My eyes were closed, and my mind whirred with random memories. The gold watch lying on my dressing table back in Waterford and the expensive trinkets Jake had bought me over the years. I’d never been one for expensive jewellery or designer dresses. In fact, Jake hated that I always wore Bryony’s cheap necklace. I refused to take it off – one of my rare acts of rebellion – but aside from that, I always wore what he asked me to wear.
I opened my eyes, realising I must have passed out. From the little I could see outside the window, the sun was now low in the sky, but I had no idea what time it was. I raised my hand to my aching head, and felt a bump and dried blood. My arm was agony, and my tongue was coated with a fur-like scum. I pulled myself up from the floor, staggered to the sink and threw up.
‘Somebody help me,’ I spluttered through coughs and gasps.
I turned on the tap. A whoosh of clear water spurted out and I splashed my face and drank from my cupped hands. After running a finger over my teeth and smoothing my hair, I wiped my face on my arm.
‘I’m sorry!’ I shouted, as I turned off the tap. ‘I’m sorry for being me, Jake. Is that what you want me to say?’
I didn’t even know if he was there. I doubted he was.
The key, with the label I’d read before passing out, was on the floor by the door. I picked it up and looked again round the room. There were padlocks on the wooden boxes I’d stacked beneath the window. The key must fit one of them.
I padded over and looked more closely. I hadn’t noticed when I dragged them there, that there was writing carved into the wood. On the biggest box were the words Colleen Box 1.
My blood chilled as I took in that the smaller one was marked Box 2, and the third, no bigger than a shoebox, was marked Box 3. My name was scratched into all of them.
My stomach churned as I fingered the padlock on the first one.
What if there was an airborne poison inside? But, I rationalised, if Jake was going to kill me, he would save it until box 3, once he’d had his fun.
I sat down on the floor, turning the key over and over in my hands, inspecting it, my heart racing. The silence, apart from the drip-drip-drip of the tap, made me want to scream.
I clenched my fist around the key’s jagged edges. I had to get out of here. A surge of adrenalin shot me to my feet. I clambered onto the boxes once more, and craned my neck. I could just see through the window. There was a rough patch of flattened ground where the car had been earlier. So, Jake had gone.
It was hard to see much from ground level. I could only make out a thicket of trees in one direction, and no other buildings, but something about the layout seemed familiar. I tried to heave myself up further, feeling sure I could slither through the window if only my arm didn’t hurt. I tried again, but the pain was intolerable. I let out a yelp and crashed to the ground, the key falling from my hand and bouncing across the concrete floor.
I scrambled against the wall, fighting sick. Keep calm, Colleen, you’re going to be OK. But I was far from calm. My heart hammered against my ribs, and every part of me shook. ‘God help me,’ I said. Not that I believed in God. I wasn’t religious, despite Celia’s efforts to convince me.
I’d never liked boxes either, now I thought about it. My stepfather, Terry, had bought Bryony a jack-in-the-box for her third birthday, and she’d laughed and laughed whenever Jack’s garish face popped up. But I’d hated its painted-on features, and the way it shot out had made me jump to the point of tears.
I leaned over and grabbed the key. There was only one way to find out what was in the box, even if it meant playing Jake’s stupid little game. I lifted myself onto my knees, inserted the key into padlock number one, and turned it. When it sprang open, I fumbled it out of the way and lifted the lid.
There were several items inside, shrouded in white tissue paper.
I pulled them out one by one, hands trembling as I unwrapped them: a tin of beans, a pair of yellow rubber gloves, a floral apron, a tube of pale pink lip gloss, a pair of sheer hold-ups, a blue-and-white checked dress and a pair of black, high-heeled shoes in my size. At the bottom, a shoulder-length blonde wig lay like a dead animal.
I plucked out a sheet of paper, printed in large black letters.
If you want to get out of here alive, you will do as I say. Put on the clothes, shoes and the wig. I always preferred you blonde, Colleen. Then clean the room for me. I know how much you like cleaning. The beans will keep your strength up. I’ll be watching you.
I looked up, and for the first time noticed a small camera positioned high on the wall in the corner, moving slowly, a red light flashing.
‘Bastard!’ Tears of fury rose as I imagined him watching, laughing in that supercilious way of his. ‘You should be at work,’ I yelled. ‘Saving lives, not tormenting mine. Why the hell are you doing this?’
I lunged for the broom and attempted to knock the camera down, but couldn’t quite reach. Panting, I sagged against the wall. Sweat lay on my forehead, and my arm felt like it was on fire. I was trapped. I had no choice but to follow his instructions. God only knew what he would do if I didn’t.
‘Bastard!’ I grabbed the wig and jammed it on my head. It was cheap nylon – nothing like my real hair, apart from the colour – the same shade of blonde as Ella’s.
Turning my back on the camera, I struggled out of my T-shirt and jeans. Sobbing in pain, I pulled on the stockings and stepped into the dress. I couldn’t manage the zip. I dragged the lip gloss across my mouth, tied the apron round my waist and stuffed my feet in the shoes. ‘Happy now?’ I cried up at the camera. This was a whole new level of cruel, even for him.
Jake had called me his pretty little puppet. I’d hated the way he’d smiled as he said it, as though he could control me. Truth was, he could – at first. He’d been so handsome and charming – still was – and I’d fallen into his arms, wondering how I got so lucky.
I ignored the beans, which I’d never liked anyway – another of his sick jokes – and moved towards the sink and opened the cupboard door. There were so many cleaning products inside, my heart sank.
I filled the sink with water and cleaning fluid, then took the broom and began sweeping. A cloud of dust rose and I coughed, but refused to cry.
It took a long time with my injured arm and cut finger, but I scrubbed and cleaned the floor, the walls, the sink and the cupboards. Finally, the basement smelt fresh and every surface sparkled.
I sank onto the edge of the biggest box, sweating beneath the wig and stockings, and surveyed the room. Looking back at the camera, I wiped my damp forehead on the back of my hand. The lens stared at me blankly.
I stood up and pulled off the apron, throwing it to the floor, then ran the water once more and rinsed my face, glimpsing my tiny reflection in the tap. I looked a bit like Ella: the same pattern of freckles, the blonde wig. My anger drained away as I thought of her. I should have told her everything from the off, instead of being mean and judgemental. I couldn’t believe now I’d tried to kiss her husband, just to prove that all men were as awful as Jake. I hated myself for being so cruel. It wasn’t her fault my life was a mess. Maybe Anna and Reagan had set the ball rolling, but everything since was my fault – my fault I’d ended up in this concrete basement, alone and scared for my life.
Trembling with pain and exhaustion, I sat back on the box, eased off the shoes and rubbed my sore heels. I removed the bandage from my finger and examined the tip. It was pink and puckered, but no longer bleeding. It would be OK. Which was more than I could say for anything else.
Fear expanded, white and hot inside me. ‘Please find me, Ella,’ I whispered, tears sliding down my cheeks. If she found me, I would tell her I was sorry. That I would be the sister she dreamed of, just as I became the wife Jake wanted me to be.
As darkness fell, I flicked the light switch up and down. There was no bulb. Still wearing the dress, and using my hoodie as a makeshift blanket, I curled into a tight ball on the floor, a low moan of despair escaping, echoing around the basement.
Eventually I drifted off to sleep, slipping in and out of a nightmarish doze for hours, imagining Bryony was beside me, that I was holding her close, and sometime in the early hours, imagined I heard her whisper, ‘It’s your fault I drowned, Collie. It’s all your fault.’