by Carla Blake
In pain and starting to think that maybe her Grandad had been right all along, it was the little things that killed you, Rachel reached the kitchen and slumped against the wall.
Her ankle was killing her, the small, raw pain that had started in the lounge and accompanied her to the front door, now evolving into a sharp sawing that was slowly slicing into her skin and causing what looked like an awful lot of blood to flow across her foot and then onto the floor, leaving a thin trail in her wake.
Not that she minded that so much. Anything she could to cause Simon even more distress was fine with her, it was more the thought of loosing enough blood to feel faint that was bothering her. That and the thought of Simon coming home.
“Not in the basement then?” Polly asked as soon as Kate returned to the office and she saw the look on her face. “ I’m sorry Kate.”
Kate smiled thinly. “Not your fault. Did you check the ladies?”
“Yes and the cloakroom and Veronica went down to take a look in the social club.”
“I also rung the hospitals.” Veronica cut in before Kate could reply. “I hope you don’t mind, I just thought if Rachel had had an accident…”
Kate nodded wearily. “No, I don’t mind, it was a good idea. But I guess if Rachel’s not here, then we try the shopping centre.”
They searched for hours. Starting in the shops Polly knew Rachel liked, then progressing to the ones Kate thought she frequented, before finally giving up on that idea altogether and simply visiting every shop one by one until eventually they exhausted their supply.
A Tannoy message, asking Rachel to meet them at the information desk, didn’t bear any fruit either and when Polly asked a security guard if he could help them look, he merely gestured towards the hundreds of women wandering about in front of him and asked them where, exactly, they would like him to start?
Eighteen
Bemused, Rachel stood at the entrance to Simon’s kitchen and tried to puzzle out where it had all gone? It was still there, of course and not spirited away by aliens or turned in a bedroom for those who liked to cook but couldn’t be bothered to get up, and her entry into this strange parallel universe, had been a doddle. Turn her back, push down on the handle and ta-da she was in.
But that was where the familiarity ended, because now she was faced with a kitchen she would never have equated with Simon in a million years. Gone was the military style neatness and pristine, polished surfaces that had seemed to scoop up the light from the window and direct it at every piece of chrome in existence and gone too, was Simon’s mantra of everything in it’s place and a place for everything. He loved order, the kettle had to have its spout pointing towards the door, the gleaming chrome toaster had to face front, the spotless sink had to be spotless and the draining board even more so. It had been a kitchen from a catalogue, or a room plucked straight from the Ideal Home Exhibition where nothing was connected but everything was placed for maximum effect.
That had been Simon’s kitchen.
Not this.
There were cardboard boxes everywhere. About two dozen of them, the contents spelt out in large, black letters printed on the sides. Peaches, beans, ham, tuna, packets of tea and jars of coffee, loo roll and tubes of dough that could be baked in the oven and turned into loaves. There was sugar and cereal and crammed beside the kettle, a first aid box with a large red cross splashed across the front.
Rachel didn’t know what to make of it, but the first aid kit was a welcome sight even if it did cause her stomach to turn with worry. Because why would Simon buy that if he didn’t intend to come back and see to her injuries himself? He wouldn’t have known she would try to make for the kitchen herself. It was doubtful he’d even considered the idea, too confident she would wake up bound on the sofa and lay there waiting for rescue, so why else would it be there if he didn’t mean to come back?
For Christ’s sake, Rachel! Stop standing there gawping and do something!
For the second time, Kate’s voice rang clear in her head and surprised by the clarity of it Rachel shivered with goose bumps, gulped down a huge mouthful of longing for her lover and conceded that Kate was right. Standing round reading labels on cardboard boxes wasn’t going to get her hands free, nor was worrying about Simon’s return. If he was coming back, he was coming back, that’s all there was to it and nothing she could say or do would either hasten or delay his arrival. But that didn’t mean she had to be standing there with her hands tied behind her back and her feet bleeding teardrops onto the floor when he did show up. Not when she could be busy instigating her escape.
The first drawer she tried had nothing inside but paperwork and utility bills and she wasn’t sure what to make of that. Simon was the last person she would have expected to keep bills in a kitchen drawer. It was too ordinary for him, too common. She’d always imagined his correspondence to be kept in box folders, all neatly labeled and cross referenced with the date and time and quite possibly the type of aftershave he’d been wearing at the time. Not nestling between the tea towels and the cutlery.
The next drawer, however, had knives in it. Big, sharp ones and despite her discomfort, Rachel grinned, selecting one with a serrated edge, purely on the merit that it looked stronger than the others and was easier to pick out by touch alone, and then looked around for somewhere to wedge it.
The drawers were out straight away. Simon had fitted the ‘soft closing’ type which meant they had about as much grip as a wet marshmallow, and she couldn’t slot it between the door and the frame. Holding the knife in position and then closing the door securely enough to hold it in place wasn’t a contortionist’s trick she was capable of pulling off, so that was out. What the hell could she use?
Her eyes fell on the toaster.
She could use that. Okay, the knife had a plastic handle and might scorch, but what did she care? It was making sure the timer was set right so the blade didn’t suddenly ping out and stab her in the back that would be the tricky bit.
Hobbling over, Rachel checked that it was plugged in- no point in going to all this trouble if the damn thing wasn’t going to come on- she then turned her back and reaching up, tried to tip the toaster on its side. She didn’t get it the first time. The counter was higher than the one she had at home, and having to stretch that extra inch in order to get a grip sent a miserable ache through her shoulders that, quite frankly, made her want to cry. Her second try, though, was more successful and catching it with the tips of her fingers she was rewarded with a tinny ‘clang’ as the toaster hit the counter. Now all she had to do was arm her weapon and shoving the handle of the knife into the toaster, she braced it against the side of one of the boxes, set it to maximum setting, and then plunged the handle down.
It took forever. The knife kept wobbling about, preventing her from maintaining a decent sawing motion, and it wasn’t long before the kitchen began to fill up with such an awful stench of burning plastic that she began to wonder how long she could breath the noxious fumes without choking herself to death.
The ropes were also refusing to sever, even though she could hear the knife rasping away and the longer it took the more she was becoming increasingly certain she could hear the sounds of movement. A footstep along the hall. A key in the lock. A grumbled word to signify that Simon had once again entered the apartment and was about to find her messing up his beloved kitchen.
Not that she cared about that much. She hated this room. It was so bloody clinical not to mention disinfected to within an inch of its life by Simon’s obsessive need to keep everything sparkling. Even the insides of the cupboards were spotless, unlike her own which were sprinkled with spilt coffee and sugar and stained with dark looking rings from where various sticky jam jars had been shoved back without first being wiped. But at least it was normal. Here, everything was clean to the point of sterility and in alphabetical order! Tins, bottles, packets of flippin’ soup, all were lined up in re
gimental file. And God help the person who disturbed the ranks or dared to open a tin that wasn’t at the front. They had to be eaten first and then the ones behind moved forward to fill the gap and a replacement tin slotted in to fill the void. Nothing was ever allowed to break the pattern, and Rachel wondered if that was the reason behind all these boxes, because Simon could no longer bear to wait to go to the supermarket before replacing a used tin.
The knife rasped again and encouraged by the sound Rachel tugged at her bonds, hoping she had done enough to be able to pull them apart, but nothing happened.
Instead the toaster came to the end of its allotted time and with a metallic ‘ping’ disgorged what was left of the knife.
There wasn’t much of it. The plastic handle was now a mangled wreck, scarred by the grill and smelling foul, whilst the serrated teeth were now so clogged with burnt fibres she doubted if it would ever cut through anything again. But at least it hadn’t stabbed her when it had finished ‘toasting’, so that was good.
Again she peered into the knife drawer, grudgingly admitting that Simon had a fine collection of blades. Steak knives, fish knives. Knives for slicing through vegetables, fruit ... her skin.
Quickly, she pushed the thought away. What was she doing wasting time thinking such horrible things? Simon wasn’t going to cut her because Simon wasn’t going to get the chance. She was going to be gone way before he got back, just as soon as she’d cut through these ropes, freed herself, and found the key to that wretched second lock on the front door. And if all that meant working through every one of the knives Simon possessed, then so be it. Simon wasn’t going to win, he wasn’t going to gloat. He was simply going to come home and find her gone. The bastard.
She chose a small vegetable knife. It was certainly sharp enough to prick her little finger as she tried to drag it out of the drawer, and cursing her bad luck, she dropped the thing when she instinctively tried to bring her injured finger up to her mouth.
It landed in a corner, clattering up against the wall, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rachel got down on her knees and shuffled on her bottom towards it.
A sudden draught shocked the life out of her.
The front door, she shuddered, her eyes swiveling towards the kitchen door, Simon’s come home! Fuck! He must have sneaked in whilst I was busy playing about with knives and now he’s only moments away from discovering me crouching beside his cupboards.
She looked behind her, found the knife and grabbed it.
Okay, so at least I’m armed.
Then she waited. Hearing nothing, yet at the same time, hearing everything. A footstep on the laminated flooring, the sigh of a coat being lifted from shoulders. A breath.
She waited, holding her own breath and trying to rehearse what she would say if Simon appeared in the doorway. She couldn’t think of a thing and the best her stressed brain could come up with was to hide - which was next to useless when she was cornered in the kitchen!
Time ticked away and Rachel’s skin crawled with anticipation. Sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts and her fingers felt slippery around the knife.
Where was he? She silently screamed, watching the door and licking dry lips. Why was he taking so long? Why he hadn’t already burst in and dragged her back to the lounge where he could shout a thousand debilitating insults into her face and hit her around a bit more? Why was he just making her sweat!?
But nothing stirred and after another excruciating ten minutes, in which every joint in her body felt like it was seizing up, Rachel allowed herself to relax, certain now that Simon wasn’t in the apartment. His patience, she knew, wasn’t that extensive.
A soft, but determined ‘click’ then sounded above her head and hastily looking up, scared for a moment that Simon was about to come at her through the ceiling, she almost cried with relief when a sudden torrent of warm air rushed over her arms and lifted the ends of her hair.
The heating! It was the bloody heating! The ‘click’ nothing more than the timer on the boiler ticking to ‘on’. God, how could she have forgotten that! Simon had paid a fortune to have the radiators taken out and warm air vents put into the floor and ceiling and he’d lectured her about it for days. How much it had cost, how it would be cleaner and less inclined to harbour dust, how his whole apartment would have greater fuel efficiency and how, of course, she was an absolute idiot for not following his lead.
And how, she smiled, she was now going to use it to wedge the knife.
The handle fit snugly, the metal grill preventing any chance of wobble or the possibility of a sudden disappearance beneath the floorboards, and pointing firmly upright, at the perfect angle for sawing, it wasn’t long before Rachel had shuffled round, sliced through the rope and freed her hands.
It was the most amazing feeling ever and despite the rawness of her skin and the welling pin pricks of blood and the bruises that were already beginning to discolour, she felt like running around the apartment and slashing everything in sight, just to get back at Simon. But then the pain arrived, in great, pulsing waves spiking through her shoulders, and doubled up in agony, she held her arms, feeling the muscles scream and the tendons threaten to tear themselves in two. She had never felt anything like it and paralyzed with pain she moaned in long, pitiful mews, tears springing from her eyes, as she toppled onto her side and lay there, suffering the pins and needles that prickled up the nerves and left her feeling sick.
How long she lay there, Rachel had no idea, but eventually, after praying to a God she didn’t usually bother, to please take this fuckin’ pain away, she finally began to feel some lessening of pain.
She cut away the ropes at her feet, wincing as the movement aggravated the pain in her fingers. Her shoulders were still sore. Her head even more so. Her jaw felt like it had swollen to twice the size and now, freed from the rope that bound them, her ankles were bleeding.
Climbing unsteadily to her feet, Rachel limped over to the counter and snapped open the lid of the first aid box. Peering inside, she helped herself to the bandages and tape Simon had so thoughtfully provided.
“Creep.” She mumbled under her breath, cringing when a fresh spasm of pins and needles shot into her fingers. “You fucking left me here, you bastard. How could you? What did I ever do to you!”
“You want a list?” Simon asked from the doorway.
Hanging up the phone, Kate turned to Polly and shook her head.
They’d been back at Rachel and Polly’s house for the past two hours, having given up on ever finding Rachel at the shopping centre or at the three pubs they’d visited or at the local cinema showing a gangster movie Rachel wouldn’t have gone to see even if her life had depended on it.
She wasn’t at her parents either, who were still singing the praises of their Christmas spent lounging beneath a coconut tree, both admitted that yes, they had spoken to Rachel on the phone several days ago, but no, neither of them had actually seen her in the flesh. A fact, her mother in particular made much of. They still had her presents, she said, when was Rachel going to pick them up?
Soon, Kate assured them. Rachel would visit the moment she got a minute.
She then apologised for disturbing them and counting her lucky stars they hadn’t enquired as to why she was calling them in search of their beloved daughter, she tried the hospitals again.
“She’s not at the Mayday.” Kate said, running a hand through her hair. “And they haven’t heard of her at St. Helier. Which leaves what? St. George’s? Have we got their number?”
“We have, and I’ll ring it.” Polly insisted, pushing her gently away. “Go sit down for a minute. You look shattered.”
“And you don’t?”
“How would I know? I can’t see myself. But I can see you and you look like death warmed up. So, go! Chill for a minute. Open a bottle of wine or something.”
Sitting on the sofa, her second gla
ss of wine now little more than a stain in the bottom of her glass, Kate gazed at the clock and wondered which malicious manager of time was responsible for time dragging in moments of crisis, turning seconds into minutes and hours into days, because that’s how long it felt like she’d been sitting here, bloody days. Waiting for the rattle of the front door and hoping that this time, when she dialed Rachel’s mobile and pressed the warm plastic to her ear, that she wouldn’t get an automated voice asking her to leave a message, but Rachel’s voice, breathless with apologetic excuses, sorry for the trouble she’d caused, but there! Safe and sound and alive.
Polly made dinner and reluctantly Kate agreed that they needed to eat something and keep their strength up, but the moment Polly emerged from the kitchen carrying two plates of chicken and chips, Kate suddenly found she didn’t have an appetite at all and pushing the food around the plate for a while, declared that she was sorry but her stomach was too full of worry to tolerate the competition.
Polly knew how she felt. Eating was impossible when they didn’t know where Rachel was or why she had gone? That was the big question for her. Why would Rachel suddenly disappear off the face of the earth without saying anything? And yes, she knew what Kate was thinking, that Rachel had somehow got herself abducted by thugs in a black motor, but again- how? Rachel wasn’t some stupid teenager, liable to get into a dodgy bloke’s car just because he had a nice smile and promised her a free drink. She was smart and savvy. She knew how the world worked these days and she just couldn’t see Rachel getting caught like that. To her mind, it was much more likely that she had gone shopping, met up with an old friend, gone out to dinner and then discovered that her mobile phone had either run out of credit or battery.