Ava
The room has shrunk even smaller than the box, consumed by my hunger. All the sandwiches have gone. So much for rationing. The only thing I have left is a single apple, but I don’t dare eat it. That would mean I had nothing.
I feel faint, my head ready to split open from the pain. Everything is shaky, my body and my nerves. I managed to eke the water out over the last day and night, but now there’s only a tiny splash left, barely enough to wet my lips. It takes all my willpower not to drink it. The only reason I don’t is because I know how much worse I will feel afterwards.
I lie on the blankets in the corner, freezing but no longer energetic enough to keep pacing, and part of me wonders if it would be easier to fall asleep and never wake up. Just disappear into the blackness. I wish I could. I want to tell Matt that I understand now, that I don’t blame him any more.
It’s hard to tell if minutes or hours are passing. Time is collapsed by boredom and fear and hunger. I sit and stare at the ceiling, my arms around my knees, willing myself to stay strong. I think of our mum and her favourite phrase, the one that used to drive us crazy when she used it as a spur to get us through our homework, when we sat, slumped and grumbling at the kitchen table. ‘Ne quittez pas!’
I try but fail to imagine my mum in this place. She’s not a person I like to picture hemmed in. I prefer to think of her as she usually is, in charge. As children, Matt and I nicknamed her Madame Souza after the French cartoon character from Belleville Rendez-vous, an indomitable grandmother who crosses the Atlantic in a pedalo to rescue her grandson. Mum pouted when she first found out. ‘La grand-mère? That’s how you see me?’ But we could tell she was secretly pleased.
I know she will be thinking of me right now, willing me to survive. I hope to God she doesn’t think I’m dead. She must know, she must sense somehow that I’m alive. I touch my face. It’s wet again. I can’t stop crying.
I must have dozed off where I sat without realising, or else my mind drifted off into nothingness, because the sound of the bolt scraping jolts me back into myself. I don’t have the energy to stand. He strides in and I can see he’s carrying a large plastic bag and heavy multipack of water. I burst into tears of relief. I’m not going to die yet. In that moment I almost want to hug him.
He drops the water on the floor where he’s standing and holds the bag up, swinging it slightly. ‘What do you say?’
His tone sounds angry, aggrieved almost. ‘Thank you,’ I reply, sniffing, trying to stop myself from crying. ‘Thank you very much.’
He grunts and drops it on the floor, out of my reach. I’m desperate for a long drink of water, but know better than to ask. I can eat and drink when he’s gone. He’s watching me, eyes narrowed through the slits of the ski mask. I’m afraid of appealing to his human side again – my breast is still sore where he twisted it – but I have to keep trying. I reach for the apple beside me, the one I’ve been saving. It’s the only thing I have to offer. My hand shakes as I hold it out to him.
‘Would you like something to eat?’
For a moment we stare at each other. My right hand, clutching the fruit, hangs between us. I’m afraid he will accept out of spite, leaving me with less, or worse that the gesture will make him furious.
Slowly he shakes his head. Then he lowers himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged opposite me. ‘Like Eve,’ he says. I think there’s humour in his tone, rather than anger. Or I hope so.
I think of Professor Marks and clench my hands. Could this monster be him? Surely he wouldn’t do this to me. It can’t be him. This man is shorter, and heavier, I’m sure of it. There’s a tension to his limbs; he reminds me of a coil wound up and ready to spring. He taps his fingers on the concrete. An impatient gesture. ‘Most women, whatever you do,’ he says, ‘they don’t appreciate it. It’s just endless whining.’
In spite of my fear I almost want to laugh. But I don’t. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had that experience.’
He makes a darting movement, leaning forwards and backwards where he sits. ‘You’re not going to fool me, you know. I know you’re a filthy bitch like all the rest.’ I watch his gloved fingers still drumming the floor. ‘But at least you’re a bitch with some manners. That’s what’s wrong with the world, Ava.’ He sighs and shakes his head. ‘Nobody has any fucking manners any more.’
I stare. He doesn’t seem to be joking. ‘I guess that’s true.’
‘You guess? Are you just parroting what I say?’
‘No, I was thinking about some of the stories you read in the newspapers,’ I lie, racking my brains for anything I might have come across. All I can think of are columnists complaining about the younger generation. ‘You know, about manners. How we don’t appreciate each other any more.’
‘The fucking media. They’re the worst of it.’ He slaps the palm of his hand against the floor. ‘Bunch of fucking liars. Fucking fake news. You know it’s all run by feminists, don’t you? The media?’
The only media baron I can think of is Rupert Murdoch. ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ I stammer.
‘Don’t pretend, Ava. I know you’re a little media whore. I saw you, flaunting yourself on the TV, waving a banner for your fucking animal rights, prattling on and on about it on some stupid YouTube channel.’ I open my mouth, about to deny that I’ve ever been on YouTube, that he must have mistaken me for someone else, then I remember. A film student in her final year interviewed me for a university project. She must have posted it online. I realise he’s looking at me, scrutinising my reaction, just as he must have been scrutinising me for weeks. ‘That’s right, bitch. Ought to have been more careful, didn’t you? Never know who might be watching. You’re almost as bad as Hanna bragging about how she was going to be a world-famous hairdresser.’ He shakes his head. ‘Still, at least neither of you are fat. Nothing pisses me off more than a fat bird on the telly. Fucking nerve of it.’ He stares, still drumming his fingers on the concrete. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to say anything? You had enough to say when the cameras were rolling.’
I try to remember what I said to the film student but can’t. ‘I guess you’re right, I guess some media can be misleading,’ I say.
‘I guess you’re right,’ he mimics me, putting on a high-pitched voice. ‘What do you mean you fucking guess?’ He gets to his feet and I scramble up instinctively, not wanting him to tower over me. He grabs hold of my upper arms. ‘Just playing along, aren’t you? I can tell you’re a fucking blue pill bitch.’ I have no idea what he’s talking about. He grips my arms more tightly, brings his masked face close to mine. ‘I said, aren’t you?’ His touch is worse than the sensation of wasps crawling over my skin. I’m desperate to shake him off, move away from him, but I can’t. ‘But don’t worry,’ he says, his voice crooning, ‘you’ll soon be swallowing the red pill.’ He takes his right hand off my arm, flicks the side of my head. I flinch. ‘That’s all part of the experiment. Getting you to see the world as it really is.’
I’ve never wanted to get away from somebody so badly. I want to prise his fingers off me one by one, snapping them back like twigs. ‘That sounds interesting,’ I say. I try to look at him while I speak, but it’s too difficult. I lower my eyes in what I hope looks like a modest gesture. ‘I’d like to hear about it.’
‘You’re in too deep,’ he says, but his grip on my arms loosens. ‘I can’t save you. You’ve been poisoned by all those blue pills.’
His words, however crazy, give me a sense of hope. I can feel the adrenalin kick in. Perhaps this is how I might persuade him to keep me alive. By becoming his re-education project. Dear God I’ll sign up to anything to get out of here. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Please, tell me about it. I want to learn.’
He sits down heavily on the floor, pulling me down with him. I hit my coccyx landing on the concrete but try not to wince. ‘It’s the fucking feminists,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘They’ve ruined it for everyone.’
He starts on a crazy, rambling theory where blue pills are poison
ing everyone and red pills are setting them free. I nod vigorously as he talks, occasionally adding a how interesting. Though not too often, I don’t want to overdo it. The pressure of agreeing with him mixed with the terror of what he might do to me is stifling, like trying to breathe with a plastic bag over my face.
At one point he fetches the water and cracks open a bottle, meaning I finally get a drink too. He takes a swig, then passes it over. I hope this means he no longer finds me quite so disgusting. We’re even sitting next to each other on the blankets in a hideous parody of friendship. ‘I know you’re all liars,’ he says. ‘I suppose you can’t help it. Like children.’
‘What do you think women lie about?’
‘Don’t give me that,’ he says. ‘You know. Everything. That’s your default. Lies and fakery. It’s what you do to get what you want, the same way a man uses his strength. That’s what I’m testing in my little experiment. What happens to women under pressure. How they break apart.’ He looks at me. I can’t see his face properly through the ski mask, just the parts sunk into the roughly cut holes for his mouth and eyes. I’m not even sure how old he is. ‘Where do the cracks start, Ava? When you apply that pressure. It’s like taking a glass vase and, chip, chip, chip.’ He mimics holding a chisel or pickaxe in mid-air. ‘You keep going until the whole thing shatters.’ He leans over and I stiffen, but all he does is take the water bottle off me. ‘Not that Sandra and Lily were glass vases. More like dirty, maggoty containers. Hanna on the other hand.’ He sucks his teeth. ‘She was surprisingly resilient. Beautiful in her own way. It took me twelve days to smash her.’
Twelve days. Is that all I have? I feel like I’m going to be sick. In front of us is The Stain. Hanna died in this room, says the voice in my head, they all did. The fear is so intense I can feel it building in my mind like water behind a dam. Black spots swim before my eyes. I move my hands under my thighs so he can’t see they’re shaking. ‘What happened to Hanna?’ I say, amazed at how calm my voice comes out.
He chuckles. ‘Now that would be cheating. You’re so transparent.’ He reaches out a gloved hand and touches my cheek. I bite my tongue trying not to flinch. ‘Like a pretty piece of porcelain. But I can still smell your fear.’ He leans in, burying his face in the side of my throat, breathing in deeply. The rough fabric of the mask scratches my skin.
An image flashes into my mind, brutal in its clarity. My hands taking hold of his head and twisting. Hard.
I look down at the black shape leaning against me. I would have to grab the sides of his mask, and it would be difficult to twist forcefully enough to break his neck. Am I really strong enough? In spite of myself I hesitate. The idea of killing, even killing this man, horrifies me.
He sits up again and the moment’s lost. But inside me something has changed. For the first time I wonder if I should wait to be rescued. Perhaps I’m not as helpless as I seem. I don’t know if he senses a shift in the atmosphere, but he gets up. I make a move to stand too, but he holds out a hand as a warning for me to stay where I am. I look up at him from the floor as he starts pacing. He seems distracted.
‘Do you miss your family?’
The change in subject disconcerts me. Is it possible he’s feeling sorry for me? ‘Yes, I do. Very much.’
‘I pity that poor pussy-whipped brother of yours. What’s his name? Michael?’
I don’t want to taint Matt’s name by saying it aloud to this man, but I don’t dare lie either. ‘Matthew.’
‘That’s right, Matthew.’ He sucks his teeth as he paces up and down. ‘Bit of a delicate flower, wasn’t he?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t lie to me!’ he bellows. I shrink back against the wall. The Stain is silhouetted behind him. ‘Your fucking brother was a nut job! He was in a fucking psychiatric hospital!’ He punches the side of the wall, breathing heavily; I can hear it come through in ragged bursts, distorted through the mask. ‘Jesus! Women can’t open their fucking mouths without lying.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You should be sorry. Now he’s dead.’
I stare at the dark shape of him, leaning against the wall. My mind can’t process what he’s said. ‘No.’
‘Topped himself.’
‘You’re lying!’ I spring to my feet and push him in the chest with both hands. He staggers backwards. ‘You’re lying! You’re lying!’ He catches my wrists to stop me hitting him.
‘Getting hysterical won’t change the facts, will it?’ I kick at his shins but he holds me off. ‘Not so great for your parents. Losing both children like that. Maybe I ought to let you go.’ He stops, as if suddenly stricken. ‘I suppose that would be kindest.’
‘You have to let me out, please, please, let me go!’ I crumple, sobbing, but he holds me by the wrists to prevent me collapsing.
‘Ask me nicely.’
With an effort I stand up, look straight into those brown eyes. ‘Please can I go home? Please.’
He stares back at me. I can’t read his expression at all. For one moment I actually start to hope he might say yes.
‘No!’ He pushes me hard so I fall backwards on the floor. ‘You can’t!’ He’s almost doubled up laughing. ‘I can’t believe you thought I’d let you go, Ava. What sort of an idiot are you?’ I don’t reply. I can barely see for crying. He stoops down to look at me, still chuckling to himself. ‘At this rate I should think you might not last as long as Hanna.’ I stare at his muddy green boots. They move out of sight as he heads to the door. ‘But at least then you’d get to see Matthew again. If you believe in that sort of thing.’
Frankie
Jack is sitting at the white countertop when she walks in, already a third of the way through a bottle of white wine and a giant bag of crisps.
‘I managed to see the show tonight,’ he says, pouring her a glass and refilling his own. ‘That was a bit . . . well, different.’
‘If you’re about to have a go don’t bother,’ she says, dumping her bag and laptop by the door. ‘Pretty much everyone else has.’
He holds the wine out to her, pale and inviting. ‘All right, I won’t then.’ She stays by the door. ‘Seriously. I’m sure you must have had a good reason for saying all that. Though I’m not sure what it was . . .’ He trails off.
Frankie sighs and trudges over to join him. She takes the glass from his fingers and gulps down a mouthful of Chablis. It’s cold and sweet. ‘Not sure I did have a good reason, really,’ she says. ‘I think this story is getting to me. More than it should.’
‘You might not like to hear this, but is it worth asking Charlie if you can take a break from it for a bit?’
‘I’m sure he’d like nothing better. I’ve embarrassed him and Priya enough as it is. But Kiera was delighted. Thought I “owned it” apparently.’
‘You did own it. But that’s part of the problem. It’s not your tragedy to own.’
‘Easy enough for you to say, you’re not speaking to the women’s grief-stricken family and friends,’ she says. ‘And actually it does feel personal. That website. Seriously, Jack, the guys writing on there seem to despise women, all women. And I’ve spent hours racking my brains over the past weeks trying to think about some sort of connection between the women who’ve been kidnapped and there isn’t one – except they’re all women – yet somehow it’s not a fucking hate crime, is it? It’s only a hate crime if it’s about race or religion. Hating women, well, that’s just too run-of-the-mill for anyone to give a toss about.’ To her own surprise, Frankie is almost shaking with emotion.
‘Come on, isn’t that a bit extreme? You’ll be quoting Germaine Greer next.’
‘Yeah? Well maybe women don’t have any idea how much men hate them,’ she snaps. ‘It’s not a fucking joke.’
‘Sorry,’ he says, putting an arm round her shoulders, which stay stiff. ‘I didn’t mean to wind you up. But I think you’re wrong, the police do give a toss about it. They don’t have to call it a hate crime to care about what’s happening. And plenty of me
n get murdered too, don’t they?’
‘They don’t get murdered because they’re men,’ she says, trying not to lose her temper completely. ‘They get murdered as individuals, or because somebody wants their money or their drugs or their car, or they’ve had a fight about something. It’s not the same.’
Jack shrugs. ‘Don’t suppose it makes much difference to the dead guys though. And actually men do get murdered because they’re men. All the shootings and stabbings out there, it’s mainly guys at the receiving end. Men are far more likely to be the victim of violent crime than women, by a long shot.’
Frankie grips her wine glass. The knot of rage inside her is so tight she wants to find relief by hurling it to the floor, hear the smash and watch the silver shards dance across the tiling. She thinks about Sandra and Lily and Hanna and Ava, all destroyed by the killer’s sense he owned their bodies and their lives. And he’s still out there, laughing at them all; at the police, the journalists, the women’s families. And now she’s got a focus for her anger. Kiera’s notion that @Feminazi_Slayer2 is the killer is infectious, she can’t get the idea out of her head. His mocking tone, belittling Hanna, laughing at her pain. She remembers his parting shot: You better hope nobody really gives you what’s coming to you. BITCH.
Frankie takes a sip of wine, trying to count to ten, to calm herself down. It isn’t fair to make Jack the target of all her angst, even though she wishes he had understood, rather than trying to argue. ‘Yes, I know men get killed too and that’s awful,’ she says, slowly. ‘But that’s not the point I was making.’
The Death Knock Page 13
