Kylie
I slept last night. I didn’t expect to but the blackness swallowed me. I woke as the morning sunlight crept under the boarded window. I strain my eyes and look around the room for the millionth time. Waiting for something new to jump out at me, something that will help me get out of here. What? I’m not sure. It’s not as though a trapdoor is suddenly going to appear. I’ve checked every link of the chain to see if there is a loose one, there isn’t. The zip ties that bind my hand to the chain have chafed the skin on my wrist, but no matter how much friction I create, they are unchanged, immovable. I’ve scoured the room for a nail or a sharp edge, something I could use to wear away at the plastic, but there’s nothing. The place is immaculate, bare, barren. Other than the water bottle, which is almost empty now. And the typewritten notes.
As the morning passes, I am forced into using the bucket, and the smell of my own pee now lingers in the room. It’s oddly not too disgusting because it is at least human and familiar when everything else is sterile and strange. Although I imagine I will feel differently when I need to do more than wee. Waves of horror and panic slosh through me, leaving me feeling helpless and lost as I wonder how long I might be locked up here for. As I consider being here might not be the worst thing that could happen to me. What is he planning to do to me? I swallow back tears. I try to think about real, physical things, not allow my imagination and fear to take control.
I consider the emptiness of the room. It is not usual. Spare rooms in most homes are stuffed with boxes of old toys or paperwork, unused exercise machines, the ghosts of hobbies—taken up with enthusiasm but not sustained. This room is nothing like that. And the rooms people are kept captive in on TV—on the occasional newspaper report about a real-life example of someone horrendously unlucky—always reveal a squalid, filthy place. Abductors normally live chaotically; the broken and spoiled property reflecting the ravaged lives of damaged, dangerous people.
The empty sterility of this room suggests something much more icily resolute. It has been deliberately cleared, carefully prepared for the purpose of keeping someone captive. My captor has not taken me on a whim. The thought is chilling. I’ve always believed that anything that has been planned has more chance of success than something that is impetuous. Have I been kidnapped? Does someone think Daan is wealthy enough to pay a ransom for my return? My heartbeat speeds up again. My fingers start to shake once more. I force myself to take a deep breath. I have to stay calm and focused. I’m practiced at remaining levelheaded and in the moment. Panicking won’t help.
I’ve been trying to remember how I got here. It’s tricky to concentrate because my head still aches and I’m beginning to feel the effects of not eating since Monday morning but it’s important, so I focus. I remember Monday, taking Seb to school. We walked under a cloud. I was thinking about the row with Mark, what had been said, what was left unsaid, what I couldn’t speak of. Seb is generally sunny-natured but I know he resents me walking him to school, so he is never at his best on those journeys. I suppose I have to stop that ritual soon.
I laugh cynically to myself, maybe the decision has been made for me? If I don’t get out of here, Seb will have to get himself to and from school no matter how much I want to cling to him. Who will Oli kick against, without his mother to nag him? My sad laugh turns to a definite wail. The thought of my sons left without me lacerates. I push them out of my head. I’ve trained myself to do that. I’m vulnerable if I think about them, so I mustn’t. I am the world’s best at compartmentalizing. What I need to think about now is how I got here, because it might help me understand where here is and how I can get out. I need to focus.
After I dropped off Seb—a quick squeeze of his shoulder, no chance at all of pulling him into a tight hug or planting a kiss on his head even though I longed to—I walked to the park. On the days my family and friends think I get the late train to Scotland, I meet Fiona and we have a quick coffee and a slice of cake at the café in the local park. I remember meeting her. She couldn’t stay long because she had an appointment at the hairdresser’s. Her hair is long, like mine—she was going for the big chop; she said she fancied wearing it chin length, but she was vacillating at the last minute about her decision. She showed me a picture on her phone of some Hollywood woman I half recognized but couldn’t put a name to, sporting a center-parted, wavy lob. I encouraged Fiona to go for it. “I love the soft bends below the cheekbones, it keeps things modern and breezy,” I commented. Or something like that. It seems unbelievable now that we were talking about hair texture and volume. I remember watching her walk away and feeling the usual twinge of sadness that we are not quite what she thinks we are. She thinks we talk about everything, share everything. As I watched her long narrow back disappear into the distance I felt the space between us. A gap I have created.
Try as I might, I can’t remember anything after that. Maybe someone attacked me from behind. The park is generally pretty empty at that time of morning; the dog walkers have been and gone, as have the school kids trailing into school, but it’s too early for the young mums with their designer buggies to be heading off to baby yoga or baby music classes. It is possible I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time when this psychopath struck, hit me, dragged me into his car. You do read about such things. I’m more aware than most that life is strange. Have I just been unlucky?
My gaze falls onto the water bottle, it is a supermarket own brand, sparkling. I then pick up the notes and reread them.
I am not the villain here.
Who will come for you? Your husband?
The words make me glance down at my left hand. How have I not noticed before? I’m not wearing any rings. I normally change my rings over just after I leave Fiona. Routine is very important in my world. Is it possible that I was attacked as I slipped off Mark’s ring before I put on Daan’s? Was I robbed? Daan’s rings are particularly valuable. I’m always vaguely nervous when I wear them. The engagement ring is three enormous diamonds jostling for space on a platinum band, the wedding ring is also studded with diamonds. Mark’s rings are more modest. A plain gold band for the wedding ring, a small solitaire for the engagement. I always wear my rings.
One set or the other.
The only time I have gone a day not wearing rings was the day I met Daan. My rings were at the jeweler’s, because the stone in my engagement ring had come loose and while it was being fixed the jeweler suggested he give them both a clean. They were supposed to be there for only an hour, but the day didn’t turn out as expected. I sometimes wonder how different my life might be if I’d been wearing my rings that day.
Something occurs to me. Understanding seeps in. It is like icy water being slowly poured over my head, shoulders, arms. It pools around my feet, engulfs me. I might drown.
I am left-handed. If I were restraining someone, anyone, I would chain them up by their dominant hand. Generally speaking, that is a person’s right hand, but I’ve been tied by my left. My captor knows I am left-handed. He knows I prefer to drink sparkling water over still. The realization is horrifying.
I was not robbed. I was not attacked by a random psychopath.
I know my captor.
Who will come for you? Your husband?
“Mark?” Silence. “Daan?” Nothing.
I feel sick. Weak. My body turns to liquid and shivers crawl through my soul like spiders disturbed, scampering from a dusty corner. I have thought about this moment a thousand times and every time I have thought about it, I’ve closed my eyes, batted away the inevitable shame, pain, horror. I knew it could not last forever, the life I have constructed.
The lives.
I have always thought I would get found out. Confronted. No matter how much care I took. I assumed one day one of them would find the spare phone, or trail me, that I’d lose track of my supposed whereabouts, slip up when giving an ordinary day-to-day account of what I’d been doing with myself.
I thought I might call out the wrong name during sex.
I imagined that when it happened, I would be screamed at, thrown out, exposed, vilified. I have always been so terrified that Mark would tell the boys, and that I would lose them completely because they’d be utterly disgusted by me. That they would feel betrayed. I have braced myself to face anger, recriminations, hurt. I suppose some part of my brain knew I would one day have to throw myself on their mercy, beg for forgiveness. Forgiveness that most likely would not come. I expected them to hurl abuse, ask me to leave, or to leave me. I didn’t think I’d win. Not really, not in the long term.
But I did not expect this.
I shake my head in disbelief. My mind is a mess, mushed and oozing thoughts when usually I am able to be clear and to divide my thoughts into discrete sections.
Could one of my husbands have brought me here?
Neither of my husbands is a violent man.
But they both like their own way.
I have seen both inwardly rage. Outwardly rage too, on rare occasions. Mark when he feels the boys have been mistreated or cheated, Daan because of work stuff. I have seen gritted teeth, clenched fists bang down on tables, fogs of fury, sprays of saliva shower, expletives spat out. But ultimately, both men regain control of their tempers before things ever go too far. I have never seen either strike flesh. Neither of them would do this to me—bind me, imprison me, practically starve me. Would they?
Honestly, do I know what either one is capable of? They have not known what I am capable of.
My body flashes with heat, shame or panic, as I begin to understand what this means. My sweat almost instantly freezes on my skin and I feel both hot and chilled to the bone, an expression that is bandied about but, for the first time in my life, I understand it. I feel so cold, I could be dead. It might be better if I were. I am exposed, stripped. The lack of food is making it difficult for me to think straight. My stomach grumbles and I drop my head into my hands. I wish he’d give me some food. He. Him. Which one?
Which one of my husbands brought me here?
Mark teases me about getting hangry, says that I behave worse than the boys if I am not fed regularly. Whenever we set off for a long walk or drive, he always asks if I have enough snacks with me, commenting that I’ll be a bitch when reading the map or that I’ll fall out with the satnav, if I am peckish. He sometimes grabs an extra bag of crisps out of the treat drawer and tosses them my way as I fasten my seatbelt. “Just in case.”
Daan teases me too. He identified that if I am hungry, I lose concentration, that I don’t operate at my optimal. Something he exploits—he will sometimes challenge me to a game of chess or cards when I’m waiting for supper. He does so as a joke, but also because he likes to win and doesn’t have any qualms about utilizing an advantage.
They are both right. Same me, different identifiable consequence. Anger. Lack of concentration. Both debilitating. I force myself to stay calm, to concentrate. I need to try to make a plan. I should appeal, say I am sorry. But which one am I talking to? Both men are so different. Not knowing who I am dealing with stops me knowing what to say. Who should I be? The sensible mum that solves everything, looks after everyone, always knows where the lost football shorts are? Or the sexy, cool, independent wife, who has to meet few demands or expectations other than to be interested, interesting, adorable and adoring? I don’t know how to start my apologies, my explanations. I don’t know who to be. I don’t know who I am.
Frustrated, frightened, I begin to shake so hard I think he might be able to hear my bones rattle. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I whisper through the door, through the walls. That is true. Whoever I am talking to, that much is true.
Rat-tat-tat. The typewriter keys spring into action. I listen as the paper is pulled from the machine, there’s shuffling as it is pushed under the door.
You are going to be.
The words punch me. My tears seem to dry instantly on my cheeks, no more fresh ones fall as terror surges through my body, great waves like passion but spiteful. So brutal, so raw. This is more than a threat; it is a promise. Of course. What did I expect? I never thought it could last forever. That would require infinite luck. I should have listened to my mother, who always told me I am not a lucky person. But I wanted my father to be right. He held the opposite view. He dismissed that acceptance of one’s lot with a bored impatience. He declared that you could make your own luck, and you should. All it took, he said, was courage, determination and resilience. My dad pleased himself. My mum pleased no one. My dad was untouchable. My mum was described by nosy neighbors and exasperated distant relatives as “touched.” An old-fashioned word for mentally ill.
So, I tried my father’s way. I tried to make my own luck.
I think my mother was right.
I suppose some people might believe I deserve to be locked up, and maybe I do because what I’ve done is a criminal offense, but not like this. Not chained, not starved.
Which one of them hates me so much he would do this to me?
Which one of them loves me so much?
“Take me to the police!” I yell. “I’ll face it. I’ll admit everything. I won’t tell them you brought me here.” I listen carefully, but the typewriter stays silent. All I hear is the sound of footsteps, someone walking away.
I am alone.