Seven Days

by Alex Lake

  ‘Find what you were looking for?’ he said.

  Wynne didn’t reply. Next to her, Edwards tensed.

  ‘I didn’t think you would,’ Best said. ‘I tried to tell you, but some people won’t be told.’

  ‘Don’t take the piss, mate,’ Edwards said. ‘I get a bit twitchy when people take the piss.’

  Best held up his hands. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. But you come into my house and go through my belongings for no reason, so don’t be surprised when I’m a little miffed. I don’t know the girl and I don’t know where she is. Whatever’s happened to her, it’s nothing to do with me.’

  Wynne ignored him. ‘Where were you on Friday around four p.m.?’ she said.

  ‘Shopping,’ he said. ‘I went to Morrisons to get my weekly shop and then came home. I do it the same time every Saturday. You can check my credit card bill. The transactions will all be there. A neighbour probably saw me come home. You can ask them.’

  He wasn’t lying, Wynne could tell. But that didn’t mean he was telling her everything.

  ‘Have you heard anything?’ she said.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About a missing girl. Or about new material that might be available. Photos. Videos.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘If there was such a thing, what makes you think I would have heard about it?’

  Wynne looked at him and smiled. It was not a warm smile. It was not meant to be.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘If you have done anything then one day I’ll get you. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you end up on the worst wing of the worst prison in the country, and I’ll make sure that the other inmates know all about you. They’ll be thrilled. It’s boring inside and they love something to do. But’ – she held her hands up in a gesture of friendship – ‘if you tell me about the videos and photos and I find Maggie Cooper, I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. I’ll be your friend, and someday soon you’re going to need all the friends you can get.’

  Best stood up. He walked to the kettle and flicked it on, then put a teabag in a mug. When the water was boiling he poured it on to the teabag, and turned to look at Wynne.

  ‘Thank you for your advice, Detective Inspector Wynne,’ he said. ‘But I’ve done nothing.’ He smiled, and his smile too was lacking any warmth. ‘If anything comes to mind, I’ll let you know. Now, please leave.’

  Twelve Years Earlier, 9 July 2006: Evening

  1

  Maggie was hungry. She hadn’t eaten any of the food the man – she still didn’t know his name – had brought, in part as a protest but mainly because of a constant low-level nausea. She’d drunk some of the orange cordial, but that was it. Now, though, her hunger was becoming insistent. Her body needed what it needed, despite what was happening.

  She was hoping the man would be back soon with something to eat.

  She sat on the bed and stared at the door to the room. She’d examined it not long after moving in, wondering if it was like the doors in her house, in which case it might be possible to kick a hole in one of the panels.

  But the man had clearly thought of that. It was made of metal, and, from the dull thud it made when she hit it, thick metal. There was no way of getting out through it.

  There was no way of getting out at all.

  The walls and floor – she had banged on the carpet – were concrete, or maybe stone. Even if she had a tool, a knife or a fork, there was no way she would be able to get through it. Besides, if she could make a hole, the man would see it as soon as it reached any size.

  She was trapped. Well and truly trapped.

  And no one knew where she was. If they did – if someone had seen the man pick her up – they would have come to rescue her by now. The fact they hadn’t meant that they weren’t coming at all.

  She could be here for a long time.

  She could be here forever.

  And when she thought about it like that, she was overtaken by a panic that left her curled into a ball on the bed, trembling, her eyes wide open and her mind blank with fear.

  When she wasn’t consumed by panic she was thinking about her parents and brother and friends and what they were going through. She could picture them all: James would be quiet and withdrawn, keeping his feelings to himself. He’d always been like that; often he would be worried about something at school or with his friends and he would deny there was a problem over and over, until eventually he would come to Maggie’s room and lie next to her and tell her what had happened.

  She was the only person who could calm him down. And now she was gone.

  Mum would be angry and tearful and fierce, and Dad; well, she worried about him the most. Mum loved her and James with total devotion, but Dad’s love went further. He depended on them. His kids were what gave his life meaning. His own father had died when he was young and his mum had not seemed to cope very well. Maggie didn’t know exactly what had happened, because he never talked about it, but she didn’t think he had had a particularly happy childhood, and he had made up his mind to make sure the same didn’t happen to his kids. He was never too busy for them, never had anything to do which was more important than whatever it was they wanted from him. All her life he had been there for her, calm and patient and reliable and loving. If she was interested in something, he explained it; if she wanted to help him wire plugs or change the oil in the car or put up shelves, he told her how and put the tools in her hands and watched as she did it. And he kept her safe, always.

  She had no idea how he would cope with her disappearance.

  That was what made her angriest about the man who had taken her. He didn’t care what he did to her family, didn’t care whether they became depressed or split up or committed suicide. All he cared about was getting what he wanted.

  Which was her, in a cage.

  She hated him for that. Not for wanting her, but for his selfishness and what it was doing to the people she loved.

  And now, on top of it all, she was hungry. She was going to have to take food from him.

  She heard the scraping noise. Her heart rate sped up; she felt the first fluttering of panic, a tightness in her chest. She sat up on the bed. Seconds later, the door opened.

  The man stepped inside.

  He was not holding a tray. He did not have food or water.

  He looked tired and irritable.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ve had quite the afternoon, Fruitcake.’

  Maggie looked behind him, wondering whether he had brought a tray and put it down and she had somehow missed it.

  He followed her gaze, frowning.

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  She didn’t answer. He looked at her, his expression at first questioning and then, slowly, understanding.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You want something to eat. Well, I’m afraid that’s impossible.’ He scratched his nose, then inserted his finger into a nostril. ‘I did make something, but I had to eat it.’

  She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to hear this. If there was no food she wanted him to leave. Then there was no chance of him doing what he’d done the night before.

  ‘Do you want to know why I had to eat it?’

  Maggie shook her head.

  ‘Don’t be like that! It’s interesting!’

  Maggie shuffled backwards on the mattress until her back was against the wall. She hugged her knees to her chest.

  He folded his arms. ‘The police came. They were looking for you.’

  She blinked, looking at him.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up, though. They didn’t have a warrant, and they have no reason to suspect me, other than the fact they always suspect me. They don’t like me, you see. I let them have a look around so that they’d go away. I knew there was no chance they would find this place!’

  He bounced up and down on his heels. ‘That’s when I ate the food. I’d made it for you just before they arrived. They saw it and I didn’t want them wondering who it was for.
So while they were banging around looking in cupboards and under beds – as if I’d be so stupid as to hide anything valuable in such an obvious place – I ate it. As though it was mine all along.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘And so no food until tomorrow.’

  ‘Why,’ Maggie said, in a whisper, ‘why do they not like you?’

  He shook his head ruefully. ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘Ex-wife, that is, found some photographs I’d taken. She couldn’t understand that they were harmless and innocent and she made a big fuss, and then the police came and she told them – can you believe that? She told them – about the photos and I had to destroy them.’

  ‘What kind of photos?’

  ‘Nothing, really! Photos of people. Girls, mainly. On the way to and from school. She said it was disgusting that I took them, but she was wrong.’ He leaned forward, his eyes bright. ‘They were beautiful. Not obscene. Not disgusting. They were works of art. And they were harmless. The girls didn’t even know I’d taken them.’ He sighed. ‘But it worked out well. It was serendipitous. You know what that means? It comes from the Three Princes of Serendip and it means lucky. Fortuitous. I’ll tell you all about it some day. Anyway, it was serendipitous because it meant I had to re-start my collection and that meant I found you.’

  Maggie was glad she hadn’t eaten. If she had, she would have thrown it up.

  ‘I saw you soon afterwards and I realized immediately you were special. You were the one I had to have. It had all happened for a reason: to lead me to you. There was something about you. A light you gave off. I could see you were kind and sweet and loving and I decided at that moment that I had to have you. I had to pluck you from the cruel and corrupting world you were in and keep you safe. You don’t think so now, but in time you’ll appreciate what I’m doing for you.’

  ‘Please,’ Maggie said. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Then I discovered who you actually were. It was perfect. I couldn’t believe who you were.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Maggie said. ‘Who am I?’

  ‘That’s for later,’ he said. ‘It took me a long time to get you. Every week I drove near your house, waiting for a chance to talk to you. And it finally came.’

  He took a step towards her.

  ‘And now you’re finally here. Home.’

  ‘This is not my home,’ Maggie said. ‘This will never be my home. This is a prison.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ the man said. ‘But you’ll change your mind, eventually. And I’m in no hurry. I have all the time in the world.’

  He undid the belt on his blue bathrobe and walked across the room. Maggie pulled her knees tighter to her chest. ‘No,’ she said, her breathing shallow, the panic in full flow. ‘No. Please. No.’

  He frowned. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘For you, Fruitcake, anything. But there is one thing I want.’ He bent down and pressed his lips to her forehead. ‘I just want a kiss from my little girl.’

  She closed her eyes. The man said it again.

  ‘Give me a kiss. Then I’ll go away.’

  It was awful, but it was better than the alternative. She turned her head and kissed him. His lips were warm and wet. His tongue stabbed into her mouth and she fought not to gag. The kiss only lasted a few seconds but it felt like a lifetime.

  ‘Good night, my darling,’ he said.

  She waited until the door closed and she heard the scraping sound before she opened her eyes.

  And then she started to sob.

  Tuesday, 19 June 2018

  Four Days to Go

  1

  She was already awake when Max rolled on to her chest and pressed his cheek to hers. Sleep had been impossible, her mind replaying her useless escape attempt.

  Reminding her that her last chance was gone. The man would be on alert now, watching for anything out of the ordinary.

  Behind it all was fury. She was furious with herself for her pathetic, stupid attempt. How could she have thought that would be enough? Had she really believed he had aged that much?

  His words echoed in her head. You really think that is enough to hurt me?

  He’d also called her a fool. He was right. She was a fool. A fool who had wasted her son’s last chance at a life.

  She picked up her calendar.

  S

  Su

  M

  Tu

  W

  Th

  F

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  It was Tuesday. Tuesday of the last week she would have with Max. Tuesday of the last week of his life.

  She blinked, and looked at her son. He was smiling in his half-sleep.

  She listened for the man. He normally came soon after they woke and Maggie put the lights on. Maggie assumed it was the morning out there, and the man came at the same time every day, but it was possible he had a camera in the room and knew when she had woken. She had looked for one and hadn’t found anything, but maybe it was too well hidden. She didn’t really care.

  All she cared about now was the calendar.

  She lay on the mattress, listening for him. There was no sound of scraping. No footsteps outside the door. No handle turning.

  Nothing but the low hum of the electric bulb in the lamp and the soft breathing of her son next to her.

  Maybe he wasn’t coming today. Maybe there was no food after what she had done. She didn’t care. What was hunger in the midst of all the rest of it?

  Max, as he was every morning, was full of energy and plans for the day as soon as he woke up.

  ‘OK, Mummy,’ he said, arranging his Duplo on the floor in front of him. ‘Let’s make a city. And then we can go to the moon on the light beam.’

  ‘What a fun idea,’ Maggie said. It was hard to keep her tone light and a smile on her lips. It was important, though, and she had discovered that if she kept her eyes locked on his she could almost forget what was coming.

  Almost. It was as though there was a shadow at the corner of her vision that she could never quite escape.

  But Max didn’t need to know that. She didn’t want to ruin his day – his last days – with the knowledge of how few of them there were. Besides, what would she tell him? That he had two siblings, eleven and seven, who may or may not have been killed by the man who brought them food? That he was next? That the world they visited in the stories his mum told him was real, and she had been stolen from it? Even if she did he would not be able to understand it.

  No: better to pretend everything was OK. Better to keep the looming darkness as far from him as possible.

  She knelt next to him, and reached for a red block. She was about to hand it to him and suggest he use it as the base for a tower when she was hit by a vision of Max screaming, his face twisted in an uncomprehending grimace as the man dragged him from her arms and from the room leaving her sobbing on the bed, her heart torn into pieces, wondering how – if – she would survive.

  And then it shifted from a vision to a memory, first of Seb and then of Leo, her lost boys, her stolen chicks, the babies she had been unable to save.

  The babies who had come before Max. The babies whose fate he was now facing.

  She gasped, and turned from Max. She gripped her knees and squeezed and tried to bring herself back to some semblance of control, her breathing fast and shallow.

  ‘Mummy?’ Max said, his eyes narrow with concern. ‘MUMMY! Stop it, Mummy!’

  Maggie blinked, staring at the wall and ta
king deep breaths, her heart gradually slowing.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m OK, darling. I had a – I just had some wind.’

  Max was still, a Duplo brick in each hand, his eyes fixed on her. She – somehow – smiled and then scooped him up in her arms and pressed her face to his neck and kissed him and inhaled the smell of him and felt the panic starting all over again.

  She closed her eyes and forced herself to think about something, anything, other than the man and Saturday and Max’s third birthday, and, slowly, she calmed down.

  ‘Mummy,’ Max said. ‘I think it’s time for exercises.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie said. ‘I think that sounds like a great idea. How about some running?’

  Max nodded. The room was barely big enough for him to run in; Maggie was limited to jogging on the spot, which was, even when you were locked in a room with nothing to do, incredibly boring. She’d thought running on a treadmill was bad, but it had nothing on jogging for half an hour and not moving an inch. She could make it more interesting by throwing in some lunges and jumps and crouches, but it was a marginal improvement.

  Other things held more appeal. She had become obsessed for a while with doing the perfect press-up: hands exactly shoulder-width apart, eyes slightly forward, back and legs a table, then a slow descent until her chest pressed to the floor followed by a clean, explosive return to the start, arms straight, elbows locked.

  There was something satisfying about repeating it over and over, focusing on each small detail until the sweat was dripping off her nose, her body quivering, nearly unable to carry on, slowly adding more and more press-ups to the total she was capable of. She enjoyed the firmness in her stomach, the lean muscles in her thighs, the strength in her back and shoulders. If – when – she got out of here she was going to keep doing her exercises with Max.

  Apart from running on the spot. She was never doing that again. She would only run in forests and by rivers and in the sunlight and fresh air.