by Ed James
‘Okay, well I worry about you, that’s all.’ Christopher’s voice is as cold as the winter air. Like he doesn’t even mean the words.
‘I’ll be home in an hour. Love you.’
A pause. ‘Okay.’ And he is gone.
My breath mists in the air and I rub away the fresh tears from my eyes. I’d thought I was all cried out but . . . Jesus.
The music resumes after the call, Maroon 5 blasting in my ears, way too loud. I turn it down, then start my watch on the setting for running. And I shoot off through the cold night air, like they all say, putting one foot after another, my shoes thumping off the pavement, splashing through the puddles. My breath locks into the music’s beat and the running becomes a blur. My footsteps join in the shared rhythm and my brain flies free, my troubles slipping away, my head clearing of project schedules and milestones and risks and issues and all this shit with Christopher and—
His silver Audi trundles past me, the window down low, slowing to a halt. Klaus gets out of his car and walks over, hands in pockets, that impish grin on his face. ‘There you are.’
I stop and suck in deep breaths, pausing my watch and the music. Four miles in, decent pace. ‘No, Klaus.’
He reaches for me, frowning. ‘What?’
I bat his hungry paws away. ‘I said, no.’ I can’t even look him in the eye. ‘We can’t do this any more. It’s over.’
He looks absolutely destroyed. ‘But we—’
‘Chris . . .’ I suck in another breath and love swells in my chest, making my heart flutter. ‘I need to make it work with him, Klaus. And as much as I like you, I don’t love you.’
‘But I love you, Sarah.’
His words sting my heart. And just seeing him there, being in his presence . . . It feels so different from how I played it out in my head. Intellectualising my feelings, sticking them in a box and locking them away. Being here, with him, those feelings come back with a vengeance.
I shut my eyes. ‘You tell yourself you love me, Klaus, but if you really did we’d have been discussing how we’re going to leave Chris and Lena, not meeting in your car for sex. Because sex is all it is. This isn’t love.’
I almost convince myself. Still can’t look at him, at those gorgeous eyes, his beautiful lips.
‘This is going to be so difficult at work, Sarah. I mean, we—’
‘We should’ve thought of that when you got me drunk in Hamburg.’ I push past him and set off again. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, okay?’
But he grabs my arm as I pass. ‘Sarah, please!’
‘Klaus!’ I try to shake him off, but he’s way stronger than me. That thing I love about him turned against me. He lets me go, but he’s still blocking my path. ‘Look, we can be friends, okay? You just need time to accept it, but it’s over. Then we can discuss how to be friends again and how we can still work together.’
He grabs my arm again, his grip tighter than before. ‘Sarah, please!’
‘If this is how you’re going to be—?’
‘Sorry.’ Klaus lets go and shuts his eyes, thinking it all through, then opens them with a nod. ‘You’re correct, of course. This is now hurting others. We need it to stop.’
It’s hurting me like a knife in the guts, but this is the right thing to do. The only thing we can do. Seeing him there, he’s somebody else’s. He’s not mine. This isn’t right. I made a mistake – we made a mistake – a one-night thing that became twenty nights, thirty nights, and it’s over.
‘Klaus, what we had wasn’t real. We shouldn’t have started it. The right thing is to end it now. Okay?’
He still can’t look at me. Then he nods. ‘Come here.’ He opens his arms.
And I hug him, tight. And he doesn’t try to kiss me, like part of me thinks. Like part of me still hopes. ‘You’re a good guy, Klaus.’ I peck his cheek and run off.
Definitely the right thing to do.
Isn’t it?
Of course it is.
So why do I feel so raw inside, even if it’s the right thing to do?
Half a mile away and I’ve not restarted my run or my music. But I can see our house, at the end of the road, lit up in the night. Chris will be inside, maybe sipping wine while the dinner cooks in the oven. Maybe even have a bath running for me. I speed up, running to him for the first time in years.
But, of course, he’s out playing squash, choosing to spend his Friday with old university friends rather than me. Those lights are just Milhouse triggering those fancy ones Chris bought.
Then I see his car sitting there, the engine running. Klaus doesn’t get out this time, just gives a tame wave.
I approach, my guts churning, and dip my head as I speed up, trying to put that last distance between us.
Don’t look back. Never look back.
But of course I do. Klaus is leaning forward, like he’s crying. He’s got the message at least.
I run on, fresh tears welling, my heart thudding.
Someone runs towards me.
Andy!
I wave at him, but he has the look of someone who just wants to get out of their own way. I know that feeling.
So I speed on, heading for home and at least Milhouse still loves me and—
Someone steps out in front of me, a blur of black leather, and I bump into them and fly through the air. I land on the ground, hard, slabs slicing through my leggings and cutting my hands to ribbons.
An arm comes from behind, grabbing across my throat. I wriggle but something sticks into my neck and . . .
I wake up and it’s pitch dark. My head’s thumping. Fabric kisses my lips as I breathe, rubs against my ears. I try to move but I’m tied down, rope biting into my wrists. My hands and knees burn.
The rope eases off around my wrists and I can move. Feels like I’m underwater, everything’s delayed and slow and I feel so heavy.
Something tears at the skin on my cheeks and bright light attacks my eyes, making me close them. I try to keep them open.
Someone stands there, a man, facing away. Tall and broad-shouldered. Black leather jacket.
‘Help!’
But he walks away and the door shuts with a clunk. Then a key turns in a lock. There’s a wide slot on the door and an eye looks in at me. Then even the slot shuts.
I look around the room. Bare concrete walls. No windows. A bed with plain white sheets. And a desk in the corner. I limp over and shake it, but it’s bolted into the wall, just a lamp and a stack of books on top. All moral philosophy, by the looks of it, the sort of shit Christopher had to read at university.
An empty bucket sits by the door.
A cell.
A prison cell.
And Christ, I’m naked. Where are my clothes? My knees are raw, dried blood caking on the right, the left swollen to twice the normal size. After eight miles of running on an empty stomach, I’m thirsty and so, so hungry.
It takes me a minute to get over to the door, my knee stabbing with bitter pain, each step aching like it’s torn the skin right off. I try the hatch, but it’s stuck. ‘Let me out!’
My voice reverberates around the room, followed by deadly silence.
All I can do is sit on the bed. ‘Klaus? I won’t tell anyone. It’s okay!’
Silence.
Wait, there’s a sound, a deep rumble, like someone moving chairs about upstairs.
‘Let me out! Help!’
The hatch opens and a bottle of water pops through, landing with a thud.
I let out a scream and just keep going and going and . . .
My brain is whirring when I wake up. I look around and I’m still here. Six scores on the wall above the desk, tally bars marking the days. Not that there’s any daylight. Six sleeps. Who knows if that translates into real days. But either way, it’s been close to a week now and no sign of the man who took me. At all. No contact, no conversation, no messages, no notes. Nothing. All I know is it’s probably a man.
Is it Klaus, angry after I let him go?
Or has
Chris found out and . . .?
Could he? Could he really do this to me?
My stomach’s way past hunger, just giving me that giddy lightness. But I’m so thirsty that it feels like I can’t open my mouth.
Wait.
There’s something on my face. I can taste moist leather. I reach up and touch a mask. I tear at it, but I can’t get it off. It’s locked on. I can breathe through my nostrils, but there’s just a thin slot over my mouth.
He’s gagged me!
What have I done to deserve this?
But the sound coming out isn’t fury, it’s just a whimper.
By the door, there’s a stack of water bottles. Supermarket mineral water. Own brand, bottled in Buxton. A hundred of them, maybe more.
I go over and crack open a bottle. The lid just about fits through the slot in my mask. I gulp down the water, but I can’t scream.
I need to scream. It’s all that’s kept me going so far.
I sit at the desk and make the fourteenth scratch on the wall.
Two weeks. Is that right? Have I missed a day?
My fingers ache and I’m so hungry that I just don’t know how long I’ve been here. I don’t know anything. My arms are thin, I can see my ribs, and my legs look more like arms. I stand up, but I’m so dizzy that I have to sit again.
I can’t even focus on the books. Why has he put them here?
What does he want from me? He hasn’t asked anything, hasn’t even spoken to me. Aside from the bottles of water, I’ve no proof there’s anyone there. It’s possible a machine could drop bottles in, but . . .
I pick up the first book. Immanuel Kant, Metaphysics of Morals. I tear out a page and push the paper through the hole in my mask, taking it in my mouth, trying to chew but it’s—
I vomit. Bile and water fill the mask and flood the desk.
Some strange metallic taste. He’s done something to the book.
I can’t even eat the paper.
I shuffle over to the bed and lie on the dirty sheets, stinking of sweat. A putrid smell comes from the bucket that hasn’t been emptied in days, not that I can pass anything now. My kidneys ache.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling. This is all I have the energy for. My mouth aches from the mask, itching from the constant contact with the leather.
I’d rather die than go through this any more.
I can’t think that.
But I do.
I get up and stand tall. The room spins as I shuffle over to the door. I brace against the metal as I try to breathe through this fucking mask.
I try to scream, but I’m empty.
I have nothing left.
Wait.
I pick up a water bottle and open it. I tip the contents onto the floor and throw the bottle in the bucket. Then I open another one and pour it over my head.
‘How do you like this?’
Another one over my head.
‘How do you like this?’
And more and more and more, dowsing myself in his water like it’s petrol and I can set myself on fire.
‘How do you like this?’
I’m speaking to my captor but I don’t hear the words. Am I even saying them out loud? Am I even here? Do I still exist?
I pour the last bottle over my head and collapse onto the bed, soaking and exhausted. I let myself close my eyes.
I wake up to fourteen tallies, my head thudding, my mouth dry.
I can’t remember anything now. Did I miss a day? Wasn’t it fourteen yesterday?
What happened?
I look around. The cell’s clean, no empty bottles, no bucket, no books on the table now.
Just a fresh stack of water bottles by the door. The plastic wrapping’s been torn open. I’m too weak to do it myself.
‘Why are you doing this to me?’
As always, there’s no answer.
He wants me to suffer, but the fucking coward won’t face me.
So I push up to standing. Then fall to my scabby knees. They won’t heal properly. I shuffle over to the door. And sit there, breathing hard and heavy.
I get out the first bottle, feels so heavy in my hands. With great effort, I manage to open it, then tip it over my head.
‘How do you like this?’
I’m ready to die.
Three days without drinking and I’ll die of dehydration. I reach for another bottle and—
I open my eyes and gag. Water fills my throat and I feel like I’m drowning. Something’s covering my eyes.
There’s a hand around my throat, another pinning my chest to the bed. Then the pressure’s gone and the door shuts.
The gag is still on but there’s a strange taste in my mouth, not the usual iron-y taste. It’s wet. He’s forced water down my throat, trying to keep me alive.
I reach up and claw at my eyes. A sleep mask, the kind they sell on airplanes, flops back so I can see the room again, but I don’t have the strength to hold it up.
So I lie there, head thumping. Dizzy. Heart racing. So, so hungry.
He’s just left. Fifteen tallies on the wall. But I’ve missed two days, at least. And the days don’t mean anything, anyway.
Over by the door, the water hasn’t been restocked, just an empty space where the pile was.
Still fifteen tallies and my mouth is so dry. Headache, dizzy. There’s another three marks above the bed. I can’t even move over to the desk now. So I reach up and scratch another mark. Each inch I move my hand up aches like someone’s twisting my arm up my back.
I hope I’ll be dead soon. The only way this will all be over soon. I have to stop him starting the clock again by forcing me to drink.
Thump, different to the usual thumping from the wall, like music. This is like—
A bottle lies on the floor by the door.
Christ. He’s taunting me now.
I’m so thirsty.
I need this to be over. Let nature take its course and this will all be over soon.
But he’ll get away with it. I don’t know how, but he’ll get rid of my body, so the police will never find me.
What if that thumping rhythm isn’t just noise in my head? What if it’s someone else? What if he’s doing this to them, or worse? What if they’re trying to tell me they’re there? That they’re suffering the same pain as me?
I need to help the police find him.
I need to do all I can to stay alive.
So I try to move. Putting my bony foot on the freezing cold floor, trying to put my weight down, but I tumble over and my hip cracks off the hard concrete.
I lie there, gasping, pain searing up my side. I’m so thin now I doubt I’ll even bruise. It feels like I’ve snapped something.
But I can’t give up. I can’t let this end.
I snake over to the door and grab the water bottle. Takes ages for my damaged fingers to open the bottle. I hold it in front of my mouth.
Drinking this means restarting the clock. Letting him win. For now. But I need to stay alive. To stop him, I need to stay alive, give myself the chance to win.
I slurp down a mouthful, feeling it trickle down my gullet. I might be imagining it, but I’m sure I hear someone whispering thank you.
Forty-two tallies on the wall.
I think.
Twenty-seven above the bed. Fifteen over by the desk. Does that . . . Does that even add up? I can’t think.
Wait, where is the desk? When did that go?
My legs are sticks, my arms like knitting needles. I can barely move. I’m just trapped here, waiting to die.
The hatch opens but no water drops through.
Or does it?
I can’t tell.
I can only lie here. But I’m so thirsty. And I need to stay awake.
My finger brushes against something on the bed. A bottle, resting against the wall. I try to pick it up but . . .
Come on. You’ve got to get through this. Stay alive. Get him. Take him down.
I grab the bottle and try to open t
he lid. My thumbnail tears down the middle, sliced right to the quick. I try to scream but I can barely open my parched lips.
I lie there. Can’t open my eyes. Can’t move. Can’t think.
No idea when this is. Even if it is. Have I died? I can’t move. Can’t . . .
Moving. Someone’s picked me up? Or I’m going to heaven. Am I . . .?
Someone’s carrying me, then they rest me down on something. I’m sitting up, my back against something hard. A seat? And I’m moving? Is he pushing me? Something’s squeaking. Am I on a wheelchair?
He opens the door and I can make it out but I can’t even move. I hear music and—
Wind hits my skin. Air. Fresh air. I can open my mouth. Just. I can’t move. I’m so tired. So hungry.
‘You okay there, love?’ A man is standing over me, concern etched on his face.
Did he do this to me?
Fifteen
[Corcoran, 09:30]
Corcoran perched on the plastic chair.
Sarah’s shallow breaths came faster now she’d finished telling her story. The life-support machine beeped and fluid trickled out from the drip into her arm.
An abduction now. Officially. No doubt about it.
His toes clenched. Someone had done all of that to Sarah. To another human being.
Corcoran couldn’t stay still. He got up and paced around the room, his gut foaming, bitter bile building in his throat. He wanted to speak, but just didn’t have the vocabulary.
‘Thanks for telling us that, Sarah.’ Dr Palmer leaned forward, kicking the back legs of her chair up, cradling Sarah’s stick fingers in her hand. Her dark hair was plaited, hanging down her neck in a ponytail, twisted round and round like that Jewish bread Corcoran’s mother used to make. Her designer glasses reflected the pulse from the machines, the white pinstripes on her suit catching the harsh overhead lights. ‘I know how hard it was for you to share that with us.’
‘You’ve got no idea.’ Sarah looked over at Corcoran, looking like she had barely enough muscle control to frown, though her bony face did most of the work for her. ‘Was that the man who took me?’
‘That was who found you.’ Corcoran moved over, squatting in front of the bed. ‘He was fixing a wall nearby. Called 999 and—’