Seven Days(13)

Martin didn’t ask for what. He didn’t need to.

‘Which pub is most likely?’ he said.

‘Could be any.’ The boy sniffed. ‘You’ll have to try them all.’

‘OK,’ Martin said. ‘Thanks.’

‘Is she OK?’ the girl asked.

For a moment, Martin didn’t reply. ‘I hope so,’ he said, eventually. ‘I hope so.’

In the car he checked his phone. There were no missed calls, no text messages from Sandra announcing Maggie’s’ return.

It was 23.34. Nearly midnight.

He’d had enough. The best case was she was outside a pub or waiting for a taxi or with some older boyfriend. The worst case was unthinkable.

It was time to call the police.





Twelve Years Earlier, 7 July 2006: Evening


1


Maggie sat on the bed, legs crossed, arms folded, her fingers stroking the smooth skin of her forearm. The light next to the bed was switched on; she had turned it off but there was no other source of light in the room and the darkness was absolute. There was sweat on her back and forehead; although it was not warm in the room she had, for what felt like an age, screamed and shouted and thrown herself against the door in a desperate – and useless – attempt to find a way out.

She was calmer now, but the panic was there, just under the surface.

Because she knew now there was no way out of the room.

There was no way out of the room.

There was no way out of the room.

And there was no one answering her cries. Was that his plan? To starve her to death in here? No – it couldn’t be. There had to be more to it than that.

The man who looked like a geography teacher – she didn’t know why she chose geography, it could have been one of many subjects, but that was the one that had come to her – had done this for a reason. He’d gone to too much effort for it to be otherwise.

Now she was calmer, the room was silent. It was a kind of silence she had never experienced before. At home, even in the dead of night, there were sounds: plumbing gurgling, floorboards creaking, cars passing by.

But in here: nothing. It felt heavy and dead.

Total, deafening silence.

The smell of vomit.

And then she heard a noise. It came from somewhere behind the door. It was a kind of scraping, like a stone being moved or the brakes of a large truck being hit hard.

A door of some kind being opened, maybe.

She held her breath. The scraping noise stopped, then came again.

The stone being put back. The door being closed.

And then a footstep, right outside the door to the room.

And then the handle turning.





2


At first she didn’t recognize him.

She’d been expecting a man in grey trousers and a scruffy shirt, but he was wearing a blue towelling bathrobe. It had a faded insignia on it – some kind of animal – and was tied tight at the waist. He was wearing socks with snowflakes on them – given, perhaps, by a grandchild – and a pair of dark green slippers.

He was tall and heavily built, but looked soft, his muscles slack and fleshy. There was a sheen to the skin on his face that made him look almost like he was made of wax.

In his hands he held a tray. There was a plate of food and a glass of milk on it. He put it on the floor, then locked the door with a key he kept on a chain around his wrist. She made a note of that.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Something to eat.’

His voice was halting, the words coming in bursts. Something – pause – to eat. It was as though he didn’t get much practice speaking.

Maggie looked at the plate. There were some kind of fried potatoes and a few stalks of boiled broccoli, along with some fish fingers. Fish fingers! How old did he think she was? Six?

‘I’m not hungry,’ she said. ‘I want to go home.’

He stared at her for a while, his mouth settling into a look of resigned disappointment.

‘I thought you might say that,’ he replied. ‘That’s not going to’ – another pause, followed by a rush of words – ‘be possible, I’m afraid.’ He smiled, his gums pink and fleshy. ‘Sorry, my darling.’

Maggie’s skin prickled. ‘You can’t keep me here,’ she said. ‘Let me go.’

He shook his head.

She clenched her fists. ‘Let me go!’ she shouted. ‘You have to let me go!’

‘I don’t have to do anything,’ he said. ‘Not any more. Not now.’

‘My mum will find me,’ Maggie said. ‘My mum and dad will come and find me so you might as well let me leave now. If you let me go I won’t tell anyone what you did.’

‘I’m touched by your faith in your parents,’ the man said. ‘But I don’t think you’re right. There’s no way she will be able to find you here. No one will. I’ve put a lot of thought – and effort – into this.’ He made a sweeping gesture, indicating the room around them. ‘It’s totally hidden. I made sure of that.’

He spoke in a serious, quiet voice. Maggie fought the urge to scream.

‘What do you want?’ Maggie said. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘I don’t want anything from you,’ the man replied. ‘What would I want from you? I want to help you.’