Seven Days(38)

The man nodded. He gripped the key in his fingers, the chain taut.

‘Of course,’ he said, a look of something like triumph in his eyes. ‘Of course I will, Fruitcake.’





5


He turned, and bent down to put the key in the lock. As soon as his eyes left her, she sprang off the mattress and threw herself across the room.

She hit his back, hard. He was much bigger than her but he was off balance and his head smashed into the door. He twisted away from her and she slammed her knee into his balls. His eyes widened and he puffed out his cheeks, then groaned and clutched his groin. He sank back on to his haunches, his face pale.

Maggie tried the handle.

It turned, and the door opened. Ahead of her wooden stairs led up into blackness.

To a hatch of some kind.

To freedom.

She had done it.

She ran up, her hands over her head, feeling for the way out.

And felt a hand on her ankle, pulling her back. Pulling her back hard.

The hand yanked and her foot slipped, and then she was being dragged backwards down the stairs and back into the room.

The man threw her on to the mattress. He stood over her, his face purple with pain and rage.

‘You lying fucking bitch!’ he screamed. ‘You’re not my Fruitcake! You’re not my Fruitcake at all!’

He stamped his right foot on the floor.

‘I’m going now,’ he shouted. ‘I’m going before I do something I regret.’ He stepped backwards and kicked the tray across the room. ‘But I’ll be back. You needn’t worry about that, Margaret. I’ll be back before you know it.’

He walked out and slammed the door.

Seconds later the light went out.





6


It was dark – black, black dark – for a long time. She didn’t know how long, exactly. Many hours, certainly. Days, probably.

Long enough to get very, very hungry.

But that was the least of her concerns. It was the thirst that tortured her. It was all she could think of. Her tongue swelled in her mouth and visions of glasses of cold water swam in front of her eyes. She reached for them, her hands groping in the darkness for a drink that did not exist. The only liquid she tasted was the salt tears that ran down her cheeks.

And then she heard the scraping sound. The light came on. She squinted, the brightness hurting her eyes.

The door opened. The man was stood there, something in his hand.

A tray, she thought. With food and drink.

But it wasn’t a tray.

It was something much worse.

The man locked the door – this time keeping his eyes on her – then put the thing down. It looked like some kind of helmet.

‘Please,’ she said, her voice a croak. ‘I need a drink.’

‘You need to be punished,’ the man replied, his voice flat. ‘That’s what you need.’

‘What’s that?’ she said, pointing at the helmet.

‘It’s a cage.’

She didn’t understand. Now her eyes had adjusted she could make out that it was a motorbike helmet.

‘It’s not a cage,’ she said.

‘Oh, it is.’

She was puzzled. There was nothing here to put in it. ‘What for?’

He looked at her, his head tilted sideways.

‘For my pet.’ He grinned at her. ‘My other pet.’

She blinked. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will,’ he said. ‘You will.’ He picked up the motorbike helmet and walked towards her. When he got to the mattress he lifted it up and, before she could do anything, he put it over her head. He tightened a strap under her chin, and secured it with a small chain, through which he threaded a padlock.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Fits perfectly.’

It didn’t fit perfectly at all. It was way too big. Maggie shook her head; there was plenty of space around her face and between the helmet and her neck.

But not enough to get her head out, not with the strap secured. She tugged at it, but the padlock – clearly his own addition – held fast.

It was uncomfortable, but not that bad. She started to relax a little.

Then he turned and walked to the door. He unlocked it and reached on to the stairs. When he came back into the room he was holding a shoebox. He took off the lid and held it up to show Maggie what was inside.

There was a large, white rat. Its pink nose sniffed the air.

‘No,’ Maggie croaked. ‘Please, no. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s a bit late for that,’ he said.

He picked up the rat and pulled the chin of the helmet towards him, then put the head of the rat in the gap between her neck and the helmet. She tried to twist away but he grabbed her neck with his free hand, and, seconds later, she felt tiny feet scrabbling on her cheek.

And then a pink nose came into view and she screamed.

‘Don’t do that,’ the man said. ‘You’ll upset him.’ He tilted her chin up so she was looking at him. ‘This is James,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d like the name. And he’s very hungry.’





7


Sometimes the rat – James, he had called it, and even though she knew he was using her brother’s name to punish her she couldn’t get the name out of her head – slept, or was still. Sometimes it moved slowly, walking around her head and mouth and lips and nose in steady circles.