Behind Closed Doors(38)
‘Where is she?’ I asked urgently, shocked that I hadn’t thought about her once while we’d been in Thailand. ‘Where’s Molly?’
‘In the utility room.’ He opened a door to the right of the staircase and switched on a light. ‘Down here.’
As I followed him down to the basement, I recognised the tiles from the photo he had shown me of Molly in her basket. He came to a stop in front of a door. ‘She’s in there. But before you go and see her, you’d better take one of these.’ He took a roll of bin bags from where they were lying on a shelf, tore one off and handed it to me. ‘I think you might be needing it.’
PRESENT
Even though the days pass slowly for me, I’m always amazed at how quickly Sundays come round. Today though, I can’t help feeling depressed because there is no visit to Millie to look forward to. I don’t know this for sure, but it’s unlikely that Jack will take me to see her when we’ve been for the last two Sundays. Still, it could be that he’ll surprise me, so I’ve had my shower just in case, drying both myself and my hair on the small hand towel that he allows me. Bath sheets and hairdryers are luxuries of a past long gone, as are visits to the hairdresser’s. Although drying myself is a misery in the winter, it is not all bad. My hair, denied both heat and scissors, is long and shiny and, with a bit of ingenuity, I can manage to tie it in a knot so that it doesn’t annoy me.
It wasn’t always so bad. When we first arrived in the house, I had a much nicer bedroom, with all sorts of things to keep me amused, which Jack deprived me of with each attempt to escape. First the kettle went, then the radio, then the books. With nothing to distract me, I resorted to relieving the stultifying boredom of the days by playing around with the clothes in my wardrobe, mixing and matching different outfits just for the hell of it. But after another failed attempt to escape, Jack took me from that room and installed me in the box room next door, which he’d stripped of every comfort except for the bed. He even went to the trouble of adding bars to the window. Deprived of my wardrobe, it meant that I had to rely on him to bring me my clothes each morning. I soon forfeited that right too and now, unless we’re going out, I’m made to wear pyjamas day and night. Although he brings me clean ones three times a week, there is nothing to relieve the monotony of wearing the same thing day in, day out, especially when each pair is exactly the same as the last. They are all the same style and all the same colour—black—with nothing to distinguish one pair from another. Once, not very long ago, when I asked him if I could have a dress to wear during the day for a change, he brought me a curtain I’d had in my flat and told me to make one for myself. He thought himself funny, because he knew I had no scissors, or needle and thread, but when he found me wearing it the next day, wrapped around me like a sarong and a welcome change from pyjamas, he took it away again, annoyed by my ingenuity. Hence his little joke to Esther and the others about me being something of a seamstress and making my own clothes.
He loves to put me on the spot, to see how I’ll cope with something he’s thrown nonchalantly into the conversation, hoping I’ll mess up so he can punish me. But I’m getting quite good at making it up as I go along. Personally, I’m hoping Esther and the others will ask me again about starting a sewing circle because it’ll be Jack who’ll have to get me out of that one. Perhaps he’ll start by breaking my arm or mangling my fingers in a door. So far, he has never harmed me physically, although there are times when I think that he’d like to.
Sometime in the afternoon, I hear a ring at the gate so I jump off the bed and press my ear to the door. It’s the first bit of excitement I’ve had in a long time, as people never drop in uninvited. I wait to hear if Jack is going to let whoever it is in, or at least enquire what they want, but when the house remains silent I know he’s pretending that we’re not at home—fortunately for him, it’s impossible to see the car parked in the driveway through the black gates. When whoever it is rings again, this time more impatiently, my thoughts turn immediately to Esther.
I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately, mainly because of the way she repeated her mobile number in the restaurant last week. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced she understood that I needed to hear it again and I know that if there ever comes a time when I need to ask for help, it will be Esther I’ll turn to rather than Diane, who I’ve known for longer. I’ve lost all my own friends, even Kate and Emily, who I thought would always stand by me. But my irregular and very short emails to them—dictated by Jack—where I trilled about how wonderful married life was and said I was too busy to see them, ensured that theirs dried up quickly. I didn’t even get a birthday card from them this year.
Now that he’s got rid of my friends, Jack allows me to reply to other emails addressed specifically to me—from my parents or Diane, for example—rather than reply to them himself, but only to give them a more genuine flavour, although I’m not sure how genuine I manage to make them sound with him breathing down my neck as I write. On these occasions I am brought down to his study, and I welcome these moments where, with both a computer and a telephone within reach, the potential of alerting someone is greater than anywhere else.
My heart always starts beating faster as Jack sits me down, with the computer and telephone only inches away, because there is always the hope that he might be distracted long enough for me to be able to snatch up the phone, dial a quick 999 and scream my despair to the police. Or pound a quick plea for help on the keyboard to whoever I am writing to and press the send button before he can stop me. The temptation to do so is great, but Jack is always vigilant. He stands over me as I write and checks each message before he allows me to send it.