The Prisoner(35)

“I think she has something, Ned,” the other man says. “I mean, why would your father pay up if we send her body to him?”

“Because he’d be worried that I’d be next.”

“But she has a point when she says that your family doesn’t seem to want you back. It’s been three weeks. Your father is playing a dangerous game. He knows the score, he knows the longer he takes, the more he’ll have to pay. Yet, he’s in no hurry to pay, in no hurry to get you back.” There’s a pause. “Do you know what your mother did yesterday, Ned? She played tennis. Not only did she play tennis, but she also won at tennis. I have photos to prove it. Does that strike you as the behavior of someone whose son is missing? Either your father hasn’t told her you’ve been kidnapped, or she doesn’t seem particularly bothered. Which is it, do you think?”

I almost feel sorry for Ned.

Ned doesn’t answer, so the man continues talking.

“I have to ask, Ned—did you do something to piss off your family? Is that why they’re not keen to get you back?”

“They don’t believe you’re serious, that’s all,” Ned says. “That’s why you should kill her. They need to know you’re ruthless.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I know I am.”

“So, you won’t mind if we kill her?”

A harsh laugh from Ned. “Be my guest.”

“Alright.”

To my horror, I hear a gun being cocked. Panic courses through me; I don’t want to die like this, I can’t die like this, tied to a chair. I strain against the cord that binds me, try to shout out from behind the tape, but I am held still. And then, an almighty bang, and a terrible ringing in my ears, followed by silence so deathly I think I’ve been shot. I wait to feel pain—but there’s none, just a hand that comes over my mouth, silencing me further, pulling my head back against him, making sure I can’t move. Did they shoot Ned?

“Shit.” Ned’s voice reaches me. “Did you really do it?”

“You told us to.”

“Is she dead?”

“I’d say so. A bullet to the head is usually fatal.” A pause. “Get her out of here before she bleeds all over the place. Make sure she’s dumped on Jethro Hawthorpe’s doorstep. If you can’t get near enough, throw her body over the fence. He’ll see it soon enough.”

The cord holding me to the chair is cut, shock has set in, my body is limp, I’m dragged from the room as a body would be dragged from a room, arms hooked under my shoulders, my feet dragging on the ground until I’m in the corridor outside and the door slams behind us. I feel myself being lifted from the floor and as I am carried swiftly up the stairs, he scrunches me into him, making me small so that my feet don’t smash off the walls.

In the room, he lowers me to the mattress, quickly rips the tape from my mouth. Shock has set in, and I begin hyperventilating. I curl into a ball, trying to shut out the pain in my chest, but he pushes me upright, leans me against the wall. Tears stream from my eyes as I gasp short panicky breaths, trying desperately to get air into my lungs. But it’s impossible. My mind spirals; I’m going to die.

And then, something penetrates my fear—his breathing deep and slow so close to my ear I can feel the warmth of his breath. I latch onto it, try to match him breath for breath, a long inhale, a long exhale. It takes awhile, but I get there. My breathing slows, the pain in my chest lessens. Tremors run through me; vomit pushes up into my throat. I swallow it down and continue to breathe, slowly, calmly.

“Thank you,” I whisper, when I can speak again.

He places a finger against my mouth, a sign to make no noise. Something settles around my shoulders, my blanket. And then he leaves.





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


PAST

I sat under the shade of an oak tree, my back resting against its trunk, my body exhausted with a mix of stifling heat and desperation. I’d spent the morning trying to look nonchalant as I walked around the grounds, when I was in fact desperately seeking a way out of Ned’s property. It was surrounded, on all sides, by a twelve-foot-high wall; the only way out was through the front gates, which were worked electronically, like the front door. It was hard to accept that for the moment, I was a prisoner in this house, and I was becoming increasingly panicked.

Last night, during dinner, Ned had become impatient when I’d asked again if I could go out.

“Those journalists are still hanging around,” he’d said. “If you go out, you’ll be mobbed. I’m used to dealing with the press, I know what to say, how much to give them. I think you’d find it overwhelming facing them on your own.” He’d paused. “I’m only protecting you, Amelie. I don’t want you saying anything you shouldn’t be saying.”

Or contradicting his version of events.

“But I really want to see my friends.”

“You can, in three weeks’ time.”

“Have there been any messages from Carolyn?”

He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “If there had been, I would have told you.” He leaned across the table toward me. “Look, I’m only insisting that you don’t leave the house until we announce our separation. Then you’re free to leave, go back to your apartment, tell the world we made a mistake.”