A Person Could Disappear Here

by Terri George

  “I’m not sure He can take the credit. Sounds as though Hailey owes her life to you.”

  “Ah, I was just doing my job.”

  “So when sheriff Hamby retired you were elected sheriff?”

  “Oh good God no. I was only twenty-four. But people around here have long memories, and I won’t deny it helped get me elected eight years later when his replacement decided not to run again.”

  “So what happened to Hailey after she was found?”

  “She still wanted more than working on her father’s farm and church on Sunday, but realized she had to get serious about getting out. So, she got her act together, went back to school, did great on her SATs and got a scholarship to Berkeley. And now she’s an associate at one of California’s top law firms, doing some pro-bono on the side.”

  “So she still keeps in touch?”

  “Emails and Christmas cards. She was a bright kid. Just stifled by small town life.”

  I think I’d find it suffocating too. But sheriff Wetzler’s story has given me an idea.

  “You found the bloke who abducted Hailey by tracing his pickup. Could you find Jensen through his car, do you think?”

  “Maybe, but how do you know what he drives?”

  “From Abbey’s video. Oh, I forgot to send you that. She filmed it somewhere in Nebraska when Jensen was supposedly driving them to his grandfather’s house. You can see the car’s a red convertible. Alessandro thinks it could be a BMW.”

  “Without the licence plate it will mean going through the list of all vehicles registered to guys around Jensen’s age, which will take time.”

  “But you can do that?”

  “Not only can, will.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, sheriff Wetzler. Without you I’m not sure Alessandro and I would ever find Abbey.”

  “Enough with the sheriff Wetzler. I told you, it’s Shari.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Shari.”

  “You’re more than welcome. Anyway, like I say, it will take some time for my friend to enhance the photos and video, as will checking out convertible owners. I’ll let you know when I have something, but in the meantime, I suggest you keep doing what you’re doing. Who knows, you may find the car and this Jensen guy before I do.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  ABBEY

  JOURNAL ENTRY TWELVE

  Our decisions define us. We all make them every day, every hour even. The big ones have huge ramifications. They can determine how our lives go, set us on a new course. Small ones simply make our day; or ruin it.

  The best decision I ever made was that first day at school. When Cristina held out her pinkie finger, I chose to swear we’d be best friends. Forever.

  Another great decision was championing an unknown author’s debut manuscript the first readers had rejected, as had all the big-name publishing houses. After some judicial editing it went on to be long-listed for a Booker and sold a quarter of a million copies. Earning me Penny’s admiration (which from a boss is something every employee who wants to get on should aspire to get at least once) and a ten percent pay rise.

  Bad decisions? Well I probably shouldn’t have gone blonde that summer. What can I say? I was sixteen. Luckily it was only semi-permanent, so it faded and washed out in a few weeks.

  But without a doubt, COMING HERE IS THE WORST DECISION I HAVE EVER MADE. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home…

  But know I probably never will.

  Sometimes I wish he’d just kill me. Get it over and done with. Just do it quick.

  I can’t take this anymore. All the horrible things he does to me and makes me do. I’m too ashamed to tell you. I feel so dirty…

  I’m not judging, but I’ve never understood why women fantasise about being had against their will; get turned on by the idea of being restrained and taken by force. I can tell them from personal experience, there’s nothing sexy about being raped.

  It wasn’t quite eight o’clock when he locked in my room; the remains of the day’s lingering pink staining the underside of clouds. I don’t know what time I fell asleep, or when I was woken abruptly by a loud thud, but the sky outside the window had turned purple-black.

  In the silence of the small back bedroom I listened, heart thumping.

  It could almost be the wee small hours of the morning back home. Cristina crashing in, the front door bouncing off the hallway wall, slammed shut a moment later. Staggering footsteps, the sound of things on the hall console table wobbling and knocking together followed by a slurred muttered expletive.

  The silver-grey dimness of the living room illuminated by the flickering glow of the TV sliced in two by a thick band of gold from the open door as the hall light is flicked on. Milù, a fluffed-up puff ball, scuttling out of sight. Cristina slumping next to me on the sofa, stealing my mug of coffee, slurping down great mouthfuls in between telling me about her night. Milù plucking up the courage to venture out from her hiding place in a shadowy corner to sit between us and get twice the stroking and fussing.

  There’s no place like home.

  I’m stuck in a topsy turvy world where I’ve swapped the big bright city for an old weather-boarded house in the wide-open spaces, surrounded by miles and miles of corn. Oh Milù, I have a feeling we’re not in London anymore. My scarlet sneakers are no ruby shoes.

  The light tinkle of metal and thwack of leather didn’t fit. Nor the frothy sweetness of fruit at the tipping point between overripe and rotten breathed over my face.

  “I know you’re awake. I can tell by your breathing.”

  In a heartbeat my hands were bound, his belt twisted around my wrists and the bars of the old metal bedstead in a tight figure of eight.

  At six-foot-two to my five-foot-six he has eight inches and ninety pounds on me. I was always going to come off the loser, but still I protested. I struggled.

  He just laughed. “Ooh, feisty, aren’t we? I love it when a girl fights back.”

  I kicked out as he tugged off my knickers, a foot connecting with his ribcage.

  He stopped laughing. “Bitch.”

  The sharp slap of his palm stung my cheek.

  He looked around, spotted my sneakers and pulled out the laces.

  More figures of eight, around each ankle, the flat red strips cutting grooves into the flesh, my legs spread wide apart.

  He took off his shoes and got naked from the waist down.

  The mattress dipped, my body bouncing as he positioned himself between my spread-eagled legs.

  Delicate deep-hidden tissue tore as he slammed inside, pulled out and drove back in. Over and over. My body shoved towards the headboard with each harsh thrust.

  He suddenly withdrew and shifted position to straddle my torso, his groin close to my face.

  He smirked down at me. “You want this?” he asked, palming his dick, stroking up and down its length. “Yeah, sure you do. All you sluts are the same.”

  Holding my head in place, he shoved his dick in my mouth, ramming his hips back and forth, oblivious to the tears streaming down my cheeks.

  His moans became more of a continual sound as he thrusted harder and faster before suddenly pulling out of my mouth. Releasing his breath in a strangled groan, he came all over my face.

  There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…

  I want to go home.

  Chapter Twenty

  ABBEY

  JOURNAL ENTRY THIRTEEN

  I was wrong. Sometimes kidnappers do make mistakes.

  He made one today.

  I was watching TV. Well, I say ‘watching’. Really I was just staring at the screen, not taking anything in, but then there wasn’t much to take in. It was a crime show, all car chases and exchanged gunfire. Predictable, (good guys prevail, bad guys die) gratuitously violent and bloody.

  He went into the kitchen, for another beer I thought. I listened to the rubber-soled squeak of his trainers as he crossed the linoleum, expecting to hear the suck of the seal relinquis
hing its hold, the clinking of bottles and jars wobbling in the fridge door compartments, but it didn’t come. Instead I heard the small creak of the back door’s unoiled hinges. Twice.

  I hurried on tip-toe across the kitchen, watched through the window in the small back bedroom as he went into the barn in the back yard.

  He may have taken my mobile, but my purse and passport were still in my bag. Money, debit card and ID; all I needed to get out of this country and home. I grabbed it, strung the strap over my left shoulder and across my chest.

  The latch yielded when I pressed on the handle. Resisting the urge to rush, I opened the back door cautiously and peered through the crack between the door and frame. I couldn’t see him, so hoped he was still in the barn.

  I was careful to close the door behind me so he wouldn’t guess straight away when he came out of the barn. And then I ran.

  I’ve always been more academic than athletic. The last one picked for team games at school; last placed in the hundred metres dash. Although, probably because it demands spurts of pace rather than the continuous effort of running, I was good at tennis. I could hit a ball. But needs must when desperation drives and I ran as if my life depended on it. Because it did.

  Unlike in my fantasy, there was no pickup, no kindly good Samaritans to rescue me, but neither did I slip as I sped down the dirt track to the road. My strides sure and steady.

  Nor did I look behind me. Why do they always do that in movies? It’s just stupid. How can you run when you’re looking behind you? That’s why they always trip and fall.

  But I didn’t fall, I ran. Ran until my lungs felt as though they would burst, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth.

  Long graphite grey shadows of utility poles shimmered in the heat, imaginary puddles pooling on the surface of the road.

  Sweet dampened my hairline, trickled down my cleavage. My throat was dry from drawing in air through my mouth, but still I ran; elbows pistoning, bag bumping on my hip with every punishing pace as I pushed myself to keep going.

  Even though it was easier on the smoother surface, I knew I was too exposed on the open road; easy prey. Better to go slower, hidden within one of the fields that spread unendingly either side of the highway. So I veered off to the right, racing across the grass verge, heading for concealment within the swaying heads of corn.

  The sound of a car’s engine was getting closer. It could have been the salvation of a stranger, but I didn’t have to risk a glance behind to check if it was, because I knew it wasn’t.

  Tires slid on the road, the rear of the car fishtailing as it swerved to a halt a few feet in front of me in a slew of red.

  The edge of the field was so close I could almost reach out and touch a stalk of corn. Just three strides away.

  The air was knocked from my lungs by a fist or a foot making contact right between my shoulder blades and I was sent sprawling. Face down in the scrubby grass, inches from the regimented rows of corn.

  My legs bent beneath me as I was pulled backwards, the heels of my sneakers digging deep grooves in the grass as he dragged me across the verge to the car, by my hair.

  I was shoved into the passenger seat, the door slammed shut, central locking clicked on with the remote.

  I suppose I could have tried to run while he was walking around the front of the car to the driver’s side, but what would have been the point? He’d only have chased me down again. Maybe even run me down. And that wouldn’t be the quick end I’m hoping for.

  He didn’t say a word as he drove us the short distance back to the house. I was surprised how close we were. It felt like I’d run so much further.

  I prayed my only punishment would be to be dragged through the house and locked in my bedroom while he sat stewing in an alcoholic haze, watching some mind-numbing rubbish on TV. But God must have had more pressing requests because my plea went unanswered.

  I didn’t get off that easily. His plan was to hurt and humiliate.

  I was led into the back yard, to between the trees where I was made to take off my sneakers, jeans and knickers.

  Standing there bare from the waist down I felt more exposed than if I had been made to strip naked.

  He reached up and pulled at one of the lower boughs of one of the trees, bending the slender branch back and forth until he tore off a length as long as his arm.

  Then he beat me with his improvised switch.

  Again, and again, and again.

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  Chapter Twenty One

  ABBEY

  JOURNAL ENTRY FOURTEEN

  Time flies when you’re having fun? Well, no it doesn’t. The laws of physics tells us that’s impossible. Time passes at a constant speed that we measure in minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. What changes is our perception of how quickly it’s passing.

  There are all sorts of reasons time seems to fly by or drag on:

  Distraction. When we’re enjoying ourselves we don’t notice the time passing, but when we’re unoccupied we clock-watch.

  Fear. When we’re scared our brain pays more attention to what’s happening as a defence mechanism and creates more of a memory, which is why time seems to pass slower.

  Supressing emotions. Trying to control our emotional reaction to something affects our perception of time so it seems to drag.

  So, nothing to take my mind of my situation, terrified every minute of what he’ll do to me next and trying not to think about what’s happening to me while clinging to the hope that I will survive this, I’m three for three. And it explains why thirteen days feels like forever.

  I suppose it’s good to know those two years studying psychology for A Level weren’t a complete waste of time, but fat load of good it does me now though. Rationalising why the time I’ve been held here seems so much longer than it is in reality doesn’t help.

  It doesn’t change anything. I’m still stuck here. Unless I find a way out. Or until he ends this, and me. Forever. I need to get out. Out of this house. Out of this country. But first I have to get out of this room.

  I got the idea yesterday, when he shoved me in here after the beating he gave me for trying to escape. Lying on the bed (on my stomach, because even after gently rubbing liberal amounts of moisturiser into my bum cheeks they were still too sore to lie on my back) I was wondering how I was ever to find a way out of a room whose only means of escape was a locked door.

  It’s weird, isn’t it? When you’re deep in thought you can be looking right at something, but don’t see it. You only see the imagined images in your head. Then your vision pops out of your head and you see what you’ve been staring at all along.

  That’s when I saw the thin strip of light shining beneath the door.

  A sheet of paper. The tweezers in my toiletries bag…

  All I needed then was to wait until the light went out, he went to bed and fell asleep. Or more likely, passed out. I heard him going back and forth to the fridge for ice, so he’d been hitting the bourbon again.

  It always works on telly and works in real life too. I poked the tweezers into the lock and the key popped out, landing on the blank page I’d torn from this journal and slipped between the gap at the bottom of the door and floorboards, then, oh so carefully, slid the paper back into the room. And the key came too!

  Yes, the thought did occur that I could simply get out of the back door like I had yesterday and just run, again, but that door was locked and the key was on his ring, along with the one to the front and outer metal door. So the basement was my only option.

  Old houses creak. Breathing through my mouth to pull in enough air, heart thumping in my chest as I tip-toed down the hall, I prayed the squeaking of the floorboards would just sound like the house settling. Hoping that, if he was as alcohol infused as he often is by the time he staggers upstairs to bed, he wouldn’t hear a thing.

  Dry-dripped tins and brushes stiff with paint. Plastic patio chairs. Boxes of old VHS tapes, electrical appliances and random rem
otes. The basement was a cemetery of things past; a dusty sepulchre where the forgotten and unwanted were discarded.

  You could trace Jensen’s childhood in a rusty-wheeled pushchair, threadbare teddy bear missing an eye, board games, jigsaws and baseball mitt.

  Just as I’d imagined, there was a big old wooden chest of drawers in front of the window, but unlike in my fantasy it didn’t offer a way up to the window high on the wall, and escape. There was nothing amid all the debris scattered on the chest that would cut through the window’s metal screen.

  And just like that my last hope of escape was snatched away. I wanted to scream at God for abandoning me. Wanted to grab things and hurl them at the wall. Smash everything. Just as my last vestige of hope had been destroyed. Not that what I found myself clutching would have shattered.

  Curiosity momentarily overwhelmed my despair and I peaked inside the plastic carrier bag in my hand. At first I thought the clothes must be Jensen’s mother’s. But why keep so few, and in a worn supermarket bag?

  I’d done the mental maths. Jensen’s mum would have been around his age when she died. The tee shirt and tiny shorts looked more like something a teenager would wear. There was a purity to the prettiness of the lace trimmed white underwear, a shy immaturity to their sexiness. Surely a woman pushing thirty, especially one who, according to Jensen, wasn’t all that particular about who she graced with her sexual favours, would go for something racier.

  Jensen may be all kinds of messed up, but he’s no patricidal Oedipus. He didn’t even know his father. He killed his mother. Why would he keep anything of hers, much less something so intimate?

  Even more odd was that, unlike the other old and broken jumble in the basement, the clothes looked new. Or at least barely worn.

  So if they weren’t his mother’s, who had they belonged to..?