Читать книгу The Good Mother - A. L. Bird - Страница 12

Chapter 3

Biting my nails. Putting my head in my hands. Walking about. Sitting down.

I can’t do this.

I jump to my feet.

I shout. ‘Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!’

Why am I here? Why aren’t you at least in the room with me? He can’t be scared of a woman and a girl uniting, can he? Not with all that muscle.

Do I just fuck him and hope for the best? That he’ll let me out without killing me, and we can all be a happy family again?

Or am I meant to just stay in here and finish that piece of fish? Is he fattening me up? Does he have a fat fetish? Did he think that the proprietor of a cupcake store and studio would be all doughy? That she wouldn’t be a salad-eating Pilates junky who would have to close the store if she put on a pound? Because the yummy mummies of leafy North London don’t want to associate cupcakes with saturated fats and weight gain, do they? That’s not the lifestyle. No. Perhaps they’re bulimic. I don’t care. That’s not my lookout. It’s important to watch what you eat. Of course. But not for their reasons. So, when I see them running round Alexandra Park, I nod and smile and remind them of the ‘how to do deluxe frosting’ session but I don’t follow them when they go to the bathroom.

Which is a good point. Bathroom.

I bang the door of my room from the inside. I have a question. Or at least, a ruse to bring that bastard in here.

I keep banging until I hear footsteps along the corridor.

‘Yes?’ says the Captor from outside.

‘What if I need to pee?’ I ask.

There’s a silence.

‘Do you?’ he says.

I don’t, but I want to know what happens if I do. If it gives me a way out. Some hope of escape. Or at least seeing if Cara is out there.

‘Really badly,’ I say.

There’s a pause, then a key in the lock. I expect to be handed a bucket when the door opens.

But no. He is empty-handed.

‘Turn round,’ he says.

I do as he asks.

Once I’ve turned, he takes hold of both of my arms from behind, clamps them together with one of his paw-like hands. I feel like my wrists will snap if I struggle.

He twists me round and pulls me out of the room.

We’re in a short corridor. Look about, quickly. Nothing I recognise. It’s as blank and beige as the room. Like it’s been deliberately stripped. Or like he has no life at all, apart from ruining other people’s. We pass one closed door next to mine. My stomach jumps closer to my heart. Cara? Is Cara in there?

Baby in one room, mummy in the other. Let me see her, I need to see her!

‘Hello? Cara?’

He pulls me faster along the corridor. We stop in front of an open door. I see a toilet and bath and a shower enclosure in the corner. White tiling. Clean. Probably forensically bleached before and after each visit.

He pushes me into the room.

And follows me.

What have I done?

‘There we go, then,’ he says, nodding at the toilet. He releases me from the arm hold and nudges me towards the toilet. He stands at the door, arms folded, facing into the room. Like he has no intention of leaving.

‘Are you going to give me some privacy?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. Apologetically?

‘The door doesn’t have a lock,’ he says.

‘You’re going to stand here watching me?’

He doesn’t respond.

‘You could at least turn your back,’ I tell him. Then I could at least try to jump you, I think, even if it is with my trousers round my ankles.

He still doesn’t say anything. Just keeps looking at me.

So. I’ll have to carry on. But I’m not going to let him degrade me. I’m not going to let him see how vulnerable I feel as I pull down my pyjama shorts. I’m not going to let him know how my flesh creeps, how my insides clench and my legs tremble. I keep eye contact as I lower myself to the seat. I expect his gaze to drift downwards, to drink me in while I urinate. But he keeps his gaze level with my eyes. I make a show of squatting up fully to wipe myself. Still his gaze stays at my eyes. At first. And then he allows himself a quick flick down, towards my exposed parts. I pull up my shorts in a hurry.

I move to the sink to wash my hands. I struggle with the taps; my hands are shaking. The Captor helps me out.

‘Careful,’ he says. ‘The water is very hot.’

As he leans in, I catch sight of the two of us in the mirror over the sink. I almost gasp. I’m not who I remember myself to be. My eyes have purple patches under them – tiredness beyond black circles. Or maybe he has punched me? My skin is so pale it is almost translucent. My lips are dry and cracked. My hair, unbrushed, but in a ponytail, sticks up wildly. And if I thought he was twice the size of me, I was wrong. He looks at least four times the size of me. And about four times as human – pink skin (neatly stubbled), hair combed, lips moist.

Steam covers the mirror and the comparison is lost.

I notice my hands are burning and I pull them out from under the tap.

Then I present my wrists meekly to the Captor. He takes hold of them and escorts me back to my room.

When he leaves I’m sick on the floor.

I try not to think what will happen when I need to shower.

When Cara needs to shower. If she’s here.

All I want to do is hide in the bed in a foetal position. But I must be strong, for Cara. I must show him that it’s not enough to leave me locked in here. Like I’ve had my bit of outside and now I’m stuck.

So I take a big breath and unleash the banshee. I cry and I scream and I shout. Maybe we are in the middle of a housing estate. Maybe I’ll alert the neighbours.

The door opens before I even hear the key in the lock.

‘What’s wrong now?’ he asks.

What’s wrong? I want to shout back. What’s wrong? You’ve fucking kidnapped me, that’s what’s wrong. And done something, maybe, I don’t know, to my daughter. But I carry on with the wordless screaming. He moves towards me, closer and closer and closer, until—ow!

Stinging, on my cheek.

He’s slapped me.

So I scream again. Louder.

He slaps me again, harder.

It brings tears to my eyes.

And there’s a wet glittering in his.

‘I didn’t bring you here for this,’ he says. There’s a crack in his voice.

‘Then why did you bring me here?’ I hear my voice, high, wavering.

He shakes his head and moves back towards the door. I start screaming again.

He turns to me. This time his hand is in a fist. I flinch. He lowers his hand. But the warning is clear. No screaming. I lie down on the bed and face the wall. I can sense him standing there, watching me.

Eventually, I hear the door close. He’s gone.

I fling myself over on the bed so that I’m facing the door that he’s just exited.

Who is this man? I swear I hadn’t seen him before I was abducted. What does he want? Can’t he just tell me everything, like some kind of super villain confessing his evil plans? At least tell me he’s got his cock out every night at the thought of me but he’s just biding his time; tell me we had a chance encounter in a newsagent/ restaurant/ supermarket; tell me he has my daughter strapped inside a wheelie bin somewhere ready to be landfill unless I have sex with him. Just don’t leave me here, not knowing.

I need to know what’s happening. Why is no one telling me what’s happening to my baby?

I need Cara. I need Paul. I need a hug, some tea, some air, some knowledge, some hope. I just need. Give me something. Please.