The Prisoner(7)

For the first time, I’m glad my parents aren’t alive. I’d hate for them to be worried about me, to not know where I am. My throat swells at the thought of Papa seeing what I’ve become, a prisoner in a pitch-black room. Three weeks ago, my life was perfect. I had an apartment, a job, friends. Friends. A rush of tears makes me almost choke. I fight against it, taking deep, shaky breaths. If I’m to survive here, I have to block out the last few days. I try to find a positive, something to make me not give up, not lie here and weep. Carolyn. I still have Carolyn.

I raise a hand, trace the wall with my fingers. I’m still confused about why she didn’t come to Ned’s house after the press interview, demanding to see me. I’d been so sure she would, so sure she’d understood the position I was in. I don’t believe you! she’d shouted, pointing at her phone. But maybe she had changed her mind, believed the narrative spun by Ned.

It’s another reason why I need to get out of here, and I will escape. I need to explain to Carolyn why I did what I did. That I only had a moment to decide. That if I could turn the clock back, I would. Because then none of this would have happened.

I hear the key turn in the lock and my heart starts racing again. I lie very still as he crosses the room toward me. He puts something on the floor, there’s a scrape of something else, and then he leaves without a word.

I sit up, feel around with my hand, find a tray, feel a little bit more, and find what feels like a long bread roll and an apple. This is a new tray—I tap around the floor with my hand—the old one with the porridge bowl is gone. That must have been the scrape that I heard, him picking it up. I smell tomato and pause. I like tomato but I don’t really want to eat the sandwich without knowing what’s inside. I’m about to start deconstructing it to try and work out its contents when I realize that if I take my tray to the bathroom, I’ll be able to see what’s on it.

I move from my mattress and crawl along the floor, pushing the tray in front of me. I open the bathroom door, maneuver the tray around it, push it inside. Standing, I step into the bathroom and shuffle around to face the door; on the tiny floor space, there’s barely enough room for both the tray and my feet. I pull the door closed, slide the bolt into place, and the light comes on. I crouch down clumsily and pick up the bread roll, which is sitting on a sheet of white kitchen paper. The bread is brown, the filling cheese and tomato, and it looks freshly made.

The apple is green and there’s also a white plastic cup. And, set along the edge of the tray, a small bar of chocolate.

My spirits lift at the sight of the chocolate. It seems a kind gesture, an effort to give me something nice. But it could be a trap, a ploy to win me over. I harden my resolve. They have abducted me, and I am their prisoner. The chocolate doesn’t change anything.





CHAPTER NINE


PRESENT

Another meal is brought, by the same man or a different one, it’s hard to tell when I can only sense him, not see him.

“Thank you,” I say. But he doesn’t answer.

I’m not sure if my last meal—the cheese and tomato sandwich—was lunch or dinner. I ended up pushing the tray back to my corner and ate sitting on my mattress, because I’d rather eat in the dark than sitting on a toilet. I fell asleep soon after and when I woke, it seemed like a long time had passed. So maybe I’ve slept through the night.

I pull the tray toward me, feel with my right hand. There’s a bowl. I lift it to my nose; it smells like porridge. I dip my finger in to taste; it is porridge. So, unless they intend to feed us porridge in the evening as well as in the morning, this is probably day two. I’ll need to keep track of the days; Ned and I were taken in the early hours of Saturday, the seventeenth of August, so today is Sunday the eighteenth.

I pause, wondering if I should push the tray to the bathroom to check what they’ve brought me. But porridge is porridge. I feel around the tray and find a banana; did I miss one yesterday? I search some more and find a wrap of paper, about two inches long. I pick it up, press it with my fingers, and feel tiny crystals. Sugar? I tear the top off, shake the contents into the palm of my hand, dip a finger in, raise it to my mouth. It’s sugar, and the taste and slightly larger crystals tell me that it’s brown. Did I miss this too yesterday? I find the bowl, tip in the sugar, find the spoon, stir it in.

I eat the porridge, carry my cup to the bathroom, and drink some water, grateful for the small change of scene, the chance to be somewhere other than the suffocating darkness of the main room. Stripping off my pajamas, I lather soap into my hands, wash my body, wet a corner of the towel to rinse the suds from my skin, then dry myself with the rest of it. Feeling clean and refreshed, I put my pajamas back on, wishing I could wash them too, they’re dirty from when I crawled around the floor. But I have nothing to change into. I comb my fingers through my hair, glad that it’s shorter now, just to my shoulders, brush my teeth, then pull down the toilet seat and sit.

My mind wants to go to the past again, but I distract myself by watching my hands, studying my fingers as they bend and stretch. Suddenly, the room is plunged into darkness. I jump to my feet, my heart racing, waiting for the next threat. But nothing happens. There’s no sound of the other door opening. Of thumps on this one.

With shaking hands, I feel for the lock and pull it back. Nothing happens. I slowly push it across again, and after a brief pause the light comes on.