1

EVERY MORNING WAS the same. Samantha woke and for a split second imagined she was still at home, still free to stretch and rise and walk and wash, still at liberty to heed her instincts and indulge her whims. Then reality closed its cold hand around her and she remembered her captivity as one seamless procession of days that had begun just like this.

The air was chill. She could see her own breath as she exhaled. Each day the sun rose later and weaker and with it her strength too seemed to ebb. Along with hope in a future not bound by the rough blankets rubbing at her chin, the cobwebbed ceiling above her head, the tiny window, the table in the corner, the hard wooden chair, the threadbare rug, the wax-choked candlestick, the bucket, the crucifix, the chain trailing from the bed-post to her wrist beneath the covers. As she stirred, so its heavy links sounded their familiar reminder.

What was the date? Wednesday the thirtieth of September or Thursday the first of October? She had felt so confident at the outset in her ability to keep track of time, but now it was beginning to desert her. She could ask Felipe, but he would probably only shrug and pretend he did not know. As for Miguel, he would treat her to a long stare with those soulful eyes and mutter something she did not understand.

Not that it really mattered. Whatever the precise date, she knew she had been here for the best part of a month, confined in this tumbledown shepherd’s dwelling among the mountains. Which mountains was another question, but they were not so very far from the coast, to judge by how long it had taken to drive here from whatever port they had arrived in. Northern Spain, then, which the steadily falling temperature tended to confirm. Spain for certain. That much Miguel had volunteered to her at an early stage.

‘You are in España, señorita.’

‘Where? Where in Spain?’

‘You will stay here – with us – until we have what we want.’

‘What is it you want?’

He had not replied, then or later. Was it money? If so, surely her father would have paid long since. Or her mother would have forced him to. Either way, ransom would have been no problem. Yet a problem there undoubtedly was. For the first few days, they had been calm and relaxed. Then something changed. A man she had never seen before or since came at night. He was thin and softly spoken and smoked an expensive cigar. He had asked how she was. He had smiled. He had been a model of courtesy. Yet he had argued with Miguel. In Spanish, of course. She had not understood a word. Except her own name. Abberley. Repeated over and over again.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said you will stay here.’

‘How long?’

No answer. No answer to that or any other question. She stayed and they waited. Every day the same. Or almost. Occasionally a third man, José, would take Felipe’s place for forty-eight hours. But Felipe would always return. She became more anxious than usual in his absence. José stared at her with greedy eyes and touched her and muttered suggestions of which no translation was necessary. Miguel often went away for hours on end, but never when José was there. Perhaps he too felt anxious about what might happen if he did.

After the coming of the man in the night, Miguel had grown glum and thoughtful. He too stared at her a lot, but in pity, it seemed, not lust. As for Felipe, perhaps his ignorance was not feigned. They played chess and draughts and she helped him improve his English. He was cheerful and good-natured. But even he was being worn down by the uneventful march of days.

‘What do you mean to do with me?’

‘Do not worry. It will be OK.’

‘Has my father paid the ransom?’

‘I know nothing about ransom. I know nothing about anything.’

‘Why won’t you let me go?’

‘We play chess again, yes?’

‘I don’t want to play bloody chess!’

‘But you will, yes? Just for me.’

She raised her hands behind her, grasped the brass rails of the bed-head, and squeezed them tightly, wondering how long it would be before Felipe came in with her breakfast. He and Miguel were up. She could hear them yawning and coughing as they moved around. How she hated the weary familiarity of those sounds. If only she had realized in time what was happening. Her only chance to escape had been at the beginning, when Miguel had loomed above her as she lay in the garden. She could have screamed or run. He had a gun, of course, but now she thought he would not have used it. Maybe not, at all events. She could have refused to write that note to her parents or walk obediently to the car and climb into the boot. She could have … But she had been so frightened, so shocked, so bewildered by the sudden invasion of her life. And she had wanted so badly to stay alive.

Fear had been at its pitch during the first few hours and days. It was the fear of death and all the ways in which it might arrive: shooting, strangulation, suffocation. At night, she still dreamt of the endless drugged hours she had spent jolting and rolling in the darkness of the car-boot, the hours of motion on land and sea of which she had only been dimly aware. All they had led to was the squalor and isolation of this room they kept her in, and the one beyond, and the yard outside they sometimes let her walk in, and the empty hillside, and the whitewashed wall of the barn against which she had stood to be photographed, clutching the International Herald Tribune for 4 September.

Even 4 September seemed an age ago now, part of a deluded past when she had believed her abduction was a simple crime committed for gain, when she had thought her release was imminent, her restoration to the pampered life she had led merely a matter of time and money. She knew better now. Or worse.

‘When are you going to let me go, Miguel?’

‘When we are told to.’

‘Have you spoken to my father?’

‘You ask too many questions, señorita.’

‘He’d pay you well to release me.’

‘It is too late for that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean … We wait as long as we have to.’

‘But how long?’

Always the same circular conversation, leading, through every variation, back to where she had started and seemed likely to remain. She sat up in bed, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and blew irritably at a hanging strand of her hair. It was filthy, she knew, and quite possibly lousy. As were her clothes. As was her whole body. When she thought of the baths she had wallowed in at home, the scented soaps and thick towels, the perfumes and the lotions, she wanted to cry. At least here there was no mirror to show her what she looked like. Though the lack of one gave her little comfort as she glanced at her arms and noticed the fresh red flea-bites of the night. Why was she still here? Why had her father not yet bought or won her freedom?

‘What are you waiting for?’ she murmured, imagining his face set in a stubborn frown. ‘Get me out of this. Please. For God’s sake. I don’t think I can stand much more. What are you waiting for, Dad? What is it?’

Abruptly, the door opened and Felipe advanced into the room, carrying a tray. He smiled at her and said, ‘Buenos días, señorita,’ as blithely as if he were bringing breakfast to her room in a Costa del Sol hotel. He set the tray down on the table and she identified the predictable ingredients: coffee in a bowl and a hunk of bread smeared with honey.

‘Is there any news, Felipe?’

‘Bilbao won last night.’

‘What?’

‘El fútbol.’ He grinned.

‘About me!’

‘Ah!’ He scratched his stubbly chin. ‘Lo siento. There is no news about you.’

‘How much longer is it going to be?’

‘I do not know.’

‘You must have some idea.’ Ignoring her, he turned away. ‘What’s the date today, Felipe? The thirtieth of September or the first of October?’ He looked at her and shrugged. ‘Why won’t you tell me? It’s not much to ask.’

‘La fecha? I do not know.’

‘It’s one or the other, isn’t it? Which?’ There was a hint of weakness in his expression. She decided to persist. ‘Please, Felipe. Just the date.’

He moved to the bedside and leant over her. She caught a gust of cigarettes and stale garlic on his breath. ‘You will say nothing to Miguel?’ he whispered.

‘Nothing. You have my word.’

He deliberated a moment longer, then said: ‘Es el primero de octubre.’