Seven Days(77)

Until this letter. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Wynne to be convinced that this was a kidnapping and captivity case, which meant that she wasn’t dealing with a crime that had taken place ten years ago. She was dealing with a crime that was still going on.

And that meant they needed to keep looking for Maggie.





Sandra


Sandra sat in the waiting room. She felt nauseous, sick with anxiety.

A few days back, she had started to have stomach pains. They were different to the first time around but, understandably, she was very sensitive to any kind of stomach issue, so she went straight to her doctor, and she booked her in for another colonoscopy.

She was under no illusions about what might happen. She had been through this before. The first time she had cancer the treatment – chemotherapy, followed by surgery to remove the tumour from her upper colon, followed by more chemotherapy – had seemed to work. But then, at her six-month check-up, the doctors had bad news.

It was back. Not as bad as the first time, but back none the less.

Which meant a whole new round of treatment.

That too, had worked.

Ironically, the stomach pain was gone. After she got back from the doctor’s office she’d had diarrhoea and now everything seemed normal. But she had learned the hard way that that meant nothing.

Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Martin.

Saw James. He’s OK. Struggling a little. On way to the hospital.

James. He wouldn’t see her. She thought he was too embarrassed of what he had become in front of his mum. Martin was different; he was softer, more accommodating. She had been to James’s flat once and told him straight out what a disgrace it was, what a disgrace it was for a boy like him to live in filth.

She had not been back, and James had refused to see her. She missed him, but part of her was also relieved. It was too hard to watch.

She put her phone down, and waited.





Maggie


1


She heard the scraping noise. Max was playing on the floor. She picked him up. Pain flared in her left hand. Her eyes watered and she took a deep breath. Every second was agony, her hand like a ball of fire.

It was no surprise given what she had done to it. It was her chance, though, and she would have to put up with it. One way or another it would be over soon.

‘Remember,’ she said. ‘Stay quiet, whatever happens, OK?’

She put him in the bathtub and laid the base over him, then walked over to the mattress. She got under the covers.

She picked up the tinfoil ball – although it was much more than that now – and kept her hands hidden.

The man could not see them. Not until the right moment came.

The door opened and the man came in. His eyes narrowed. ‘Where is he?’

‘Who?’ Maggie said.

‘You know who. The boy.’

‘I don’t know where he is. I don’t feel well.’ She tried to make her voice sound weak and strained, as though she was suffering.

It didn’t take much effort. The pain in her hand was so intense it was hard not to whimper.

The man shut the door. He put the key in the pocket of his chinos.

‘Stop this,’ he said. ‘Give me the boy.’

Maggie groaned and turned on her side. He walked towards her.

‘Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,’ he said. ‘You know what happens when you disobey me.’

She did. She knew all about what happened.

The rapes. The captivity. The darkness. The motorbike helmet. The rat.

The sons, taken and killed.

And in her hands, her throbbing, aching hands, she held the means to end it.

‘I’m not disobeying you,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel well. I really don’t.’

‘God,’ he said, disgust lacing his voice. ‘Don’t you ever learn?’

Maggie shifted so she was facing him.

‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘That’s the problem, right there.’

‘What do you mean?’ he said, confusion creeping into his expression.

‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t ever fucking learn.’

The look of confusion turned to one of alarm as she threw the covers back and sprang to her feet, her left hand – the painful one, the one she had mutilated – outstretched, thrusting towards the man’s face.

His eyes followed it, widening as he saw what she had done to it and understood the situation he was in.

Understood that things had changed.

The movement sent pain shooting up her arm, but she was able to ignore it. In fact, she welcomed it. It was the price she had to pay for freedom, and she paid it willingly.

Her hand reached the man’s face and she clawed at it, listening to him squeal in pain.

She screamed in triumph. There was blood everywhere.

Lots of blood.

His blood.

For she was transformed.

She had talons.





2


The man screamed and jumped back. He clutched his face, his right hand covering the wounds. Blood oozed out from under his palm. He backed towards the door, his other hand scrabbling for the key.

‘What?’ he said. ‘What are you – how?’

Maggie stepped towards him. She looked at her left hand. Her fingers were mottled and bruised and the pain was like a bright light, but she didn’t care. It was working.