I knelt on the bathroom floor, my hands gripping the side of the toilet bowl. I’d had nothing to eat, so there was nothing to throw up, apart from a few thick strings of mucus. I wiped my mouth with the side of my hand.
What had I done? What was I thinking? I was busy? Fuck’s sake. I was light-headed and I had to concentrate to stop the toilet bowl from floating to the right of my vision. My thoughts floated as well, drifting, mixing, difficult to separate. Game theory. It was classic game theory. Don’t think about what you must do, think about what the other person might do. Someone who takes a child knows they are in control; they rely upon the balance of power being firmly on their side. How does it go?
Please don’t hurt her.
I will do anything you say.
Whatever you want, just don’t hurt her.
I was altering the balance of power. I was refusing to acknowledge that this was how the rules worked. There were two players in this game and it’s my mind against yours. You think you hold all the cards, but you don’t. Stew on that for an hour, fucker.
I knew, of course I knew, that this was a gamble and I was dicing with Phoebe’s life.
Actually, I hadn’t thought that when I got the call. I had simply reacted, the words spilling from my mouth directly from my unconscious, where I must have been mulling over the situation from a game theory perspective and finding possible strategies. But what if he was so angry he’d hurt Phoebe, just to teach me a lesson? Cut off a finger and send it through the post? Want to play games, fucker? Want to fight with both hands tied behind your back? Bring it on.
I clung to the toilet bowl and tried to keep my world from shifting.
I realised I was assuming it was a man. Was that an automatic response because statistics tell us it is men who commit crimes, that less than ten per cent of convicted criminals are women? Was a woman emotionally incapable of kidnapping a little girl? I imagined not, but I didn’t know and why would someone change their voice so that it was gender-neutral unless she was female? Then again, maybe a man would want me to be thinking along those lines . . .
I shook my head and tried to focus. He, she, whoever, might hurt Phoebe, but I didn’t think it would happen like that, not then, staring at the blank whiteness of the porcelain. This guy is organised. He plans. He knows our routines, he took out a security camera, he got Phoebe from a supermarket, past cameras and guards, without anyone seeing. Wouldn’t that be easier for a woman? Don’t think about that now. Deal with what I know or can reasonably surmise. He is meticulous. He has my mobile number. How did he get that? From Phoebe? Would she give that up willingly? Can’t think about that either. This has to be about money and nothing else. Phoebe is an asset to him and there’s no point damaging an asset because then the price goes down. He’s demonstrated he is intelligent. An intelligent person doesn’t give way to anger, because it’s not profitable.
Among all the flotsam swirling in my mind, it was this piece of logic I held onto; without it I would drown.
I glanced at my watch. About five minutes since I’d received the call. Why had I said an hour? Wouldn’t fifteen minutes have been enough? No, I decided. It wouldn’t. An hour was right. I got to my feet, though I had to steady myself with a hand on the cistern. Whether I was right or wrong, I had to follow this through. But there were people downstairs who deserved the information in my head. I couldn’t keep all of this to myself. But even then, I was thinking game theory. They were players but that didn’t mean they had to know everything.
The scene in the front room hadn’t altered much. Mum still sat. Summerlee had fallen asleep, or passed out. Dad paced. I disrupted the tableau.
‘I just got a call,’ I said. ‘The person who took Phoebe.’
For a second or two there was a stunned silence. Maybe Summerlee picked up on the sudden charge in the atmosphere because she opened an eye and struggled to straighten herself. Then it was verbal mayhem.
‘Is she all right?’
‘What did he say?’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Did you talk to her? Is she okay?’
I held up a hand.
‘He . . . she . . . didn’t say anything. Just that he had Phoebe. He or she’s ringing back in fifty minutes.’
‘You couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman?’ Dad said.
‘The voice was disguised. I think he or she must be running it through a computer program. Kind of a vague North American accent, but androgynous. Could be anyone.’
‘We should call the police.’ This was Mum.
‘No police,’ I said. ‘He said no police. He will only talk to me. No one else listening. He said that he would know if anyone else was listening in.’ My mind had suddenly cleared and the lies tripped off my tongue. Would anyone notice the discrepancy between my first statement and the qualifications I was now making? He only said he had Phoebe. He didn’t say anything else. Apart, it seemed, from plenty. But no one noticed. Mum and Dad were too drunk on hope and Summerlee was probably just too drunk. I held my mobile phone in my hands and trusted no one would notice it was turned off. Mum gave me instructions, as I knew she would. What she really wanted was to be the one doing the talking on the phone, but if that wasn’t possible she’d go for the next best thing and jerk my strings, to give herself some semblance of control.
‘Insist on talking to Phoebe,’ she said. ‘Don’t even engage with him until you’ve established she’s safe and unharmed. Listen out for background noise. Anything that might give an indication of where he might be. You know, the sound of a train or a plane or something.’ It occurred to me that Mum had watched more thrillers than I’d realised, but I didn’t say anything. Just nodded. ‘When he talks about money, don’t try to negotiate. Just agree to his demands whatever they are. There will be ways to trace the money later.’ Maybe her head was full of exploding bags of cash that painted red dye onto the perpetrators, or serial numbers that could be traced or GPS devices hidden in the lining of a suitcase. I nodded.
Mum went on in the same vein for twenty minutes. Ideas bubbled from her. Dad tried a couple of times to interrupt, but she ran over his words and didn’t even notice she was doing it. Was it possible for me to record the conversation on my mobile phone? Perhaps we could record the entire conversation if I put it on speakerphone? Maybe we should let the police know anyway. Couldn’t they track a phone? If I kept the guy talking they’d be able to trace him. SWAT teams going in while he talked to me. Phoebe being swept up in the manly arms of a good guy while the kidnapper was gunned down as he resisted arrest.
We wallowed in Hollywood horseshit, but then again, even Hollywood horseshit has to be based on something, doesn’t it? The simple truth was we were all out of our depth.
But Mum’s pronouncements made me aware of something buried deep within my character. Those movie scenes. The vigilante doing whatever it took to defeat the bad guy. You messed with the wrong person, motherfucker. The realisation surfaced slowly. I could be that vigilante. If it was a man, I could kill him. If it was a woman, I could kill her. Maybe even if it wasn’t necessary.
The last fifteen minutes, for me at least, were worse than all the hours that preceded them, possibly because I was the only one who knew my phone was switched off. Dad sat down on the couch and instantly Mum got up and started pacing, as if they were on a roster and had switched duties. I went out to the kitchen and all eyes followed me. I’d thought about fixing myself another drink of whisky, but decided against it. I poured myself a glass of milk instead. It tasted horrible, but I forced it down. If I was going to throw up again, I wanted something in my stomach. Anyway, it was an act that mimicked normality and I needed that. I opened the fridge to return the carton of milk and, using the door as a shield, switched on my phone. Two missed calls. Caller unknown. I closed the fridge and returned to the living room.
Mum screamed when the phone rang, and then stuffed her hand into her mouth. Five minutes early, but I couldn’t do any more. I let it ring twice before touching the answer symbol. Suddenly, the milk wanted to make a reappearance. I swallowed.
‘Hello?’
There was a long pause.
‘You were busy?’ That computer voice, leached of feeling. Yet I detected (imagined?) the emphasis on the last word. I tried to focus. I even followed Mum’s advice and listened for background noises, but there was nothing. I didn’t reply. Let him give information. Dad was waving to try and attract my attention, so I turned my back on him.
‘Are the police there?’ It didn’t even sound like a question. Emotions, intonations, give us cues. We can read them easier than we think. It was disorientating, almost alarming, to listen to a voice and not pick up anything other than basic meaning.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No police.’
‘That’s probably a mistake, Jamie. I expected you to call the police. It’s what I would have done in your situation.’ I didn’t say anything. But I felt perversely pleased that I hadn’t met those expectations. ‘Or maybe you’re lying to me and the police are there. It makes no difference one way or the other. You should know that.’
‘What do you want?’
‘It’s very simple. I will return Phoebe unharmed as soon as I receive two million dollars in cash.’
‘I want to talk to Phoebe,’ I said.
‘Sorry. That’s not happening.’
‘How do I know you’ve got her?’
‘Ask me a question only she would know the answer to. I’ll ask her and relay it back to you.’
‘That’s complicated. Why can’t I just talk to her?’
‘Because I say so. Now, do you want to ask that question, or not?’
I thought, but my mind was blank. How dumb was that? When it came down to it I couldn’t think of one thing that only Phoebe and I would know. It seemed emblematic of my betrayal of her, but I couldn’t afford to dwell on guilt. I racked my brain.
‘Ask her what the suitors want when they have their ninja rats at the ready.’
There was silence for a beat or two. ‘You are serious?’
‘Ask her.’
There was no change down the line, but I knew he no longer had the phone to his ear. I focused intently but could detect no variation in the quality of the silence. Then the voice came back.
‘Princess Phoebe’s hand and her other bits.’
I bit so hard on my bottom lip that I tasted blood. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘How do we do this?’
‘I’ll call you at midday tomorrow. Try not to be busy. Oh, and Jamie. I would seriously think about involving the police, if I was you. Ring them now, get it set up so they’ll be ready when I call you. This really isn’t something you can handle by yourself.’
He knows game theory, I thought. He knows game theory.
‘Tell Phoebe I love her,’ I said. ‘Tell her we all love her and we will get her back safe.’
There was that blank silence again.
‘I will, Jamie. I’ll tell her. But it’s up to you to make that last bit come true. I mean, you didn’t do a good job of looking after her today, did you? This is your chance at redemption. Don’t fail.’ He hung up. I stared at the phone, put it in my pocket. And then I answered my family’s questions. There were many and they came quickly.