14

AUGUST 2004

“Fear is static that prevents me from hearing myself”

—Samuel Butler

Rachel had learned something new, not that it would ever be any use to her now.

Panic cannot be sustained, and terror relents. The brain protects itself. It doesn’t allow itself to frazzle and fry in a flood of chemicals, neurons bursting their sheaths and synapses burning to ash. Neither does adrenaline pump interminably until the heart explodes. Instead, panic and terror rise hand in hand, swelling until you think you’ll die. Until you wish you would to make it stop. And then they subside, leaving you weak and shaking, giving you a chance to gather your wits and your breath before it starts all over again.

In such a lull she had taken stock of her surroundings. She was in a long narrow space. Tall enough to stand if her legs would allow, long enough to lie down and then some. It was pitch-black. There was no window, no source of light, but she no longer thought she was buried because there seemed to be the faintest of breezes coming from somewhere. The walls felt rough and gritty, perhaps breeze block or brick, but one of the longer sides seemed to be made of rough wood, with a panel which she was sure was a doorway. If this was the case, she was unlikely to be underground, which gave her a fleeting sense of relief. There was also a pillow and a blanket and a bucket, although it was a bit late for that now. Her jeans had been taken without her knowing and her knickers were cold and damp. She was desperately hot and dehydrated. She needed to drink. If there was a door perhaps someone would come, but then this made her think of her captor and released a new wave of terror. What did he want from her? Was she going to die?

She tried to calm her thoughts. If he wanted to rape her she would let him. She wouldn’t resist or struggle, she would do whatever she had to in order to survive. At least it wouldn’t be her first time; she wouldn’t have given him that. If she got out of here she wouldn’t have to think of him every time someone touched her in the future. She knew from her biology lessons that skin sloughs and sheds, continually renewing. She would focus on that. The skin he touched now would be shed and gone, even the moist epithelium of her innermost places. In a month, in a year, there would be nothing of her that he’d touched. She’d be renewed. As long as she didn’t let him into her head she could shed him like so much old skin.

She heard a faint noise and with it came a surge of hope; maybe someone was outside, someone who could help her.

She screamed, “Help, help me, I’m in here . . .” then froze in terror as she heard the scrape of the door opening. This was no savior.

He pushed into her space carrying a work light, and slid the door closed behind him. For a fleeting moment she saw her surroundings. As she’d thought it was a tiny room made of gray blocks, their surfaces riven with swirls. She crouched in the corner and closed her eyes. Like a small animal facing a predator she squeezed her lids shut. If she couldn’t see him maybe he wouldn’t see her.

She heard him move until he was so close she could smell him. Expensive aftershave, light citrus and herbs, underlaid with a tang of excited sweat that made her blood freeze.

He lifted her chin with a finger and softly sang, “. . . One, two, three . . .”

All thoughts gone, other than the desire to live, she found herself sobbing, “Please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me,” over and over like a mantra.

This was what he needed, this felt so powerful and right.

He played the beam of light onto her face and watched the fear rippling across her features as he hummed.

“. . . four, five, six . . .”

She was going to help him get his kicks.

Terror clouded her mind and at first the tune meant nothing to her. Then, with dawning horror, came the realization that these were lyrics from one of her favorite songs of all time, Jet’s “Are You Gonna Be My Girl.” The song she’d been playing all summer.

She bit back a scream as he lay down next to her. His warm body pressed against hers in the small space. He smoothed the hair back from her face and softly whispered, “You’re so sweet . . .”

He sighed as he felt her trembling. It would be so sad to watch her shimmer slowly fading, but then beauty never lasts.

He was so gentle that just for a moment Rachel dared to hope that he wouldn’t hurt her after all. Then she felt his fingers, hard and insistent, grinding at the tender parts where her legs met.