Where the Missing Go(82)

I hold the first pill in my mouth and swallow. I start choking, tears coming to my eyes. I cough once, harshly, then hiccup it up again, holding it in my mouth.

His eyes are wide, showing the whites. ‘I told you not to try anything. If you try to—’

I shake my head. Tears are starting to spill down Sophie’s cheeks, following the track of the blood.

‘I’m not trying anything. I can’t swallow it down.’

‘Do it. Try again.’

So I do. But the same thing happens, I can’t even get the pill down my throat; I hunch forward, cough it up again, my body racked. He’s agitated now, shifting on his feet.

‘It’s OK. It’s OK.’ Keep him calm. ‘I just need some water.’

‘Water?’

‘I’m serious.’ I need some water. If he’s distracted, if he leaves the room …

But he looks from me to Sophie, uncertain. She looks back, her eyes big, and he decides. ‘So get some.’ She doesn’t move for a second. ‘Get. A bottle. Of water. From the pile.’

‘I can get it,’ I say.

‘Stay where you are.’ He points the blade back at me. How strong is he? But I can’t risk anything, not while he’s so close to my daughter.

She steps back through the door slowly, and disappears from my view. From the other room, there’s a dull thud, like something was knocked over. She’ll be struggling, with her hands bound.

‘Hurry up!’ he says, his voice raised. But she’s already back now, something crooked in her arms. One of those big bottles of water, plastic. How long does he plan to have her here? It’s sliding through her arms, like she’s going to drop it again.

Impatiently, he wrests it off her and walks over to me. I tense, bracing myself against the wall, one foot against the cool bricks, and he stretches out an arm to hand me the bottle. ‘Take it.’ He’s too close now; he wants to watch what I’m doing. ‘No tricks. No pills down your sleeve, or on the floor.’ His eyes are intent, almost hungry.

This can’t happen. But it is, I can’t stop it.

I take the bottle off him, using two hands, finding it awkward with the pills to hold too. Everything seems to be unfolding in slow motion. It’s going to happen.

He’s so near I can smell his aftershave, woody, mixed with the smell of the dirt floor. I feel the weight of the water bottle in my hands. I see Sophie, behind him, her eyes intent on mine. I feel the chill in the damp air. The pressure behind the plastic, under my hand, and Sophie, her gaze not wavering. We’re doing what he wants. I see her gaze shift to the bottle in my hands, then back to meet my eyes.

And I do what he wants. I hold it against my body; position it just right; I turn the cap. The water bursts out, a white stream, spattering against his glasses; shaken after Sophie dropped it. He recoils, putting his hands up reflexively to wipe the lenses, only for a second, before he recovers.

But it’s enough, just enough, as I’ve already let the bottle fall and am throwing myself at the hand holding the knife, grappling for it, my whole weight on his arm, pulling him down with me, and now we’re both on the floor, his arm’s under me, my bodyweight on it. And suddenly I’ve got the knife, my nails digging into his skin, I’ve actually got it loose and in my hand, and I throw it, as far as I can, skittering across the floor away from us, but he’s strong, like I thought, of course he is, ‘You bitch, you stupid bitch,’ he says, and he flips me back under him, his glasses hanging half off, his expression contorted with fury, and he has got me.

I throw one arm up, my elbow connecting with something with a crunch; but he gets it down again, he’s so much stronger than me, pinning both my arms under his knees, and now his hands are on my throat, he’s crouching over me, his heaviness crushing me, his eyes blind with rage. I feel his fingers, hard and strong, all his force behind them. And now I see Sophie behind him, too close, she needs to get away, she’s trying to help, but her hands are still tied, I can hear her muffled screams, her face red under the silver tape; she’s trying to pull him away, her hands on one shoulder, slipping; she can’t grip properly, and he stops for a second and backhands her; he sends her flying back, down to the dirt.

I take one big heaving breath in while his hand’s off my throat, filling my roaring lungs, but I still can’t move, my legs kicking uselessly, trying to find purchase in the loose dirt surface. Then he’s back on me, both hands pressing, harder than before, his intent clear; and Sophie’s up again, further away now. But I can see, there’s nothing between her and the door, the path is clear, and yet she’s turned back, she’s scared, her eyes fixed on mine. I can’t form words, I try to tell her with my eyes, just go, but she’s not, she’s coming a step closer, the wrong way, she’s got to get out of her, before he realises what’s happening and I’m so afraid for her, go go go.

And then she decides, I can see it in her face, she’s nodding, her face a grimace under the tape, and she’s unsteady from the blow, but she’s moving now, backing away from us. His fingers are still tighter now, around my throat, he’s silent and calm above me: he’s going to do this, just like he did it to Nancy, and my vision is narrowing, going dark round the edges. And I’m so scared but I’m singing inside too, because she’s gone, I can’t see her now, as the blood drums louder in my ears. If it gets her away, she can go, she’ll be free.