a selfish act. We sat in your kitchen – at the small breakfast table, you know it well – and I poured him a drink. He was grateful of the support, I could tell.’
Listening to this was torture. The image of them, sitting together in her house, in the home she had built with Ben, discussing her suicide, Jean shaping her husband’s resentment, stoking his anger; the image was like a scene from a nightmare, a nightmare when you have to watch some awful event unfold but are powerless to intervene.