Captive

by A. J. Grainger

  Special Operations Driver John McNally is in serious but stable condition. Two other police officers are being treated for minor injuries, while the PM’s wife and younger daughter escaped with only cuts and bruises and are recovering at Downing Street.

  No organization has yet claimed responsibility for the attack.

  Addy and Mum are at Downing Street. They’re safe. A horrible thought occurs to me. “You could have made this up. Created it on the computer or something.”

  “I could have”—he pushes the tray of food toward me—“but I didn’t.” His eyes flick up to mine for the first time. “Your mum and sister are safe, which is more than I can say for my family.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Just eat.”

  I ask if he plans on watching me, only I don’t say it like that. I ask very politely, in a pathetically small voice, if he could perhaps sit a little bit farther away, if he wouldn’t mind very much. Because he is making me really nervous. I don’t say that last part either, though.

  He doesn’t answer, but he does go and lean against the door, which is about as far away as he can get while still being in the room.

  I pick up a piece of toast. My mum and sister are safe. They are at home. But that means . . . I put the slice back down. I am here alone. No one beyond my kidnappers knows where I am. Suddenly I don’t feel so much like eating. After poking at the things on the tray—a cup of tea, two slices of toast, and a cherry yogurt—I decide I definitely won’t be able to eat them. I push the food away.

  “Loads of starving kids would be grateful for that food.”

  I don’t answer.

  “If you’re not going to eat, I’m going to tie you up again.” He is wary as he moves toward me. I make my limbs as floppy and heavy as I can when it comes to tying me up. He seems uncomfortable, like maybe he knows this is wrong. At one point, I swear his hands are shaking. In any case, it takes him a long time to fasten the cable ties around the bed.

  When he’s done, I ask how long I’m going to be here.

  “Until your dad cooperates.”

  I ask what they want, and his eyes shine brightly like there’s a sudden fire behind them. Talon clearly cares a great deal about the reason I am here.

  “Justice.” He says the word slowly and precisely. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. I’m just meant to bring you food and take you to the bathroom. Feather’s the one who should be explaining things. She’s in charge.”

  That doesn’t fill me with confidence. I have seen a light in Feather’s eyes too, but there is something too bright about it. It is a beam that is closer to fanaticism than passion, and besides, so far all she’s done is threaten me.

  • • •

  Paris is leached of color. Buildings, trees, gates, people—they are all black smudges on a white background. The city’s ice-clenched roads are mostly empty, since few will brave the cold, and the Eiffel Tower is crouched amid the white emptiness like a spider in its web. Just like in Henri Cartier-Bresson’s photos.

  Dad hadn’t been keen on venturing out, but I’d insisted. I know how quickly he can get sucked into things, and I had wanted to keep him to myself as long as possible. A mad walk from the hotel to the Eiffel Tower in the burning cold seemed just the thing, but the tips of my toes are frozen now, even in my sturdy black boots, and I wish I’d put on another pair of tights and remembered my gloves. I took a few photos on the way over here, but my fingers are too cold to take any more. I shrink down farther into my coat, wrapping my scarf once more around my neck.

  “The tower’s height varies something like ten or fifteen centimeters, depending on the weather,” Dad says, coming up behind me. “‘The frost performs its secret ministry.’ Here”—he hands me a plastic cup of hot chocolate—“drink this before I have to phone your mother and tell her you’ve caught pneumonia.”

  “You can’t catch pneumonia,” I say, “only the infections that cause it.”

  “Where did you learn to be so pedantic?”

  “I wonder. . . .”

  And he gives a belly laugh like Father Christmas in the Coke adverts. I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh like that. His hair is thinner now; it starts farther back on his forehead, and I am sure there are more creases around his eyes. Running the country has made my dad old.

  I take a sip of my hot chocolate. “How tall is it then, the tower? Come on. I know you’re dying to tell me.”

  “Three hundred twenty-four meters or one thousand sixty-­three feet, roughly equivalent to an eighty-one-story building. Built in 1889, it was the tallest building in the world for forty-­one years until the Chrysler Building—”

  “Yes, thank you, Dad. The important question is, can we climb it? And the answer to that is yes.” But Dad’s face is not saying yes. It’s saying, I have a meeting with the French presi­dent on Thursday to discuss Anglo-Franco trade agreements and a mountain of reports to read before then. “It’s okay,” I say. “Another time. We probably wouldn’t see much today with all the clouds anyway.”

  “The summit on Thursday with the president is very important, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to make the most of our time here,” he says.

  So long as it doesn’t interfere with any planning. “Are you nervous about the meeting?”

  “Me? Nervous? No way, kiddo.”

  I roll my eyes. “‘Kiddo’?”

  “Not what all the kids are saying these days?”

  “No, Dad. Stick to being a boring old politician in a gray suit, all right? Seriously, though, do you ever get nervous?” He has met so many leaders and dictators over the years. Sometimes I am too scared to even read aloud in English class.

  “Sometimes. But it’s practice mainly, and preparation. And remembering that people are just people. Even the scary ones. I do like to be ready, though. It is so much easier to get people on board if you understand one another. And unity is even more important now that the world is in such flux. There are a lot of angry people out there, Bobs. It’s important to shore up relationships. Not everyone agrees with the way other nations conduct themselves. It’s my responsibility to ensure that no one can find fault with Britain.”

  “You’re talking like a politician.”

  “Am I?”

  “Dad, the fire at Bell-Barkov last year . . .”

  “What on earth has put that into your head now?”

  “On the plane Gordon said something about a security breach, and I’ve heard people saying that the AFC are angry with you because of something to do with Michael.”

  “The AFC are terrorists.”

  “But you’re not in danger or anything, are you?”

  “Me? Goodness, no. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

  Gordon, who had been talking on his mobile, comes up to us then and says that we should be getting back.

  “We’ll talk about this more later,” Dad says to me, before beginning to walk back toward the main road with Gordon.

  Irritation bubbles inside me, making the hot chocolate taste sour in my mouth. I was talking to Dad. Why does everyone always have to interrupt? Why are their questions always more important than mine? We won’t talk about this later. We never do talk properly.

  Gordon and Dad are walking a little ahead of me now, with Gordon laughing at something Dad has said. I drop back farther, watching my boots turn white to black to white as I drag my feet through the snow. Dad stops to wait for me, throwing his arm around my shoulder as soon as I get close enough. I shrug him off, sidestepping out of reach. I am rewarded by seeing a flash of annoyance in his eyes. Good. Now he knows how it feels to be disappointed. It is childish, and I immediately regret it when Dad stalks off without a word. I want to call out that I am sorry, that I just want to spend more time with him—but something in the set of his shoulders keeps me silent.

  •
• •

  Dad is standing over my bed when I wake up. It must be early evening, as his face is an inkblot in the thin light from the high-up window. A gasp catches in my throat. They have found me!

  “Dad!” I say, tears welling in my eyes as my arms go around his neck. He holds me close, and I breathe in the familiar musky scent of his aftershave and the traces of cigar smoke. “How did you find me?” I cling to him more tightly.

  “We’re going to get you out of here. There are police everywhere. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

  I open my eyes. The cell is flooded with sunlight; the window is a splice of pale blue. Dust particles dance in the sparkling light, pirouetting in a golden line from the window to the opposite wall of the cell, where they seem to converge into shapes. It is like looking into a kaleidoscope.

  Dad isn’t here. No one is but me. It was just a dream. I wasn’t even asleep. It’s too uncomfortable with my hands pulled over my head. I think I just passed out for a while, which is annoying, as I’d been trying to keep track of time. How much darker is it in here now than before? Was I out for ten minutes, twenty, an hour? I have no idea.

  The light from the window disappears, taking the frolicking dust particles with it. A spider scuttles across the bare wall toward the door. I watch as it crawls through a crack in the door frame. My mouth tastes like a trash can, and a headache is pushing at my eyes. I must have been sweating in my sleep, because my hair is stuck to my face in clumps. I can’t even push it away.

  Outside, a bird is crying a thin, high note. Zi-zi-zi. Zi-zi-zi. I imagine the view outside: a garden, an oak tree, birds. Beyond, what? A hill? A forest? Fields? The image is replaced with another: the Eiffel Tower through my camera lens, looking black and spindly, and standing tall in a world of ice and frost.

  I force the memory away and instead imagine the Downing Street garden. The trees arch over my head, corseting the blue sky. Addy is running, screaming with laughter, because Poppy is chasing her.

  My wrists are so sore. I want to sit up, just for a little bit. Maybe if I shout? I’m afraid that Scar will come, but I’m more afraid that my hands will drop off soon if I don’t get the blood circulating. I call out, quietly at first, and then louder. Eventually the door opens and Talon comes in. The second I see him, I beg for him to untie me, knowing it’s degrading, but I don’t care. It’s not like he doesn’t know who has the power here. “I won’t hurt you,” I add, when his hand goes unconsciously to the stab wound on his arm. “Please, I just have to move. Just a couple of minutes.”

  Finally he comes over to the bed and begins to cut the cable ties from my wrists. Just as he is fiddling with the second tie, the door bangs open again. “What the hell is going on?” Feather asks. Then, as she takes in the scene in front of her, she yells, “You untied her!”

  “She was in pain.”

  “I don’t care. She tried to escape.”

  One of my arms has gone to sleep, and it flops about in my lap. I shake it hard to get some feeling back into it. Talon eyes me for a second, to make sure that I’m not about to attack him, and then goes to Feather.

  She is clearly furious, but she lowers her voice as she goes on about how everything they have done will be pointless if I escape. “She is our last chance! You’d better not be backing out on me, because—”

  “This means as much to me as it does to you, but I don’t see any reason to make this harder on her than it has to be,” Talon assures her.

  “You are lucky Talon is so compassionate,” she says to me. “If it were my choice, your hands would stay tied up until your arms dropped off.”

  She doesn’t tie me up again, though. That makes me think that Talon must have some influence. Maybe that’s something I can play on? He is definitely the kindest of my kidnappers. Can I convince him to help me?

  • • •

  I have been pacing the cell since they left me. It feels good to move around, and it’s easier to think when I’m not tied up. I’m back to keeping track of time, watching very carefully for shifts in the sunlight. It’s getting dark now, so I reckon it must be about eight o’clock. Talon has left one of the cable ties attached to the bedpost, so I pull it off and experiment by dragging it down the wall. If I press hard enough, I can make an indent in the plaster. Then, because I don’t want my kidnappers to know what I’m doing, I crawl under the bed and begin to work the tie up and down against the wall. Two marks. One for yesterday, when I was brought here, and one for today. The scratches look like the beginning of a fence. I imagine it running around the four walls, not just once, but twice, three times, four. A wall of little fences. I won’t be here that long, though, I tell myself. Dad is coming for me.

  I roll out from under the bed and sit down on it. Then, to distract myself, I create a viewfinder with the thumb and index finger of one hand and circle it around the room, looking for a good shot. White walls, white ceiling, white floor, a tiny slice of window. I let my hand drop. I don’t want to take a photo of anything in here. Photography for me is about memories, and there is nothing in here that I want to remember. Before I can stop it, the familiar refrain starts up in my head again. Come on, Dad. Find me. Please. Bring me home.

  • • •

  I have no appetite. I don’t know if it’s sickness or fear, but once again, I ignored the food Talon brought me for breakfast. He didn’t comment on it this time, just took me to the bathroom. I swill the toothpaste around my mouth and spit it out in the cracked sink in the bathroom. (I have been given a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, and a small hand towel. Thank goodness.) Then I flush the toilet and wash my hands and face. I know that I stink, but I won’t take off my clothes to wash without a lock on the door. I haven’t seen Scar since that first day—it is always Talon who brings me my food and takes me to the bathroom—but I know Scar is still here. I hear his voice sometimes, coming from the room above me.

  After drying my face with the towel—I have to stop seve­ral times to clutch the sink and breathe deeply because I think I will vomit—I open the door to the bathroom. Feather is leaning against the wall. “Talon says you’re not eating. Why? Don’t you like the food?”

  “I . . . I can’t eat. I think I’m sick.”

  “Nonsense.” But her eyes travel over my face again, assessing. “You’ll die if you don’t eat. We didn’t bring you here to die.” She scratches at her neck under her mask, as though the wool is irritating her skin. She has a different one on today, one with a cutout for her mouth. She is speaking again, but I don’t hear the words. I am fascinated by the movement of her mouth: the flash of white teeth, the tip of a ruby tongue, the rosy flush of her lips. The colors are so bright against the black mask. I lean forward, tilting my head. Her mouth is a shell and her tongue a sea snake, the deep darkness of her throat its home. The snake darts out of its cave, jet-black eyes watching me.

  “Robyn!”

  The snake flicks back into its hole, becomes a tongue again in a pink mouth full of tiny white teeth.

  “Robyn.” She hauls me into a sitting position. Somehow I am on the floor. My forehead is tender as if I have hit it against something. I am watching Feather’s mouth again: open, close, open, close. The muscles in her jaw contract and expand. Contract. Expand.

  Now the floor is moving and somehow I am above it, suspended in the air. I look down. My legs are moving, my feet scrabbling to grip the slippery floor. Just before I black out, I see that someone is holding me up. Then—

  I can’t breathe. My nose, my eyes. Clogged. I can’t see. I draw a breath and cough and gasp—and rise up to the surface. I splutter until I am finally able to draw a lungful of air. I pull in another one. In front of me is a white face. Gray eyes. It takes a second to realize that I am back in the bathroom and looking at myself in the cracked mirror. The sink below me is full of water. Feather is holding the scruff of my T-shirt as though preparing to give me another dunking. Seeing
that I am conscious again, she lets go and steps away from me. “You kept fainting,” she says, as if that is a reason to nearly drown someone.

  I breathe in slowly a few more times as she sits down on the edge of the bath. “No one wants you to die,” she says. “That isn’t part of the plan.”

  This seems a little ironic, given that a few seconds ago she was holding my head in a sink full of water, but I say nothing. When my head and lungs are clearer, I turn to face her, gripping the sink behind me, to offer some support in case I feel dizzy again.

  “What do you want to eat?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. I can’t.” I woke up feeling ill this morning. Day three, and I’m ill. Maybe it was the water I drank from the sink on the first day?

  “You can’t get sick and you can’t die.” She stands up as if that is an end to it.

  She leads me back to the cell, her arm supporting my elbow. There is a cheese sandwich on a paper plate on the floor next to a plastic beaker of water. She nods at it. “Eat.” Again—“Eat!”—when I hesitate. The bread is soft and fresh, but the taste of toothpaste is still in my mouth and bile rises after only a single bite. Feather is watching me and I swallow it, breathing through clenched teeth.

  She stays with me, sitting silently, until I have forced the whole sandwich down. “You know, animals in the labs at Bell-Barkov wouldn’t be treated with the same respect,” she says, handing me the beaker of water. “If one of them got sick because they refused to eat, it would be put down and another animal brought in to replace it. Animal life is cheap to humans.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t answer. I’m the one being kept in the cage here.

  “What do you know about animal testing?” she continues without giving me a chance to talk. “Nothing, I’m guessing. Do you know whether the drugs you take, the makeup you wear, are tested on animals? Do you even care?”