My gaze falls onto the water bottle, it is a supermarket own brand, sparkling. I then pick up the notes and reread them.
I am not the villain here.
Who will come for you? Your husband?
The words make me glance down at my left hand. How have I not noticed before? I’m not wearing any rings. I normally change my rings over just after I leave Fiona. Routine is very important in my world. Is it possible that I was attacked as I slipped off Mark’s ring before I put on Daan’s? Was I robbed? Daan’s rings are particularly valuable. I’m always vaguely nervous when I wear them. The engagement ring is three enormous diamonds jostling for space on a platinum band, the wedding ring is also studded with diamonds. Mark’s rings are more modest. A plain gold band for the wedding ring, a small solitaire for the engagement. I always wear my rings.
One set or the other.
The only time I have gone a day not wearing rings was the day I met Daan. My rings were at the jeweler’s, because the stone in my engagement ring had come loose and while it was being fixed the jeweler suggested he give them both a clean. They were supposed to be there for only an hour, but the day didn’t turn out as expected. I sometimes wonder how different my life might be if I’d been wearing my rings that day.
Something occurs to me. Understanding seeps in. It is like icy water being slowly poured over my head, shoulders, arms. It pools around my feet, engulfs me. I might drown.
I am left-handed. If I were restraining someone, anyone, I would chain them up by their dominant hand. Generally speaking, that is a person’s right hand, but I’ve been tied by my left. My captor knows I am left-handed. He knows I prefer to drink sparkling water over still. The realization is horrifying.
I was not robbed. I was not attacked by a random psychopath.
I know my captor.
Who will come for you? Your husband?
“Mark?” Silence. “Daan?” Nothing.
I feel sick. Weak. My body turns to liquid and shivers crawl through my soul like spiders disturbed, scampering from a dusty corner. I have thought about this moment a thousand times and every time I have thought about it, I’ve closed my eyes, batted away the inevitable shame, pain, horror. I knew it could not last forever, the life I have constructed.
The lives.
I have always thought I would get found out. Confronted. No matter how much care I took. I assumed one day one of them would find the spare phone, or trail me, that I’d lose track of my supposed whereabouts, slip up when giving an ordinary day-to-day account of what I’d been doing with myself.
I thought I might call out the wrong name during sex.
I imagined that when it happened, I would be screamed at, thrown out, exposed, vilified. I have always been so terrified that Mark would tell the boys, and that I would lose them completely because they’d be utterly disgusted by me. That they would feel betrayed. I have braced myself to face anger, recriminations, hurt. I suppose some part of my brain knew I would one day have to throw myself on their mercy, beg for forgiveness. Forgiveness that most likely would not come. I expected them to hurl abuse, ask me to leave, or to leave me. I didn’t think I’d win. Not really, not in the long term.
But I did not expect this.
I shake my head in disbelief. My mind is a mess, mushed and oozing thoughts when usually I am able to be clear and to divide my thoughts into discrete sections.
Could one of my husbands have brought me here?
Neither of my husbands is a violent man.
But they both like their own way.
I have seen both inwardly rage. Outwardly rage too, on rare occasions. Mark when he feels the boys have been mistreated or cheated, Daan because of work stuff. I have seen gritted teeth, clenched fists bang down on tables, fogs of fury, sprays of saliva shower, expletives spat out. But ultimately, both men regain control of their tempers before things ever go too far. I have never seen either strike flesh. Neither of them would do this to me—bind me, imprison me, practically starve me. Would they?
Honestly, do I know what either one is capable of? They have not known what I am capable of.
My body flashes with heat, shame or panic, as I begin to understand what this means. My sweat almost instantly freezes on my skin and I feel both hot and chilled to the bone, an expression that is bandied about but, for the first time in my life, I understand it. I feel so cold, I could be dead. It might be better if I were. I am exposed, stripped. The lack of food is making it difficult for me to think straight. My stomach grumbles and I drop my head into my hands. I wish he’d give me some food. He. Him. Which one?
Which one of my husbands brought me here?
Mark teases me about getting hangry, says that I behave worse than the boys if I am not fed regularly. Whenever we set off for a long walk or drive, he always asks if I have enough snacks with me, commenting that I’ll be a bitch when reading the map or that I’ll fall out with the satnav, if I am peckish. He sometimes grabs an extra bag of crisps out of the treat drawer and tosses them my way as I fasten my seatbelt. “Just in case.”
Daan teases me too. He identified that if I am hungry, I lose concentration, that I don’t operate at my optimal. Something he exploits—he will sometimes challenge me to a game of chess or cards when I’m waiting for supper. He does so as a joke, but also because he likes to win and doesn’t have any qualms about utilizing an advantage.
They are both right. Same me, different identifiable consequence. Anger. Lack of concentration. Both debilitating. I force myself to stay calm, to concentrate. I need to try to make a plan. I should appeal, say I am sorry. But which one am I talking to? Both men are so different. Not knowing who I am dealing with stops me knowing what to say. Who should I be? The sensible mum that solves everything, looks after everyone, always knows where the lost football shorts are? Or the sexy, cool, independent wife, who has to meet few demands or expectations other than to be interested, interesting, adorable and adoring? I don’t know how to start my apologies, my explanations. I don’t know who to be. I don’t know who I am.
Frustrated, frightened, I begin to shake so hard I think he might be able to hear my bones rattle. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I whisper through the door, through the walls. That is true. Whoever I am talking to, that much is true.
Rat-tat-tat. The typewriter keys spring into action. I listen as the paper is pulled from the machine, there’s shuffling as it is pushed under the door.
You are going to be.
The words punch me. My tears seem to dry instantly on my cheeks, no more fresh ones fall as terror surges through my body, great waves like passion but spiteful. So brutal, so raw. This is more than a threat; it is a promise. Of course. What did I expect? I never thought it could last forever. That would require infinite luck. I should have listened to my mother, who always told me I am not a lucky person. But I wanted my father to be right. He held the opposite view. He dismissed that acceptance of one’s lot with a bored impatience. He declared that you could make your own luck, and you should. All it took, he said, was courage, determination and resilience. My dad pleased himself. My mum pleased no one. My dad was untouchable. My mum was described by nosy neighbors and exasperated distant relatives as “touched.” An old-fashioned word for mentally ill.
So, I tried my father’s way. I tried to make my own luck.