I’m still lying on the ground when the realisation hits me: I had sex with my boyfriend’s murderer.
Jack is a murderer. If he’s capable of murdering Noah, he’s capable of murdering me. I don’t think he wants to, not right now anyway, but he could if I push him or fight him and he loses control. Maybe it will be an accident, but I know this situation can only end in death: mine or his.
My entire right side is numb from lying on the flagstone floor. I’m just about to get up when I see it beneath the bed. At first, I am so stunned, all I can do is stare. Then I think of Jack returning and I scramble to retrieve it. Crouching beside the bed, I grip my prize tightly in one hand, almost afraid if I stop touching it, it’ll vanish.
The Nokia.
The one I found the day I discovered this room; Jack had startled me, and I’d dropped it.
Heart pumping, I turn the phone on and wait. ‘Come on, come on.’
Finally, the screen loads – a pixelated graphic of two hands – and I am thirteen years old again. ‘FUCK!’ I shout – no bars of signal. I fling open the bathroom door and stand on the toilet seat. All I need is one bar. One fucking bar. But there’s nothing. I dial 999 anyway. It doesn’t work. Of course, it doesn’t. I squeeze the phone, shaking with frustration and anger, but force myself not to lob it, knowing it might come in useful later.
I sink to my knees, suddenly too tired to stand, and stare at it for a while. I lose myself in a daydream where, miraculously, there is a signal, and I call for help. I’ll sob into the phone, so relieved, and tell them who I am and where I’m being kept. Then I’ll stay on the line to the calming, soothing voice of the operator as I wait for the police. They’ll storm the house, kick down the door and pull me from the basement and out into the garden. I’ll cry, of course, but the relief – god, the relief – I’ll ring my parents and they’ll sob, and I’ll sob. Dad will jump in the car with Mum and speed all the way and when they arrive, we’ll fall into a tangle of relieved, grateful tears and warm, tight hugs. Dad will say, ‘It’s alright, Chuck. You’re alright.’ And we’ll drink hot tea and, wedged between the safe pillars of my family, I’ll watch as Jack is put in handcuffs and dragged roughly into the back of a police car, set for a life in prison.
I don’t know how long it will be before Jack returns and now my need to destroy has faded, logic has resurfaced; I can’t live in this hideous mess and even if I wanted to, Jack wouldn’t let me. He’s a neat freak. I look down at the phone lying limply in my lap and draw in a shaky breath, then I stand on shaky legs and start putting the room back together with shaky hands. Once the bed is made, I carefully hide the Nokia beneath the mattress and even though I’m not religious, I pray Jack doesn’t find it.
One of the drawers from the dresser is in pieces; splintered wood and nails are strewn across the floor. I pick one of the nails up – it’s about three inches long and almost as thick as my pinkie. I don’t have any shoes – Jack says I don’t need them – so I am grateful I saw it before I stepped on it.
I freeze.
It’s the closest I’ve found to a weapon in my confinement. I hear Jack’s velvety voice: How far will you go? Not all the way because I couldn’t stab Jack with it – I don’t think I could stab anyone – it’s too personal, you’d have to get too close; nevertheless, an idea is crystallising. I see Macaulay Culkin placing a nail upright on the stairs to fell the home invaders. I see the fleshy sole of Daniel Stern’s foot being pierced by it and hear his scream as he tumbles. Every Christmas, I watch Home Alone with my family; we bicker over who sits where and which snacks are best and whose turn it is to make the hot chocolate, but, as soon as the first shot of the glittering McCallister house brightens our screen, we’re all quiet.
I know what I must do.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
67 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
At first, I take four nails and place them sharp end up on the stairs but, deciding this may be too obvious, I leave only two. I hope it’s enough. I don’t know what he’ll do to me if he realises I’ve set out to maim him in an attempt to liberate myself. I walk up and down the stairs a hundred times, trying to work out the very best place to position them to ensure his foot will come down on it. It’s difficult, my feet are smaller than his and our tread is different but, after playing around for a few hours, I’m confident I’ve got them just right; I’ve seen him descend these stairs often enough. If I fail this time and he doesn’t notice, I’ll just try again.