The Prisoner(13)

I think for a moment, then reach down and take hold of my pajama top. It was still a bit damp when I put it on earlier although the bottoms were dry. With the material between my fingertips, I grip the nailhead again, using the traction to wiggle it. I can feel it giving, becoming looser.

“Come on,” I hiss, placing my left hand flat against the board and giving the nail a massive tug.

It pops out.

I hold it between my fingers, a tremor of excitement running through me. Such a small thing, but it means so much. I make my way to the bathroom, five steps forward, four steps to the left. With the door locked, I examine the nail in the dim light. It’s small, about an inch long, its metal not yet rusted with age. If I can pry another one out, and another.… in my mind, I’m already escaping through the window. I rein myself back. One step at a time.

The nail is also the answer to something that has been worrying me, which is how to keep track of the days. So far, I’ve been given porridge five times. If I’m working on the theory that the bowl of porridge is breakfast, today is Wednesday, the twenty-first of August—day five of our kidnapping.

I look around the bathroom, searching for the best place to start my calendar, and choose the thin strip of wall behind the door, between the doorframe and the corner. Scratching back and forth with the nail, I gouge a line, level with the top of the door, then another half an inch below it, then another three, spaced at roughly half-inch intervals. I stand back. The fifth line isn’t as clear as the others, so I gouge a little deeper. But my calendar isn’t complete, I need a start date. Reaching up, I scratch, above the first line, a shaky 8 and then a dash, then a 1 and a 7—the date Ned and I were taken.

I hold the nail delicately in the palm of my hand. Where should I keep it? I raise my eyes to the ridge above the doorframe, but the movement of the door opening might cause it to fall, and I might not be able to find it. In the cupboard, then. Taking out the little toiletry bag, I drop the nail inside.

I return to the window, think about the weak spot where the nail used to be. Turning, I walk carefully across the room, find the tray, find the plastic spoon I used for my porridge, then walk back to the window. I search for the tiny space between the edge of the board and the window frame, and wedge the end of the spoon in. But it’s too thick and bends uselessly. Frustrated, I throw it across the room and go to the bathroom to sit in the dim light for a while. It helps to be able to see my hands, my feet, my body, to know that I still exist.

When the light goes off, I return to the outer room, walk to my corner, feel for my tray, lift it out of the way onto my mattress, and begin walking my daily circuits. I no longer place my hand along the wall to guide me; I want to get used to walking in the darkness, to feel as comfortable as possible in my space, so I walk with my arms by my side, counting seven steps before turning and walking along the next wall, remembering to move around my mattress each time. At some point I decide to turn after only six steps, and then five, then four, so that I’m walking in ever-decreasing circles.

The dizziness is just beginning to make it hard to continue when my foot steps on something, the plastic spoon I threw across the room earlier. I stoop, pick it up, wait for my head to stop spinning. The spoon is sticky with porridge but when I stand, I’ve lost my bearings and I don’t know which way I’m facing. I stretch out my arms and walk with tiny steps until I find a wall, then grope my way around the room until I get to the bathroom. I wash the spoon, dry it on the towel. I’m about to take it over to the tray, when I find myself pausing. If the abductor sees that it’s missing, will he ask for it? Or will he just replace it?

The thought that I might be able to provoke him into speaking is exciting. And if he doesn’t, if he replaces it without saying anything, I’ll hide the new one, and the one after that, until he won’t be able to stop himself from asking where they are. But where can I hide it? Under the mattress is too obvious; if he searches the room, it will be the first place he’ll look. If I hide it in the bathroom, he might take that privilege away, and padlock the door. I want to provoke him into speaking, not anger him.

I think for a moment, then walk to the main door and place the spoon on the floor directly behind it.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


PRESENT

I wait for the man to come. The man. He’s never threatening, just silent and calm. I pull my blanket around my shoulders and lean against the wall. Perhaps his kindness will be his weakness.

I close my eyes and think of Papa. Of how the sun used to push through the window of our small kitchen and land on the skin of his hands and arms as I ate breakfast. I can smell his coffee, see the old metal spoon I used for my cereal, hear the gentle tick tock of the old clock that hung on the wall by the back door. “You’re a clever girl, Amelie,” my father says. I try to look up at his face, but there’s only shadow there.

The sound of the key turning in the lock drags me back to the present. The man is here. Will he mention the spoon, did he notice it was missing from the tray he collected last night? I let the blanket fall and sit up.

“What time is it?” I ask, trying to keep my voice low, friendly.

He doesn’t answer and instead I sense the air shift, then hear a clunk as a tray is put down; a scrape as the old one is collected.

“Why won’t you speak to me? Has Carl told you not to?”

There’s a pause and I hold my breath. Did he react to the name Carl? I get to my feet, swaying a little as my body adjusts to the darkness, and sense him step back. A moment later, the key turns in the lock. He’s gone.