The Prisoner(23)

He gave me a sympathetic smile. “I’m an only child too, now. Although my father does have another child, the Hawthorpe Foundation.”

“You must be proud of it, and of your father.”

Ned twirled the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Yes, I am. But to be honest, the foundation has turned out to be a bit of a disappointment on a personal level.”

“Why is that?”

He shifted in his chair. “It was supposed to be something my father and I could do together. He was just about to launch the foundation when I got into a bit of trouble—had a fight with someone, wrapped a car around a tree, that sort of thing. Of course, because of who I am—because of who my father is—it made it into the press, and he had to put the whole thing on hold because some of the potential benefactors got cold feet, muttering that the foundation would be tarnished by my ‘indiscretions.’ My father was furious and when he finally launched the Hawthorpe Foundation ten years later, he refused to let me have anything to do with it.” He paused, drained his glass, and signaled to the waiter to bring more wine. “When I told him that I knew people who would be happy to make substantial donations, he said he didn’t think the people I had connections with were the sort of people he wanted associated with the foundation. The fundraiser I did in September is a case in point. We received millions in donations, but he wouldn’t take it, so we donated it to another charity.” He waited while the waiter poured him wine. “The truth is, my father cares more about the foundation than he does about me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said, feeling sorry for him.

“It is.” He couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice. “Enough about me, let’s talk about something else. How are your plans for college coming along?”

“I received an offer from King’s College, but I deferred it for a year.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t saved enough yet.”

“And you want to be a lawyer, right?”

“Yes. My mum died in childbirth in a hospital in Paris, through negligence. I watched my dad fight for justice for years, but we never had enough money or the right people on our side to get anywhere. It made me determined to be not just a good lawyer, but a great one for people who can’t afford to pay for representation.”

“That’s very noble, but you’ll never be rich.”

I laughed. “I’m not interested in being rich, all I’m interested in is not being poor. I’ve been there, and it’s horrible. It’s why I don’t want to take out a huge loan to pay for college, in case I can never pay it back. But I might have to.”

“I remember what it was like when my father decided to put most of our money into the foundation,” Ned said, his face suddenly grim. “If my grandfather hadn’t stepped in, my life would have been very different from the one I have today.”

But still comfortable, I wanted to say to him. Still wealthy and privileged. But I didn’t say anything, because he was my boss and because I didn’t think he had any idea of what it was like to be any other way.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


PRESENT

Pains cramp my stomach. I stop walking, knead it with my hands. I haven’t had anything to eat since the bread and cheese the night before my escape attempt, and that was ages ago. If I could sleep, it would take my mind off my hunger. But with the cramps and the cold, it’s impossible.

I go to the bathroom, fill my empty stomach with water, so much of it that I vomit it up. I can’t stop shivering as I score another line on the wall, because another day must have gone past by now. Eleven days; why has nobody come for us?

I return to the main room, manage to doze a little. At one point, a noise wakes me and I raise my head and look hopefully in the direction of the door. But no one comes walking across the room toward me and suddenly I’m furious, furious that they think they can starve me.

I push myself from the mattress, make my way blindly to the door.

“I’m hungry!” I yell. “I need food!” I find the handle, rattle it. “Did you hear me?” I thump on the door with my fists. “I’m hungry!”

I stop, put my ear to the door, hoping to hear someone approaching. But there’s nothing. I thump on the door again. “Did you hear me? I need food!”

“Shut up!”

The high-pitched scream transcends the sound of my thumping. I stop, my fist halfway to the wall, paralyzed by the violence in the scream. For a moment, I think it’s the man who caught me when I tried to escape, that he’s in the hallway outside, yelling at me to stop. Then, I realize—it came from below. Ned. He’s heard me hammering on the door.

I sink to the ground, my eyes smarting with tears of frustration and my leg knocks against something. I reach out, it’s a tray. Relief floods through me; they must have brought it while I was asleep. I grope clumsily for food, find a sandwich, and begin to eat, searching at the same time for the bar of chocolate. But there’s nothing else, not even a piece of fruit.

I finish my sandwich, sit with my back against the wall, thinking about the tray left just inside the door. No more chocolate or fruit. No more human contact. That is going to be the hardest to bear. And what about Ned? He knows where I am now, he knows I’m being kept in a room somewhere above him. Which means he can invade my space whenever he wants.