Just My Luck(86)

‘I’m not her babysitter,’ Ridley mutters sulkily.

But I am. His response slaps me. Because in fact, I am more than that. I am her mother, not even a substitute. I should have been here. Watching over her. Taking care of her. Not with Toma. At that second my phone buzzes. I think it’s going to be a message from Toma, that I’ve somehow conjured him up by thinking of him. I glance at my screen. At first I don’t understand what I am looking at. But then I do.

It is a photo of Emily. I can’t see much of her face, there is gaffa tape wrapped around her eyes and mouth, leaving just her nose free. Her neat little nose is slimy. Tears, snot. Her hands are tied behind her back, her legs are tied at the ankles, her long coltish legs look bruised, battered. She’s still wearing her purple leotard. It clings to her body and I am beaten by the thought of her vulnerability. ‘We need to call the police,’ I say, my voice barely a whisper.

As the words leave my mouth, another message comes through, Don’t involve the police or we will hurt her. There’s an audio clip. I play it.

‘Mum, Mum, please,’ she’s sobbing, gasping. ‘Do what they say. I’m frightened, Mum, please.’ Then there’s the sound of a scuffle. Then nothing. It goes dead.





36


Emily


I can’t see anything! I can’t see anything so everything I feel, smell and hear is magnified and terrifying. I feel a man’s rigid grip around my forearm. It’s too tight. He’s hurting me. I can smell his sour breath. I freeze. Recoil. You think your instinct is going to be to kick and fight. But I don’t. I can’t. How can I, blindfolded and bound? How can I escape? Then another man roughly picks up my legs and I have no chance. I know I have no chance. They carry me between them, as easily as a bag of shopping.

Are they going to kill me?

They are going to kill me.

The second man’s hands on my bare legs is like a slap and suddenly I am flinching, writhing but the more I struggle the tighter he grips. I’m not thinking straight. A vision of Logan and Ridley as small boys poking caterpillars with tiny sticks for no other reason than the amusement of watching them loop and coil, crashes into my head. They were not usually cruel boys, but I always hated it when they did that. It was nasty. The prodding could hurt the caterpillar, injure it, kill it. I wanted to see it left alone to become a butterfly. Just let it become a fucking butterfly!

I force myself to go limp even though every instinct is screaming to do the opposite because I think they might want me to struggle. For me to writhe and wriggle in their hands. For my leotard to ride up my backside. For them to get to feel my bare thighs, arms and the thin silkiness of my costume, which only just covers the rest of my body. They are talking to each other. Foreign voices, speaking a language I don’t recognise, which makes it harder for me to work out how many there are. There are two carrying me and there’s another man; he has the tone of someone speaking on a phone, sometimes he seems to bark out orders at the two carrying me. The boss. The worst one. They are going to kill me.

They throw me into the back of a van. I land on my shoulder, I’m winded and sore everywhere, but the pain I’m feeling doesn’t frighten me as much as the pain I’m anticipating. The metal doors slam behind me. Then I hear them climb into the front. They set off at speed.

Because I’m tied up and there are no seats, let alone seat belts, I roll around the floor of the van every time it goes around a corner. I bang my head, my back, my knee. Eventually I orientate myself enough to sit up, I crawl backwards on my bottom, shuffle into a corner. But then I consider a van’s layout; by pushing myself into a corner, I am either moving closer to the seats they must be sat in, or the door. I think of leaning against the door and somehow opening it, it swinging open and me falling onto the road. Would that be better? Probably not at this speed but I don’t know. I might die but there are fates worse than death, aren’t there? Mum would say not. She always says you can come back from everything but that. So I lie flat again and get thrown from one side of the van to the other.

I imagine the men looking at me, smirking at my struggle, my lack of direction or coordination. The thought of them looking at me makes me want to heave again. I smell of my own vomit from earlier. I don’t feel drunk anymore. I wish I did because maybe that would numb the fear, but my terror has punched the alcohol out of my system. I wish I was wearing more than I am. The thought of the leotard, which leaves little to the imagination, horrifies me. What are they going to do to me? I wish I had changed into the clothes Mum made me bring to the party. I think of the trainers, the trackies behind the bar. I want to cry. I think of my mum and I do cry. I sob for the whole journey, panting for breath. And although my nose isn’t obstructed, I feel certain I am going to suffocate. I can’t get enough air. My gasps are shallow, strained.

After some time the van comes to a sudden stop. The back is opened again, and I am pulled out. This time just one man carries me. He throws me over his shoulder. I can tell he is taller than my dad, broader. It’s raining. I can smell trees and wet grass but it doesn’t smell fresh and spring-like. The ground smells of decay. Dirt.

Death.





37


Lexi


I freeze for a moment. Never, ever so completely destroyed with fear. I vainly try to find the number from where the message just came from, but of course it’s withheld – kidnappers are hardly likely to give out their contact details. I look at Jake and see if he can make any sense of this. If he can do anything about this. But what? I feel I’ve just been thrown off a high-speed train. What’s going on? Jake’s face mirrors my own: confusion, terror. I start to hit the numbers 999 on my phone. Before I manage to touch the nine for a third time, Jake snatches the phone out of my hand. ‘What are you doing?’ he demands angrily.