The door closes, and the room is silent again.
I sit in the darkness and blink so hard I see the edges of star patterns behind my lids. The pads of my fingers pinch at the skin of my arm. To my abductors I barely exist. But I am still here. I’m still alive.
In the bathroom, I score another line on the wall. Two weeks, we’ve been here two weeks. Why is nothing happening?
I’m in the middle of my first circuit of steps when I hear footsteps in the hall outside. If I can hear them, it means he’s wearing shoes. If he’s wearing shoes, it means he’s coming for me.
I dart back to my corner and huddle under the blanket just as the door opens. I try to make my breathing deep and even, but in my heart, I know that pretending to be asleep won’t make him go away.
I’m right. The blanket is removed from me, he pulls me to my feet. Instead of resisting, I let myself be moved; I need him to think I’m somehow helping him. In return, a hood is put carefully over my head, my hands tied more loosely behind my back. He guides me from the room with hands that feel almost gentle on my shoulders.
The air smells different in the hallway, even through the hood I can sense that it’s heavier, dense with sunlight maybe. The skin on my arms prickles as he takes me down the twelve stone steps to the cooler air of the basement, to the room where Ned is being held. I hear the door slam, allow myself to be placed on the chair, then tied to it.
Like before, the hood comes off, and light scorches my eyes before I’m quickly blindfolded. In those few seconds there’s no time to see anything, just a flash of light, then darkness again. A hand, hard, ruthless, grips the back of my head, keeping it facing forward. I know it’s the other man. It’s always the other man who holds me still.
It reaches me then, the same sour smell, but stronger. Ned. He’s here, next to me. They’ve lined us up, side by side.
“State your name, say you have a message for Jethro Hawthorpe. The message is that if he doesn’t pay up, his son will die.” A pause. “Speak.”
“No.”
The voice becomes threatening. “State your name—”
“No.”
“Give the message, for fuck’s sake, otherwise they’ll kill us,” Ned snarls.
“I don’t care if I die,” I say.
“Well, I do, so just give the fucking message!”
The hand tightens its grip. “Speak!”
I can feel the muscles in my neck going into spasm and fear flickers inside me.
“My name is Amelie Hawthorpe,” I say, trying to keep my breath even. “This is a message for Jethro Hawthorpe. If you don’t pay up, your son will die.” I take another breath. “So don’t pay up, he deserves to die, he’s a m—”
The air shifts in a flash of movement as Ned slams into the side of me. I feel my chair toppling, hear the man cursing as my neck is ripped from his grasp. I hit the floor and stars explode in my head.
When I next open my eyes, I’m in my room. I groan, close them again. Despite the pain in my head, I smile. Ned isn’t coping; his privilege and wealth, so powerful on the outside world, mean nothing in here. Here, we are equal. But I am mentally stronger.
I sit up, wincing. My face throbs with heat and when I touch my fingers to my skin, I find the puffiness of a large bruise down the left-hand side of my face. And farther up, above my temple, a lump the size of a small egg, the result of being knocked to the ground by Ned. It hurts, but it was worth it. My only regret is that the video they were filming will never be sent.
I grope for the blanket, glad it’s still there. After my performance, they could have taken it from me. I wrap it around me, stand up. But I’m so dizzy that I quickly crouch down, and crawl to the bathroom on all fours. Perching on the rim of the toilet, I wet the washcloth, lather soap into it, and wipe my face, wincing at the feel of rough towel against tender skin. It’s only now, in the dim light, that I realize my vision has been affected by the fall. Everything is hazy, as if I’m looking through a piece of gauze. Concussion, I have a concussion.
I want to weep. My act of defiance means I’ll have to postpone my next escape by several days. I realize something else: what I said in the basement might have felt good, but it was foolish.
When the man comes with my tray, I appeal to him.
“Just promise me one thing. When Jethro Hawthorpe pays the ransom, don’t release me with Ned. Take him to wherever you agree to take him but drop me off somewhere else.” He’s moving away, I reach for his arm, my fingers brush his sleeve, then dangle in midair. “Because if you release me at the same time as him,” I call after him desperately, “he’ll kill me!”