The Prisoner(61)

I go upstairs. A bedroom—mine—sits above the sitting room, another, where Papa slept, above the dining room. It’s only now that I realize that I had the bigger room. The avocado-green bathroom, which I always hated, sits above the kitchen. With the cupboard under the stairs, that’s it: a traditional terraced house.

There’s an envelope on the kitchen table. I open it and draw out a sheet of paper.

Dear Amelie,

First of all, please accept my sincere condolences for your recent loss.

Secondly, welcome back. I hope you find the house clean and comfortable. I had the water and electricity supplies reconnected ahead of your arrival. I also took the liberty of purchasing a new kettle and toaster, and have stocked the fridge and cupboards with food for the first day or two, in case you don’t feel up to going out.

May I suggest that we meet at my office on Monday at 11 a.m.? If for any reason this doesn’t suit you, please let me know at the following number and we can reschedule.

I very much look forward to meeting you.

Regards,

Anthony Barriston

I place the letter back on the table, and in the silence of the house, make a mug of tea. I add the hot water, watching the tea bag twisting in the scalding liquid, then add some milk. Suddenly, it all becomes overwhelming, not just Anthony Barriston’s kindness, but being back in the house where I lived for so many years with my father, making tea in the mug that he used to use. Laying my head on the kitchen table, I let the tears come, and cry until I’m empty.



* * *



The tea is cold, I make another cup, and drink it leaning against the countertop, the steam thick in my nostrils, looking through the window above the sink. Putting the mug down, I find the key to the back door in the same place, in the same drawer. I unlock it, push it open, and step outside. The smell of freshly cut grass reaches me, and I’m instantly taken back to the pitch-black room, and my captor stooping to place my tray beside me.

I pull myself back to the present, look around: the small paved area just outside the door is gray and bare, the grass patchy, the fences leaning inward. I have no memories of playing in this tiny garden except perhaps once, with a shiny green skipping rope Papa gave me for a birthday.

I make myself something to eat and carry it through to the dining room. It’s been a long day, I can feel my body shutting down. Maybe here, in my childhood home, I’ll finally be able to sleep.

Upstairs, I find bedding in the chest of drawers in Papa’s room, where I’d stored them before leaving. They smell musty. I don’t know if the washing machine still works and I’m too tired to find out so I lie down on the mattress in my childhood bed and pull my blanket over me. The curtains are drawn and the door closed, but I can still see the shelf on the opposite wall, the line of books wedged between my jewelry box and an old biscuit tin, where I kept other treasures. I close my eyes; it’s been a week since I was freed and I’ve barely slept more than an hour or two at a time.

Tomorrow, I decide, I’ll walk to the local shops, buy garbage bags, go through the house, sort out the clothes I left behind, take what I can to charity shops, and put the rest into recycling. After my meeting with Mr. Barriston on Monday, I’ll go into the center of Reading and buy new everything: bedding and towels and crockery and cutlery. I’ll strip the wallpaper from my bedroom and paint the walls the palest of blues, to remind me of my room at Carolyn’s.

Tears burn my throat. I can’t think of Carolyn without wanting to cry so I turn my thoughts to Lukas, about my plans to find him. And then I think of my abductor, wondering where he is, and what he is doing.





CHAPTER TEN




I’m curious to meet Mr. Barriston, to have this connection to my past. He knew my father; Paul said they’d been friends. I wish I’d known that Papa had had a friend; it would have made me happy to know that he hadn’t spent all day, every day in his armchair in the sitting room, that sometimes he’d met with Mr. Barriston. And then I feel guilty; I can’t remember ever asking Papa about his day. Maybe if I had, he would have told me.

Anthony Barriston ushers me into his office, offers me a seat and coffee, which he makes himself from a machine behind his desk. This gives me time to study him. He seems to be about the same age as Paul Carr, late forties or early fifties, with a full head of thick black hair and matching eyebrows. He has a kind, open face that makes me instantly warm to him.

“I’m so glad to meet you at last, Amelie,” he says, once he’s served the coffee. “I’m very sorry for your recent loss and of course, about your father. I’d seen him about a month before he passed away. I had no idea the end would come so swiftly. I was away on vacation at the time and I feel terrible that I wasn’t there to tell you about your father’s will. We searched for you extensively, and I had you listed as missing. But not one person came forward to say that they’d seen you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “If I’d known about you, and the house, I’d never have left.”

“And you managed on your own in London?”

My throat tightens. “I was lucky, I met some lovely people, they were like family to me.”

He smiles. “I’m glad you didn’t have to face any real hardship. Especially when your father provided so well for you.”

“He never told me he’d bought the house, so it was such a shock to know it was mine. I think I’ll probably end up selling it. I want to go to college to study law, and with the money from the house, I could hopefully do it next year.”