Mark looks horrified. “Do you think it will?”
“Well, it might, it’s—you know—juicy. And, well—” Fiona falters, finding it difficult to say any of the stuff that needs to be said. “It might hit the papers if she hasn’t just run off. If there is more to this.” If they find a body. “I hate it that these thoughts are even in my head.”
“This can’t be my world,” says Mark. “It can’t be Leigh’s world.”
“But it is.” Fiona coughs to swallow the tears that are threatening. “If the papers pick up on this the boys need to be prepared and protected.” Mark nods. “Would you like me to stay? To be with you when you tell them?”
He nods again. “I’ll sleep on the sofa, you can have our bed.”
“No, no, Mark. I’ll take the sofa. Honestly.” Fiona doesn’t want to lie on their sheets. She doesn’t want to smell Leigh’s sweat, perfume or washing powder, maybe their loving whereas presumably that is something Mark might need.
“I should have taken the sofa,” he mutters. Fiona doesn’t really understand his meaning. She thinks he’s not thinking clearly when he adds, “I want to meet this other man.”
“What? No!”
“I have to. I need to see him. See their home. See it all for myself.”
“That’s probably not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Fiona plays with her empty glass, wishing it were full. “Well, she’s missing, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“So—well—in cases like these, the husband is always the suspect and we know you didn’t do it.”
“You just said you think she’s run away.”
“Well, yes, let’s hope she has.”
“She’s not dead, Fiona.”
Fiona sighs. “We don’t know what she is.”
17
Kylie
Wednesday 18th March
I slept last night. I didn’t expect to but the blackness swallowed me. I woke as the morning sunlight crept under the boarded window. I strain my eyes and look around the room for the millionth time. Waiting for something new to jump out at me, something that will help me get out of here. What? I’m not sure. It’s not as though a trapdoor is suddenly going to appear. I’ve checked every link of the chain to see if there is a loose one, there isn’t. The zip ties that bind my hand to the chain have chafed the skin on my wrist, but no matter how much friction I create, they are unchanged, immovable. I’ve scoured the room for a nail or a sharp edge, something I could use to wear away at the plastic, but there’s nothing. The place is immaculate, bare, barren. Other than the water bottle, which is almost empty now. And the typewritten notes.
As the morning passes, I am forced into using the bucket, and the smell of my own pee now lingers in the room. It’s oddly not too disgusting because it is at least human and familiar when everything else is sterile and strange. Although I imagine I will feel differently when I need to do more than wee. Waves of horror and panic slosh through me, leaving me feeling helpless and lost as I wonder how long I might be locked up here for. As I consider being here might not be the worst thing that could happen to me. What is he planning to do to me? I swallow back tears. I try to think about real, physical things, not allow my imagination and fear to take control.
I consider the emptiness of the room. It is not usual. Spare rooms in most homes are stuffed with boxes of old toys or paperwork, unused exercise machines, the ghosts of hobbies—taken up with enthusiasm but not sustained. This room is nothing like that. And the rooms people are kept captive in on TV—on the occasional newspaper report about a real-life example of someone horrendously unlucky—always reveal a squalid, filthy place. Abductors normally live chaotically; the broken and spoiled property reflecting the ravaged lives of damaged, dangerous people.
The empty sterility of this room suggests something much more icily resolute. It has been deliberately cleared, carefully prepared for the purpose of keeping someone captive. My captor has not taken me on a whim. The thought is chilling. I’ve always believed that anything that has been planned has more chance of success than something that is impetuous. Have I been kidnapped? Does someone think Daan is wealthy enough to pay a ransom for my return? My heartbeat speeds up again. My fingers start to shake once more. I force myself to take a deep breath. I have to stay calm and focused. I’m practiced at remaining levelheaded and in the moment. Panicking won’t help.
I’ve been trying to remember how I got here. It’s tricky to concentrate because my head still aches and I’m beginning to feel the effects of not eating since Monday morning but it’s important, so I focus. I remember Monday, taking Seb to school. We walked under a cloud. I was thinking about the row with Mark, what had been said, what was left unsaid, what I couldn’t speak of. Seb is generally sunny-natured but I know he resents me walking him to school, so he is never at his best on those journeys. I suppose I have to stop that ritual soon.
I laugh cynically to myself, maybe the decision has been made for me? If I don’t get out of here, Seb will have to get himself to and from school no matter how much I want to cling to him. Who will Oli kick against, without his mother to nag him? My sad laugh turns to a definite wail. The thought of my sons left without me lacerates. I push them out of my head. I’ve trained myself to do that. I’m vulnerable if I think about them, so I mustn’t. I am the world’s best at compartmentalizing. What I need to think about now is how I got here, because it might help me understand where here is and how I can get out. I need to focus.
After I dropped off Seb—a quick squeeze of his shoulder, no chance at all of pulling him into a tight hug or planting a kiss on his head even though I longed to—I walked to the park. On the days my family and friends think I get the late train to Scotland, I meet Fiona and we have a quick coffee and a slice of cake at the café in the local park. I remember meeting her. She couldn’t stay long because she had an appointment at the hairdresser’s. Her hair is long, like mine—she was going for the big chop; she said she fancied wearing it chin length, but she was vacillating at the last minute about her decision. She showed me a picture on her phone of some Hollywood woman I half recognized but couldn’t put a name to, sporting a center-parted, wavy lob. I encouraged Fiona to go for it. “I love the soft bends below the cheekbones, it keeps things modern and breezy,” I commented. Or something like that. It seems unbelievable now that we were talking about hair texture and volume. I remember watching her walk away and feeling the usual twinge of sadness that we are not quite what she thinks we are. She thinks we talk about everything, share everything. As I watched her long narrow back disappear into the distance I felt the space between us. A gap I have created.
Try as I might, I can’t remember anything after that. Maybe someone attacked me from behind. The park is generally pretty empty at that time of morning; the dog walkers have been and gone, as have the school kids trailing into school, but it’s too early for the young mums with their designer buggies to be heading off to baby yoga or baby music classes. It is possible I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time when this psychopath struck, hit me, dragged me into his car. You do read about such things. I’m more aware than most that life is strange. Have I just been unlucky?