One Single Thing

by Tina Clough

  ‘Perhaps it’s all to do with how old something or someone is,’ he said, and smiled. ‘If it’s more than a thousand years old, like a mummy or Lindow man, it seems to be OK. We are allowed to forget the person and regard it as an object?’

  Is it that gorgeous voice that makes me trust him?

  Dao says quietly, ‘She likes Willard a lot. And I know what she means about his voice. It’s lovely, makes you feel warm.’

  Noah scowls and makes no comment, just opens another file. I am beginning to see a pattern, and file it away to think about later.

  MEMORIES

  Mum rang while I was scrolling through images of the Pakistani safe-house women, trying to select ones to go with the article I have just finished. I was looking at a heart-wrenching image of a scarred neck and shoulder and remembered the girl who had let me take the photo, while I absent-mindedly listened to Mum telling me that Noah’s old school friend Anna had married a TV star in the US.

  ‘It’s hard to believe,’ I said. ‘She was so shy at school and never dated anyone. I wonder how they met? Did it say in the paper?’

  As Mum started telling me the details my mind suddenly produced a memory that made me mentally cringe. I made an effort to respond and finished the call as soon as I could. Images from the past were clear in my mind. I knew exactly where I had last seen Anna: on the courthouse steps, straight after my trial. I had come out to face a small crowd and raised cameras. Anna was there. I can picture her perfectly, a tall pale woman with thick strawberry blonde hair in a straight fringe level with her eyebrows, looking as if she wanted to say something. But she stayed where she was, on the edge of the crowd, an expression of compassion on her face. I have not seen her since.

  Noah looks at his watch. ‘Is that enough for tonight? We can continue tomorrow or another day. There must be things you want to do.’

  ‘Nothing that’s more important than this,’ I say. ‘Let’s read until we drop. And then we print it all out, so we can refer to things. Hope is very deliberate with her choice of words and how she describes things. I noticed it in those earlier stories – the writing seems very simple, but there are subtle shades of meaning. I find it easier to notice things if I read it on paper. There are a lot of question marks in my head just now.’

  Dao gets up. ‘And in mine too. Just let me feed Scruff first. We forgot his dinner. Look how good he is, just sits there and waits. No barking or fussing.’ She bends and ruffles his ears and they disappear into the kitchen.

  Noah stands up and stretches, looks around the long room. ‘You have a lot of alarm sensors everywhere,’ he says casually. ‘And CCTV all around. Remnants of the time Dao’s life was under threat, I suppose.’

  Is that a hint of contempt in his voice? And if so, why? Maybe he is one of those people who resent and envy others and show it by contempt. Or am I getting overly aware of his odd moods, read too much into them?

  ‘Still in use.’ I speak quietly so Dao won’t hear. ‘She’s fine most of the time, but the alarm system has become a “must have”. She often sets the ground-floor alarm when we go to bed. She’ll get over it in her own time – possibly.’

  ‘I went back and read the reports from before and after the trial. The whole story was amazing. She is a remarkable girl.’ He sounds genuine.

  ‘She is,’ I said. ‘I’ve never known anyone like her – male or female.’

  VERY IMPORTANT – this is for you, Noah, just in case.

  I am writing this and saving it on a USB stick. I will transfer some other things too and delete them from my laptop. Will text you when you are on the flight back. I’ll tell you about this file and where to find it and the other things that are important for you to know, in case something happens to me. What happened yesterday was terrifying. I might ask you to come and stay here when you are back. Or maybe I can stay with you.

  This is what happened: Yesterday someone knocked on the door very early. I looked through the peephole in the door and saw a slightly distorted view of a middle-aged man in a blue overall. Not the tidy stalker, at least. I have been a bit careful lately – some odd things have happened.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you on a Saturday morning,’ he said, standing politely away from the door. ‘I’m moving in downstairs and I’ve locked myself out. My phone is inside, and my car keys too. Could I please use your phone to call a locksmith?’

  ‘Of course. I can look one up for you online and I’ll fetch my phone.’

  I walked to my desk and sat down in front of the computer. At the sound of wheels, I looked up. He was inside now, but with a Spiderman mask over his head. Suddenly he was bizarre and scary. He was pulling a large green wheelie bin. I leaped to my feet and he let go of the bin and rushed at me.

  I screamed ‘No!’ and pushed him hard in the chest with one hand, trying to rotate away from him at the same time, but he threw himself at me in a tackle. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something white in his hand; his arm was stretched out, away from his body. There was a strong chemical smell. I took a step backward, tried to kick him, but the desk caught against my thigh and I started falling sideways. His body was pinning me against the desk. He pressed a cloth over my nose and mouth. The world spun, I tried to struggle but my mind faded to nothing.

  My first impression, when I came to again, was rough shaking and noise. I was confused and nauseous, could not remember what had happened. I was bundled up with my wrists and ankles tied and tape over my mouth. I was on my side in a dark box of some kind with my knees bent and very little room to move. My left calf was cramping. I tried to straighten my legs, but there was no room. I was terrified. I moved my cheek against the surface I was resting against, tried to imagine what it was – something made of plastic, some sort of box, with a little bit of light filtering in.

  By twisting my shoulders and bending my head back I could see an outline of light. I was in a wheelie bin – and then I remembered the man in the Spiderman mask. I was on a truck or in some kind of vehicle. I felt terribly sick. If I vomited with tape over my mouth I would die. Intense fear swept through my mind.

  My heart was beating too fast and uncontrollable panic was one second away. I tried to claw myself back to rational thought. I have never been so scared in my life. And this is strange, Noah, but out of nowhere the sequence of lights coming on in my flat started playing out in my mind. Objects lit up in their predetermined order and my eyes moved to where the next light would come on a fraction of a second before it did. My brain calmed, my breathing slowed, and the nausea receded. The vehicle went over a bump and something made a heavy metallic clonk just beside me. The bin rocked.

  Whoever he was, he meant to harm me. I had to escape, but I could not force my wrists apart even by a millimetre. I pushed hard with my bound feet against the bottom of the bin, over and over, trying to make my head force the lid up. But it was useless – the lid was secured somehow.

  I imagined looking down from above – a wheelie bin lying on its side, perhaps on a trailer or on the deck of a small truck. I knew I was on a big road with lots of traffic – perhaps the motorway. I must attract attention. If we stop or someone stops us I can make noise, I thought. I can kick the side of the bin or use my head to bang, grunt as loudly as I can.

  I kicked hard against the side of the bin and it only made a dull thump, but it had shifted my body weight and it made the bin rock. I did it again and the bin rocked once more. A glimmer of hope in my mind. I was not lying evenly on a flat side; my back was across the inside of the corner. I shoved my body violently sideways and the bin tilted on its rounded corner and then fell back. I was on fire with desperation now, throwing myself against the inside of the bin over and over. Each time the bin nearly rolled on to its other side, but not quite. I stopped, panting and sweaty, and tried to think logically of what might work better. Perhaps rocking it back and forth, as you do when a car is stuck in sand.

  I started again, this time first back and then forward, using t
he momentum to gain better purchase on the forward motion. Three attempts later the bin rolled over and I was face down instead of on my side. I think the bin must have been up against something, some slight unevenness under it that made it ‘stick’ in one position. Thank goodness my hands were tied in front of me or I might never have been able to achieve anything. I started the process again, tried to put more force into it. I felt the bin teeter on a corner again, held my breath and leant in the direction of the tilt, trying to use every little change of position to move the point of gravity. The bin rolled over once more, teetered as if on an edge and fell. Luck was with me – I had moved it in the right direction. The bin hit the road with a bone-jarring thump. My head smashed against the inside and stars cascaded in front of my eyes. The bin rolled over a couple of times. I heard brakes squealing and then all movement stopped. Men’s voices were shouting.

  ‘Let’s get the fucking thing off the road before we’re all killed!’

  ‘Jeez, it’s heavy. We’ll have to lift it – the wheels are stuffed.’

  The bin was dragged, men grunted, then a bump and the bin was upright.

  ‘Got a knife? I’m gonna cut those cable ties and check what’s inside. Stupid bastard just drove off, didn’t even know he’d lost the bloody thing.’

  Daylight flooded down into the bin and a man’s voice, shaken and disbelieving:‘Shit, it’s a body!’

  I twisted my neck and looked up and his voice died away; his eyes widened. ‘Jesus Christ!’ They lowered the bin on its side and gently pulled me out and helped me to sit up.

  One of them said, ‘Call the cops and an ambulance, will you?’ To me he said, ‘God knows what smashing onto the road has done to you – concussion at least. You hit bloody hard.’

  They slit the strips of duct tape around my wrists and ankles. I tried to unpick a corner of the strip of tape across my mouth, but one of them put his hand on mine and stopped me. ‘Wait – you’ll rip the skin off your lips. Let me do it slowly.’

  I nodded, and he knelt beside me and agonisingly slowly he stripped the tape away from my face, holding the skin down with his thumb as he pulled. I sat still, concentrating on not flinching. Heads turned in passing cars. My helper moved his thumb along my lips and I smelled oil and petrol as he continued pulling very slowly. A fleeting memory from the accident when Buster died slipped into my mind, triggered by the smell. I pushed the thought aside and turned my focus to the man’s face; he felt my glance and smiled. A kind man.

  ‘My name is Craig,’ he said. ‘Nearly done and no blood yet.’ One of the others chimed in with ‘Well done, mate!’

  They did not ask me what had happened, just led me to their van and sat me down in the front seat while we waited for the emergency services.

  A police car arrived, and shortly after that an ambulance. I sat on a stretcher in the ambulance and told a female officer what had happened, watching over her shoulder as another cop interviewed the men. Eventually my rescuers drove off.

  ‘OK, that will do for now. We’ll be in touch later – we’ll stay here until someone can come and pick up the bin.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said half an hour later to an ED doctor. ‘I’m just sore.

  ‘OK,’ she said, shining a light into my eyes. ‘Let’s make sure you really are fine. We’ll check you haven’t cracked your skull. You’re probably concussed. A scan won’t do any harm.’

  It was out of my control. I was a parcel being passed from one set of hands to the next. After what seemed like hours I was finally back in the cubicle with the doctor.

  ‘No fractures, but you have to take it easy for a few days. No exertions. Try not to bump your head for the next few weeks. The nurse will call someone to pick you up. You shouldn’t leave unaccompanied.’

  That left me with a problem. Samantha was in Wellington for the weekend, you were still in Australia, and without my phone I had no phone numbers. I had no money and no shoes. I asked for a phone directory and looked for Spencer’s number, but it was unlisted. Who else was there? Calling the parents while I was in this state was unthinkable; they would worry themselves sick and drive me crazy. A lot of my friends would bandy the story around and that was the last thing I wanted. Finally, I thought of Louise Barlow, who I met at the gym and sometimes have coffee with. She knows nobody else that I know, and she works from home. To my relief she was listed.

  I told her I had been in a traffic accident and needed a ride home. She turned up an hour later and I told her a fabricated story about having been in a car accident with a friend.

  I said my friend (male) was being kept in hospital and she was kind and sympathetic and drove me home. The thought of walking up the stairs alone made me feel queasy with fear, but Louise took for granted that she would come upstairs with me and see me safely inside. When we got to the top my head was swimming. Thank God I remembered the hidden key. I never told you that I had hidden it, Noah. You would have been outraged at the lack of security. I have never used it, but now it was a godsend. I knelt at the far end of the landing and prised up the loose corner tile, and there it was.

  Louise asked if I was OK and left to take her mother out for coffee; such a reassuringly normal thing to do. I locked the door and put the safety chain on and had a bath. I will not leave this flat until you are back in the country, Noah – only two more days now. I keep my phone in my pocket all the time. I have rehearsed what I am going to say to the emergency people if someone starts breaking my door down – all the information they need as concisely as possible. I can barricade myself in the bedroom. I checked, and the small chest of drawers fits precisely under the door handle.

  The police called early today and wanted to come and interview me again. I said I was concussed and resting in bed. They said please come and sign a statement or they could come here. I said OK, in a day or two. And now I wait. Noah, I hope you never have to read this.

  Dao’s left hand is clenched into a white-knuckled fist, pushing down on my thigh. Noah jerked several times, as if someone had punched him while he read. Now he pushes his chair back so fast it tips over. He paces back and forth, his face tight and desperate.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck! And that bastard has got her again! How the hell did he get her a second time? He must have tricked her – there are no marks on the door. And who the hell is he?’

  Dao gets up and puts a hand on my shoulder as if to steady herself. She might be reliving some of her own victim trauma inside her head, but her outward emotion is rage. ‘This is awful! We must find him and get her back – or get the police to do something.’

  Rage is good, I think, fury will keep her memories at bay and divert her into plans and constructive thought.

  Noah is like a taut wire vibrating in the wind; his distress is bordering on meltdown. ‘But how? I don’t get it – this happens and then he gets her a second time? If he tricked her to open the door, how did he do it this time? I wish that bloody building had CCTV. And who the fuck is he? Why did he put on that disguise? She’d already seen him.’

  It is time to calm things down. ‘OK, guys,’ I say. ‘Let’s write down what we need to find out and who might be able to help us. Someone in her street could have CCTV. Can we work out anything from what else is on that flash drive? Could there be some unknown element in this that we haven’t read about yet? We need to find out if people who work in the surrounding building noticed anything.’

  Noah comes back to the table. He looks half-demented and a muscle on his temple is twitching. ‘God, where do we start? It’s such a mess – so many unknowns. How can we make a plan when we know nothing? It’s hopeless.’

  Dao looks him straight in the eye, her warrior persona suddenly coming through strong and clear. ‘For God’s sake, Noah, stop it. We have to do something! Nothing is impossible, nothing! We have to find Hope and punish this man. My Dad died when I was eight. If I complained about something being unfair or too hard he used to say, “Life might give you a cactus, bu
t that doesn’t mean you have to sit on it.” I’m not meaning to be rude, but all this worrying and fussing doesn’t help. It makes things worse. We have to get going with this. Now!’

  ‘OK, OK, I know. It’s just that it’s such a mess. Where do we start?’

  ‘I’m going to go and see Benson,’ she says decisively. ‘Tomorrow, on my own. Hunter can drop me off at the station and I’ll just sit there until he can see me.’

  Noah stares at her. ‘Benson, the cop? The one Willow talked about? Why can’t you just call him and ask when you can go and see him? Is he a friend?’

  ‘That’s not how I want to do it. I want to take him by surprise, make him talk to me like he used to. I think I could maybe get something out of him that he wouldn’t tell Willow.’

  Noah still looks confused.

  ‘Benson is a detective sergeant,’ I say. ‘He was involved in the entire investigation into what happened at the island. He has a great respect for Dao and he is also very fond of her.’

  He loves the way Dao handles herself when things get dangerous, when most people would stand paralyzed with fear or run for their lives. She might be terrified, but her brain continues to work, and she acts. Like when the armed intruder smashed his way into the house or during the incident in the abandoned factory.

  Gradually we work out a plan of sorts, manage to discuss options without any outbursts from Noah. After fifteen minutes we have a list of things to check, people to contact and others to inform. We divide it up between us.

  Dao takes the paper out of my hand and goes through it. ‘Noah, you will go around and ask people in the area if they saw the pick-up truck and the man with the wheelie bin or any disturbance a couple of days later. And you’ll check if there is CCTV in the street or around the corners of Hope’s block. And by the way, Hunter, your handwriting is terrible.

  ‘I’ll go and see Benson – that might take all day. Hunter is going to revisit Spencer and Samantha and see this Louise woman. He’s very good at getting things out of people without asking lots of questions. And he’s going to tell Willow about all this, so you don’t have to, Noah. And Willow will probably go back to the cops and start making a fuss. She can argue with people and get her way without raising her voice – I’ve seen her. Remember that long police interview, Hunter? They didn’t have a chance. Anything else?’