I eat the porridge, carry my cup to the bathroom, and drink some water, grateful for the small change of scene, the chance to be somewhere other than the suffocating darkness of the main room. Stripping off my pajamas, I lather soap into my hands, wash my body, wet a corner of the towel to rinse the suds from my skin, then dry myself with the rest of it. Feeling clean and refreshed, I put my pajamas back on, wishing I could wash them too, they’re dirty from when I crawled around the floor. But I have nothing to change into. I comb my fingers through my hair, glad that it’s shorter now, just to my shoulders, brush my teeth, then pull down the toilet seat and sit.
My mind wants to go to the past again, but I distract myself by watching my hands, studying my fingers as they bend and stretch. Suddenly, the room is plunged into darkness. I jump to my feet, my heart racing, waiting for the next threat. But nothing happens. There’s no sound of the other door opening. Of thumps on this one.
With shaking hands, I feel for the lock and pull it back. Nothing happens. I slowly push it across again, and after a brief pause the light comes on.
I lean my forehead against the door, gulping in air. The light must be on a timer. Another way for them to snatch away any control I might think I have.
I unbolt the door again, push it open, and step quickly into the other room. The darkness might be the same, but the space is not.
I stand for a moment, waiting for my heartbeat to settle. So far, I’ve managed to stay relatively calm. They haven’t hurt me—but they might. The thought cramps my stomach. I need to escape. But I’ll have to be patient, watch for the moment when they make a mistake. Because it will come, and I will be ready. I’m not being trapped again.
I move to the corner where my mattress is, then start walking, my hand on the wall to guide me, counting as I go. I expect to reach the corner at ten steps. But now that I’m more comfortable in the darkness, my strides are longer, and I crash into the wall after seven. Regrouping, I continue along the next wall, past the main door. Seven steps take me to the corner. I turn and walk along the next wall, my fingers bumping over the board covering the window. At seven steps I reach the corner. I turn, move past the bathroom door back to my corner. Seven steps. The room is a perfect square. I begin to walk around the room in circles, my hand trailing the wall, counting my steps. At five hundred, I stop, so dizzy that I have to crouch down and crawl the rest of the way to my mattress.
I’m halfway there when I hear it, the minutest of sounds. A voice. I hold my breath, waiting for it to come again. It doesn’t, so I rotate quickly and crawl across the room toward the main door. I kneel against it, press my ear to the painted wood. But there’s nothing, no sound from the hallway outside. Whoever was speaking must have gone.
I’m crawling back to my corner when I hear it again. It seems to be coming from below. I lie flat on my stomach and press my ear to the floorboards, chasing the sound. An indistinct voice reaches me. I close my eyes in concentration, wriggle forward, listen, move again, searching for the optimum place. It seems to be coming from the left-hand side of the room, near the corner where I sit. Still moving on my stomach, I reach my mattress and push it out of the way. The voice is louder now, coming from the corner. Feeling around, my fingers find a small circular hole where the two walls meet. I place my ear as close to it as possible and hear Ned’s voice, belligerent, arguing.
At first, I can’t make out his words, I don’t know if he’s speaking to himself or if there’s someone with him. And then, a crack—a slap maybe?—and Ned begins speaking, a seeming monologue. I pick out words—name, Ned Hawthorpe, prisoner, negotiate, police, killed. I imagine him holding a copy of today’s newspaper as he stares at a camera, his eyes wide with fear. Ned isn’t the bravest of men.
A door slams below.
“Hey, wait!” I hear Ned shout. But there is only silence.
A wave of sadness flows through me. If we were another couple, I might have put my mouth against the hole and called quietly to him, let him know I was nearby, tell him we would find a way to escape together. But we are not that couple, and when I escape, it will be to get away from him, not just our abductors.
CHAPTER TEN
PAST
“Amelie, I have a surprise for you!”
I smiled, happy that Carolyn was back from work. I’d been working for her for five months now and she’d never once made me feel like a housekeeper, more like a pampered guest. I had a beautiful bedroom, my own bathroom, and if I kept the apartment clean and tidy, and had an evening meal ready for Carolyn when she arrived home from work, my time was my own.