Seven Days(35)

And it had only got worse.

She had stomach cramps, cramps she recognized. Period cramps. She felt bloated and lethargic and soon she would need a tampon.

There were none, of course. The man had not thought of providing any. She would have to ask him for some, but if the blood came before he did then all she had was the washcloth. She would have to use that.

In amongst it all, though, was relief.

She was not pregnant.

He had raped her four times, each time without using a condom. Each time she had wondered if she was pregnant.

So the cramps were welcome. They also meant – she hoped – that he would leave her alone, that there would be some respite from the door opening and him standing there in his blue bathrobe, his thin, hairless ankles above his sandals.

She clutched her stomach and groaned. She always got bad period pains but the cramps were worse than usual this time. She’d have to ask for something to help. Paracetamol, maybe.

Then she heard it. The scraping sound that meant he was on his way. She’d been awake awhile; it was probably lunchtime. He’d bring one of the awful meals he made but she wouldn’t eat much of it. She had no appetite. Maybe she’d drink something.

The handle turned and the door opened. The man was standing there holding a tray. He stepped forward and put it down; he was moving awkwardly, like he was in pain. His jeans had grass stains on the knees. She had an image of her and her mum and dad and brother in the garden, mowing the lawn and sunbathing, and a wave of longing washed over her.

‘I need something,’ she muttered.

‘What? Are you ill?’ His voice was low, and clipped.

‘I have – I have my period.’

He looked at her blankly. ‘I see. I hadn’t thought of that. What do you need, exactly?’

‘Paracetamol,’ she said. ‘For the pain. And Tampax. I need two types: heavy and regular. Heavy for the first few days.’

‘I have ibuprofen,’ he said. ‘I had to take some myself earlier. I had a bit of a’ – he glanced at his shins – ‘a run-in with something.’

‘That’ll be fine. But I need the Tampax more.’

‘Where would I get them?’ he asked.

‘Supermarket. Or chemist.’

He nodded. ‘But why would I be buying – those things? It’ll look strange.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I need them.’

‘How soon?’

‘Now.’

He looked at the tray. ‘Here’s your dinner. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’





2


Maggie didn’t know exactly how long it was before he came back. Hours, certainly, but how many she could not tell. Time was different in here. She had no way of knowing whether it was morning or afternoon or evening. All she had to go on was the man. He came with breakfast, and then he came with dinner.

And sometimes after that, in his bathrobe.

In the mornings she marked her calendar. Another day gone. Over three weeks, now. Over three weeks in here, in this place where there was nothing to do but sit and stare at the walls.

It felt like a different life. A different world. She was already finding it hard to picture her family, but she knew one thing.

They would be missing her. More than missing her. They would be torn apart by her loss. By now they would think she was dead, and would be grieving for her. Had they held a memorial service for her? She pictured it, all her friends and family gathered in some room, photos of her playing on a projector.

It was sick. She needed to help them, somehow. Get a message to them to let them know she was still alive. At least if they knew that they would not have to worry she was dead.

But there was no way she could contact them. The room was totally isolated; the only way would be telepathy, and she’d tried that. She’d sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the day and closed her eyes and concentrated, hard, on her brother and mother and father, beaming messages to them.

Nothing came back. Was it possible they had felt her presence for a moment? Maybe, but she had no way of knowing.

She wondered how James was taking it. She missed him with an intense, physical ache. Yes, he was annoying – he was a younger brother – but she loved him, and she knew he loved her. Adored her, in fact. On her twelfth birthday he had made her a sculpture of a crab out of clay; they had been on holiday to Brittany and eaten crab, which they had all loved, so he had honoured the memory in art. Sculpture, it turned out, was not one of his gifts and she had laughed at it; James had snatched it back, hurt.

Afterwards her mum had taken her aside.

Be kind to him, Mags, she said. You’re his big sister and he looks up to you. He always has. He was an anxious toddler, and often the only way we could calm him down was if you were there. He needs you. And he was hoping you’d love that sculpture.

Her words sank in. Maggie fished the sculpture out of the bin and put it on her shelf. It was still there.

The thought of James looking at it in her empty room made her head swim with nausea.

She yawned and lay on the mattress. How could she be tired? She did nothing but sleep and lie around. She needed to start doing some kind of exercise, if only for something to do.

She heard the scraping noise. The door opened and the man came in. He placed two boxes on the floor.