Seven Days

‘Fine,’ Maggie said. This was so annoying. ‘Whatever.’

‘Maggie,’ her dad said. ‘I know it’s important to you to talk to your friends, and I know this is your house too, but you have to be prepared to compromise. I think maybe one and a half hours a night should be the maximum you spend on the phone. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable.’

‘Sure. Can we talk about it later, Dad? I need to leave.’

‘You want a lift?’

Maggie considered it for a second, then shook her head. ‘I can walk. I’m only going to Anne’s.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Are you back for dinner?’

‘Yeah. See you then.’

‘See you too, Fruitcake. Love you.’

Fruitcake. He’d called her that since she was a little girl. She kind of hated it, but she also knew that one day there’d be a last time he called her Fruitcake.

And she wasn’t sure she was ready for that day just yet.

2

Maggie’s Cousin Anne lived on the other side of the village. It was a short walk – no more than half a mile – which she had made many times. The road outside her house led to the village centre, but she turned off it after about a hundred yards and walked along a quiet residential street towards a small park. It was a short cut, of sorts, but the main reason she wanted to go through the park was so she could smoke a cigarette. A stream bordered one edge of the park; it was slow moving and full of litter and nobody – no adults, at least – ever bothered with it. It was the perfect place to hide while you smoked.

It was Kevin who had got her started; the first few times she’d coughed and spluttered and wondered how anyone got addicted to something so disgusting, but after a while she’d grown to quite enjoy it. There was something about the ritual that appealed to her – the flare of the match, the crackle of the paper when it lit, the rush of the nicotine – although what she really enjoyed was the feeling that she was doing something her parents didn’t know about. Something grown-up.

She felt in her bag for the cigarettes and matches and smiled as her fingers closed around them. She took one out and held it in her hand, unlit. She’d share one with Anne later. Anne smoked, too; she didn’t know yet that her younger cousin had taken it up. Maggie was looking forward to telling her.

She was also looking forward to what Anne had to say about Kevin. He was going to be devastated, Maggie already knew that. They’d been together nearly six months, and, a few weeks back he’d said how it seemed like a month or two, max.

Maybe that’s what it’ll be like for us, he said. The years will fly by.

Years? It was then that Maggie realized they were not in the same place when it came to their relationship. For her, it had been a bit of fun that had lasted six months because Kevin made it work. For him, it was something a lot more significant.

Have you ever thought about taking … she said, and hesitated, about like, maybe taking a break?

They were lying on her couch and he tensed.

What do you mean? Do you want to take a break?

No, she said. I was wondering if you want to. If you’ve had enough of me. I don’t want to. Of course not.

He relaxed, a little.

No, he said. I’ve never thought about that. The opposite, in fact. You know I love you, Maggie.

He had started telling her all the time that he loved her. She found it very irritating. She felt she had to reply in kind.

I know, she said. I know you do.

Do you love me?

You don’t need to ask, Maggie said. All of a sudden she didn’t want to say it. Before, it had felt like an imposition; now it felt like a lie.

Do you? he said. Do you love me, Mags?

He’d also started calling her Mags. That was what her dad called her, when he wasn’t calling her Fruitcake. It wasn’t for Kevin.

Maybe for someone else, later, but not for Kevin.

Mags? he said. What’s wrong?

She pushed him away and stood up. Nothing. I’m getting my period. I’m going to get some water.

That had been his reaction to a vague question about taking a break. She dreaded to think what it would be when she told him she wanted to break up. Anne would have some advice.

The realization that a car had pulled up beside her broke her reverie. She started, and dropped her cigarette. She crushed it under her foot, in case it was someone who knew her parents, although if it was, it was probably too late. They’d have seen it in her hand as they stopped next to her.

The car was dark blue and nondescript. A Ford or something. Maybe a Volkswagen. Nothing too fancy, either way. She didn’t recognize it, thankfully. She glanced inside. There was a man behind the wheel, a road atlas in his hands. He was reaching for some glasses and peering at the page. He turned to look at her and smiled. He was about fifty and reminded her of a geography teacher.

No one she knew. She took her foot off the cigarette. No need to worry about that now.

The man looked at the panel by the gearstick and selected a button, his gestures very deliberate, as though new to the technology and needing to think about what he was doing. The passenger-side window rolled down.

‘Sorry,’ he said. He had a quiet, soft voice and a worried expression. She felt a little sorry for him. ‘I’m a bit lost, I’m afraid. Do you know where Ackers Lane is? Is it near here?’

It was on the other side of the park, but to get there by car you had to go through the village.

‘You’ll have to turn around,’ Maggie said. ‘When you get to the main road, turn right, and then right again at the traffic lights. I think it’s second – or maybe third – left after that. Ackers Lane is about half a mile down there.’

‘What’s the name of the road I turn into?’ he said.

‘I’m not sure,’ Maggie replied.

‘And you said it’s second left?’

‘Maybe third.’

‘OK,’ the man said. ‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘Sorry to bother you. It’s a friend of my mother’s. She’s very frail and she had a fall. I need to get to her as soon as I can.’

‘That’s fine,’ Maggie said. ‘No problem. And good luck.’

The man shook his head. ‘Dash it,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t quite remember what you said. Was it left on the main road?’

‘Right,’ Maggie said. ‘Then right again at the lights.’

‘I thought it was second left? Or third?’

‘That’s after you go right at the lights.’ It was obvious from the man’s blank expression that he wasn’t following her. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s easy. Let’s start again.’

He held up the road atlas. ‘Would you mind showing me on the map?’

‘Of course,’ Maggie said. ‘Pass it over.’

The man unbuckled and twisted in his chair so he could pass the atlas over the passenger seat. She noticed that he held it in his right hand, which was weird, since his left hand was closer to her.

His left hand which, with a sudden, unexpected speed, snaked out and grabbed her wrist and yanked her towards the window.

Then he dropped the atlas, and she saw the syringe in his hand, and felt the prick of the needle in her arm. She just had time to read the front page of the atlas and think it was odd that he had a map of Cornwall when he was in Stockton Heath, and then everything went dark.

3

Her first thought was that she had a hangover. She recognized the sensation – throbbing temples, dry mouth, disorientation – from the time that she and Chrissie had drunk a bottle of cheap white cider in the park, and then, somehow, made their way to Chrissie’s house and passed out in her bedroom. Maggie had woken when it was still dark out and thought What happened? before the memories of the cider and the park and the two boys that had bought it for them came slowly back.

This was different, though. This time the memories that surfaced were not of cider and boys and the park.

They were of a car, and a man asking for directions and a syringe.

Holy shit.

Her eyes flew open.

She was looking at a low ceiling, covered in some kind of dark carpet tile.

A ceiling she did not recognize.

The dryness in her mouth intensified and her stomach tightened. Her pulse sped up and pounded in her neck. She sat up too quickly and felt suddenly dizzy; for a moment she thought she was going to pass out, but then her head cleared and she saw where she was.

She was on a narrow, thin mattress in a room lit by a dim lamp on a table by the bed. The room was small; the ends of the mattress were against the walls. There was an area about twice the size of the mattress covered in a brown carpet. In one corner were two blue, plastic buckets, a pink bowl with a jug inside it, and a tall wooden, barrel.

What the fuck were they there for? Maggie stared at them, aware that, in the back of her mind, she knew exactly what they were. She just didn’t want to face it.

They were the toilet, sink and bath.

She looked away. In the other corner was a door. Beside it was a box that looked like it contained a towel and possibly some clothes.

And that was it. Other than that, the room was empty.

It was also windowless, which explained the dank, musty smell.

Maggie folded her arms protectively. She was still clothed, still wearing the grey jeans and Gap hoodie she’d left the house in.

But there was something missing. She glanced at her feet. Her blue Doc Martens had been removed.

Which meant someone – the man – had touched her while she was unconscious.

Her stomach heaved and she tasted bile in her mouth. She fought the urge to be sick, but she retched again and realized she was not going to be able to stop it. She staggered to the pink bowl and leaned over it and threw up, over and over, until her stomach was empty.

Then she sat back on the mattress. The room was silent and empty, unchanged apart from the sour smell of vomit that cut through the stale air.

‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Hello?’

The words seemed to vanish, swallowed up by the walls. There were no echoes, no reverberations, no indications that the sound of her voice had left the room.

She looked at the door and got to her feet. There was some explanation for this. Maybe she’d fallen ill, or been hit by a car and the man who looked like her geography teacher had brought her here to keep her safe, unaware of her name or address. He was probably upstairs – she was sure the room was underground – waiting for her to wake up so he could take her home.

If that was the case – and it had to be, it simply had to be, because the alternative was too awful to contemplate, which was why she was ignoring it and pretending that there was an innocent explanation here – if that was the case then the door would be unlocked and would open when she tried it and she would walk up the stairs and in an hour or so she’d be at home with her mum and dad, sitting with them on the sofa and never, never leaving them again.

She took the few steps – three, she counted – to the door and reached out. The silver metal handle was cold.

And it did not move. She tried it a few times, each time with more and more force, but it was pointless.

She was in a locked room.

The thought did not quite register.

She was in a locked room.

She was – the word forced itself into her consciousness for the first time – a prisoner.

She reached in her pocket for her cigarettes. She had a sudden need for the rush of nicotine, of something familiar.

They were gone.

She sat heavily on the mattress. Despite the carpet, the floor was cold on her feet and she looked for her boots, but they were gone. Clearly the man did not think she would have much use for them here.

Her boots had been taken off and the door was locked and there was a bucket for a toilet and a bowl for a sink and a barrel for a bath, which meant that the man who looked like her geography teacher – the man who had, she now understood, kidnapped her – intended to keep her here for a very long time.

Forever, she thought. He wants me here forever. He can’t let me go because then I’d tell people what he did and he’d be in trouble. So he has to keep me here.

She pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest. She looked around the room, taking in the brown carpet that covered the floor and ran up the walls and over the ceiling, the locked door and the lumpy mattress lit by the weak yellow light pooling out from the one lamp by the bed.

And she understood something else.

He had prepared the room for this purpose. He had a plan.

And she was now part of it.

Sunday, 17 June 2018

Six Days to Go

1

She crossed off another day.

S Su M Tu W Th F 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Six days to go until his birthday. She watched him stack his Duplo blocks into a tower, then knock it down, giggle, and build it again. God, his world was so small.

A low ceiling, four carpeted walls – she hated that carpet, hated its dust and smell and drab brown colour, and she had vowed that when she was out of here she was going to have a house with clean, wooden floors in every room – the sink-bowl and toilet-bucket and barrel-bath and a door he had never been through.

That was it. That was Max’s world. He didn’t even understand what the door was for. As far as he knew, it was for the man to come in and out of. He had no idea he could use it, had no experience of all the things that were out there.

No experience of fields and ponds and schools and roads and houses and shops. All he had was what she had told him. She’d asked for books and photos but the man had told her there was no point. He was too young to understand.

And he’ll be gone when he’s three.

The man hadn’t said that, but he didn’t need to. It was implicit in his refusal. He rarely gave her anything. It was only after weeks of begging when Seb was born that he’d brought a box of Lego, the large ones for little kids. Duplo, they were called. There weren’t many, but Max – as Seb had – loved them. He played with them for hours, arranging them into towers and arches and walls. Once he had made a rectangle filled with odd-shaped objects and Maggie had asked him what it was.

Our house, he replied. Look. That’s the bath. That’s you and me. That’s the bed.

She had to bite back the tears. Other kids were building space rockets or gardens or trains. Max was building the only thing he knew.

This shitty prison.

And so she took him places in his imagination, described the blue of the sea by pointing to his blue socks, but told him the sea was a different blue, a brilliant blue, a beautiful shining blue, words that he didn’t understand but which reminded her of the world out there, of what she too was missing. She explained the coolness of the breeze by moistening his forehead and blowing on it, and the warmth of the sun by rubbing her hands until they were hot and placing them on his chest. All of it was a pale imitation of the real thing, but it was all she had.

She didn’t stop there; she told stories of magical palaces and boats and rivers where Max and she had wild adventures. Along the way they met heroic people with the names Grandpa Martin and Grandma Sandra and Uncle James and Aunty Anne and Chrissie and Fern. She told him how Chrissie was brave and loyal but could be grumpy and Fern was funny and clever but left things wherever she went. She told him how Uncle James was kind of grumpy but sweet and well-meaning, and how Aunty Anne was wise and Grandpa and Grandma were kind and loving, and how they loved him in particular. The stories ended with huge parties where there was every kind of food and all the toys a boy could wish for. She wondered what Max thought chocolate and jelly beans and burgers and milkshakes tasted like. She wondered whether he would ever find out.

She sat on the mattress and watched him play with the Duplo. Behind him, by the door, were two plates. Max had left half of the mashed potato and baked beans the man had brought; Maggie had barely touched hers.

‘OK, Max,’ she said. ‘Time for our exercises.’

She was worried he didn’t get enough activity – of course he didn’t, living in a cell – so for the last year or so she had been doing exercises with him. They began with jogging on the spot – he found that amusing – and then they dropped to the floor and did press-ups and sit-ups. Max’s press-ups mainly consisted of him raising his bottom in the air and then collapsing to the floor, but it was something. Maggie had found that, as the months went by, she could do more and more of them; now it was no trouble to do fifty at a stretch. She also did tricep dips and planks; she could hold the plank for over four minutes.

Maggie took off her T-shirt and shorts – it was always uncomfortably hot in the room, the air still and cloying; the only time there was any fresh air was when the man came and cooler air gusted in through the open door – and knelt on the floor. She dropped into the press-up position and did twenty press-ups, then held herself on her elbows.

‘OK, Max,’ she said. ‘Come and join me.’

Max toddled over. He was in a pair of dirty underpants – she tried to keep them clean, but it was hard with only soap and cold water – and lay on his belly next to her. On the back of the underpants was a Superman logo she’d drawn once, after telling him the story of how Superman had come from the planet Krypton to save people on Earth from their own folly. As she recounted the story she had been gripped by a powerful feeling that Superman would burst into the room and rescue them at any moment. He hadn’t, but for days she had been left with a vague sensation of hope.

Max levered himself up into the plank position. He was still some way off a four-minute plank. Once he had managed about twenty seconds, but this time it was closer to four seconds before his buttocks started to quiver with the effort. After a few more seconds his hips slowly lowered to the carpet.

‘Watch, Mummy,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘Watch what I can do.’

He started to wiggle his legs and arms and shake his head from side to side.

‘Wow,’ she said. She paused while she searched for an appropriate description of his gyrations. ‘You’re break-dancing!’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m being a snake. A snake doing yoga.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Of course.’ For a while they’d done some stretches she remembered from PE and she’d told him they were doing yoga, and it had obviously stuck with him.

He wiggled around for a while, a look of triumph on his face, then stood up and ran to Maggie. He jumped on her back and pressed his cheek to her skin.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Ride the horsey!’

Maggie twisted and bucked in an attempt to throw him off. It was a game they had played since he was very small. She had done it with Seb and Leo, but they had not enjoyed it nearly as much as Max. He shrieked with pleasure, laughing uncontrollably. It was a strange thing; despite the circumstances, he was a very happy child. Of course, he had no sense that he was missing out on anything, because he knew no different. In some ways it was the perfect set-up for a toddler: unfettered access to his mum and a guarantee of her undivided attention. Nonetheless, Seb and Leo had not been as happy as Max was. Seb was quiet, and prone to outbursts of crying. He’d been like that ever since he was born, sleeping fitfully and whimpering in his crib during the day. Leo was more like Max, but had a wild temper. From time to time, and without apparent reason, he would have screaming fits during which he was totally unreachable. He would hit her, and, if she tried to hold him, claw at her cheeks.

She had put it down to living in a tiny room, but then Max came along, and she wondered whether it was simply the way Seb and Leo were. Nature, not nurture. After all, if it was all down to circumstances, they should all have been the same – this was the perfect way to test. In normal life there were other things that could influence a child’s development, but not here. This was like a cruel experiment designed to examine how three children in the exact same environment turned out differently.

And Max, unlike the brothers he would never meet, was as happy as they came. Perhaps Seb and Leo got it from their dad – she hated even thinking of him as their father, but it was true, at least biologically – and Max took after someone else. He certainly had a look of her brother, the same fair hair and innocent, questioning blue eyes, the same goofy smile and easy laugh.

That was one of the things she regretted most, when she looked at her third son: that he would never meet his uncle, and that her brother, who had been a constant, daily irritation through her unfairly truncated teenage years, would never get to be the mentor to his nephew that he would, in her imagination, have become.

James would have loved him. He would have loved all three of her sons, with the same fierce, painful love that she did.

But Max was the only one she had left. He was the only one James would ever be able to love, and all she wanted in the entire universe was to save him so he could meet his uncle and have the life he deserved.

And she was going to.

Somehow.

2

When she had successfully bucked him off her back enough times to satisfy him, Maggie sat cross-legged on the floor. Max was on her lap, his legs around her waist. She had her hands on his hips; he was holding her forearms, running his fingers over the soft, fair hairs that grew there. They were new sometime in the last ten years; she didn’t know when they had started to grow, but she had not had them when she was fifteen.

A lot else had changed, too. Some of it – the hair on her forearms, the ache in her knees – were the result of time passing. Other stuff – the sallow skin, persistent cough, acne on her forehead – were from the lack of light and movement and good food. Others still – the heavier breasts, wider hips – were from the pregnancies.

It was one of the strangest features of her imprisonment. Around her, nothing had changed. Her life was frozen. She had not finished school – not even got her GCSEs – not gone to university, not got a job and a house and a car and a husband. All those things were impossibly distant for her, the achievements and waypoints of the life she had been denied.