Woman Last Seen(67)

I married two men in an attempt not to be lonely, yet I have destroyed the intimacy between Mark and me, and I can never build intimacy with Daan. I am not who they think I am. I am just a version of her. They each have a version of me. The problem is not just that no one knows where I am. No one knows who I am.

I am lonelier than ever. My loneliness pulls me under. I close my eyes again. Allow my mind to shut down, my body to preserve energy. My sleep is broken. I keep jolting awake, scared by my dreams, horrified when I land in my reality. On the second or third time I wake up, I find there is a fresh bottle of iced tea. I glug it back gratefully. Fall back to sleep. The next time I wake is in the dead of night. The room is airless, the blackness drenches me, chokes me. Something is not right. Something else.

I sit up full of dread. I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I realize that I’m wearing a hood of some kind. It’s been taped around my neck, a fraction too tightly. I’m choking. I panic and take a deep breath which draws the fabric into my nostrils, I start to pant, shallow breaths are safest. I can’t see anything but he’s here. I know he is here in the room with me.

“Darling?” I daren’t use a name. I don’t want to inflame him. But the endearment infuriates. He stamps down on my hand. Holds his foot there, grinds harder, I think I hear a bone snap. I scream in agony, pain shoots through my body. He lifts his foot. I try to roll into a ball. He kicks me once, twice. Swift, punishing. It’s controlled. One man is huge, the other compact, both are strong. The kicking winds me, hurts like hell but I know either man could have broken ribs if they wanted to. “Please, please no,” I beg. Another swift choppy kick lands on my shoulder this time, as though I am a dog that’s got underfoot. But kicking a dog is unequivocally cruel. I’ve always believed only sadists mistreat animals.

“Please, Mark, Daan, think. Stop,” I beg. But he strides out of the room, bangs the door behind him.

What was that? Dear God, what have I done? What have I driven them to? How could either man have done that to me? I have started this, but the response is madness. I thought I was waiting it out, being humiliated, forced to think about my actions. Maybe choose. Maybe lose both. I don’t know. Now I see this is far, far more. Am I going to survive this? Will he kill me? Could either man kill me? I start to frantically pick at the gaffer tape around my neck that secures the hood. I pull off the hood and gasp at the air, taking in big gulps, recognizing breathing freely is a luxury. Even breathing the air in this rancid room. I scrabble toward the door, momentarily forgetting the chain, until it yanks me back, causing the shoulder that has just been kicked to burn with pain. My right hand is throbbing, my ribs bruised. “Let me go. Please let me go,” I beg. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Okay? Is that what you needed to hear? Well, of course I’m fucking sorry.”

No response. There are different kinds of silence, of quiet. Sometimes it is peaceful. Like a child sleeping, their steady breathing a comfort. The silence between two strangers is awkward as they flail around looking for common ground, small talk—but the silence between two lovers, content in one another’s company, reading newspapers, perhaps, or completing a crossword, that can be a space of calm and reassurance. The silence between a disappointed husband and wife midrow is the worst. That is the silence I have spent my life avoiding. The silence that is tense, angry, threatening. And now there is that exact silence between us. He is that side of the door with his typewriter and anger, and I’m this, with my chain and empty uncertainty.

I scream. I let out one long, continuous scream. I howl, a wounded animal. Then I wait, but nothing happens, there is no reaction. No one comes, even though the scream is real and loud and still burns in my throat. Where is everybody? Why are the streets so silent? I can’t look out of the window but am beginning to wonder whether I’m a long way off the ground, away from traffic and life because the silence is eerie; London streets are never empty. It grows dark again and no one comes back.

I sit motionless. My eyes straining to focus through the darkness. It’s hopeless. Time passes and I lean back against the wall. Then lie on the floor. More time. I roll into a ball. More time. My eyes flutter. My hands throb. The only sound is my growling stomach.



30


Oli


Saturday 21st March

Oli picks up his skateboard. “Are you going out?” his dad asks.

“Might as well, nothing else to do.” Oli sounds bored by the fact because appearing bored is habitual. Showing enthusiasm or having something particular to do, admitting that anything amuses or interests him, is not dope. Oli is not bored. How could he be bored right now? But he has worked out that it is best if he acts bored in front of his dad, because that is what’s expected of him. And any emotion bigger than boredom might trigger his dad. His dad is acting crazy. Storming about in and out of the house, so moody. He’s like a faulty firework—you just don’t know when he is going to catch or where he is going to blast and burn. Like when Oli showed him that meme and he went off it. He was only trying to lighten the mood. Okay, in retrospect, suggesting they watch Baptiste was a bit off, but all his mates had seen it, and he didn’t know it was a spin-off from a show The Missing.

Or maybe he did know. But what the hell.

When Oli made the mistake of saying he was pleased that exams have been canceled, his dad yelled, “How can you be thinking about that right now?” Pretending to be bored is safe. He just wants to help keep things calm, on track. Oli is worried about his dad. He’s worried about everything.