The Venus Trap

by Voss, Louise

  I’m definitely starting to smell already. It’s so hot and airless in here with the window boarded shut and the door permanently closed that I’ve been having two showers a day to prevent me stinking worse than a tramp’s armpit.

  Not any more.

  I keep my head down and the faintness gradually settles, along with the feathers around me.

  Then I have a moment’s doubt about my new MO. If I transform into this unlovable stinky fright, will Claudio forcibly try to wash me—or, worse, panic and just clonk me over the head and leave me for dead? The best case scenario is that he locks me in and leaves me here. I’d survive till Richard and Megan got back, I think. I’ve sort of lost track of the date, but as long as he didn’t turn the water off at the mains, I’d be OK. I’ve been stockpiling food under the bed, biscuits and apples, although they wouldn’t keep me going for long. How many days is it that you can live on water alone?

  If he did switch off the water, I could pee in the bath and drink out of the toilet—couldn’t I?

  Then I have a horrific mental image of poor Megan and Richard bursting back into the flat, full of blue sky holiday tales, to find me barely alive or, worse, behind a locked and bolted bedroom door, covered in feathers and excrement.

  I can’t let that happen.

  I still think on balance that the best available plan is to try to let myself go to the extent that it wrongfoots Claudio and he starts doubting his ‘love’ for me—or at least quashes his desire for us to sit down to a nice dinner every night. But surely after last night he’s not going to do that again?

  I slide off the bed and onto the floor and lie on my back on the carpet, my chest still heaving with exertion. Something catches my eye under the little set of drawers by the bed and I lunge for it—it’s a biro! Claudio confiscated all the other ones he found in the Great Bedroom Purge, but this one has slipped through his net. I scribble on my palm and after a few scrapes, it bursts into glorious blue lines over the skin of my hand. It’s not by any means an escape route, but at least I can leave instructions for the police to find in the event that Claudio clonks me over the head and dumps me in a ditch somewhere. There are a few empty pages at the back of my 1986/7 diary; I can use those.

  What else could I write on? In a flash of inspiration, I crawl over to my chest of drawers and pull my tired, aching body up. I open the second drawer down. It’s full of t-shirts and tops that I start to pull out and then stop—Claudio might guess what I’m up to if he came in now. Instead, I push the clothes to one side and get to what I want—the yellowy brittle lining paper that’s been in there as long as I can remember, right back to my childhood when this mahogany chest of drawers belonged to Mum and Dad. Mum used to keep her baby-blue plastic Tampax case in the top drawer, and it took me years to figure out what it was when I used to go on my regular sly childhood rifles through their drawers when they were out. I’m not sure what I was looking for. Perhaps it was some kind of foresight, a premonition that one day it might save my life to remember this unexpected secret source of writing material.

  In big capitals I write on the lining paper: KIDNAPPED BY CLAUDIO CAVELLI OF . . . Then I couldn’t remember his address, even though I’d plugged it into my satnav when I’d driven over to his place. I rack and rack my brains but nothing comes, apart from Oak Road, Twickenham, so I write that, plus THE UGLY APARTMENT BLOCK NEAR THE CHURCH. BEEN HELD IN THIS ROOM FOR FOUR DAYS SO FAR. IF I’M NOT HERE WHEN THIS IS READ, HE’S PROBABLY KILLED ME. HIS MUM LIVES IN BROCKHURST, IN A NURSING HOME OR HOSPICE BUT I DON’T KNOW WHERE. TELL MEGAN AND RICHARD I LOVE THEM.

  Then I pile the clothes back over the top of it, close the drawer and sink back onto the feathery bed, succumbing to the throbbing of my head and the aching of my muscles.

  Some time later Claudio unlocks the door and comes in, with a cup of tea too tepid for it to hurt if I threw it in his face. But I wouldn’t. I have worked out all the fury and am meek as a (malodorous) lamb again—I want to hear my daughter’s voice, and I suspect that compliance is the only way forward, until after the phone call at least.

  ‘Can I still call Megan?’

  ‘What’s been going on in here?’ says Claudio, putting the tea down on the bedside table. He glances at my bruised cheek and quickly looks away, and then at all the feathers. ‘It’s a mess!’

  ‘Can I still call Megan?’ I repeat.

  He sighs, regarding the feathery chaos again, like a disappointed parent.

  ‘Yes. But there are rules.’

  I thought there might be.

  ‘If you give even a hint that something’s wrong, I will stab you,’ he continues, conversationally. ‘We are going to practise. What would you usually say to Megan when she’s away?’

  ‘We don’t usually talk when she’s away with Richard. She only gets homesick and misses me when we speak, so it’s easier to let her just get on with it.’

  ‘Then why has she been texting you, asking you to call her?’ he demands suspiciously, as though Megan has been somehow complicit in plotting my escape.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, truthfully. ‘Can I see the texts?’

  ‘No. I deleted them. I replied first, saying you would call today.’

  ‘You replied, as me?’

  ‘Obviously.’ He looks at me as though I’m stupid.

  ‘How did you know what to say to make her believe it’s me?’ Although I already know the answer.

  ‘I just copied the style and number of kisses on your other texts to her. How old is she, seven? Bit young to have a mobile, isn’t she?’

  I want to tell him to fuck off—how dare he sound disapproving when he’s been through and read my texts, replied to them pretending to be me? Instead, I just shrug.

  ‘So, what will you say to her?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I will tell her I love her, that I’m fine, Lester’s fine, ask her what she’s been up to, tell her I miss her but I’ll see her very soon. That kind of stuff.’

  Claudio seems satisfied. ‘Tell her not to ring again as your phone’s going in for repair. What about Richard, would you normally speak to him too?’

  ‘I would usually just have a quick check with him, to make sure that Megan’s OK, eating properly, getting enough sleep and so on.’

  ‘I don’t want you to talk to him.’

  ‘All right, I won’t. You can hang up if he comes on the line. Can I have my phone now?’

  ‘I’ll go and get it. I’m dialling the number, and holding the phone. If you try to grab it, I’ll stab you. Understand?’

  He leaves, bolting the door, then unbolts it again a couple of minutes later. In one hand he’s holding my mobile, in the other, my biggest, sharpest Sabatier knife. The sight of both these objects has a strange effect on me, making me feel faint. I grit my teeth as he comes close and puts his right arm around my shoulders, holding the knife so that the tip of it pushes slightly in between the ribs of my right side.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Even though he is right up next to me, he doesn’t seem to have noticed how much I smell. This is disappointing. Fear is making me sweat even harder, so surely he will do so by later tonight?

  I can’t bear his body being this close to mine.

  I nod. He taps the screen of my phone with a fat thumb to connect the call, and then holds it up against my left ear. I hear the continental ring tone. It rings and rings. Come on, Megan, please, darling, I beg silently. I need to hear your voice. But Megan doesn’t answer. Tears spring into my eyes as the automatic answer message clicks on. I curse my laziness in not getting around to helping her record her own message, in her own voice.

  I look at Claudio and mouth What do I do?

  ‘Leave a message,’ he hisses back.

  At the beep, I try to speak but at first my words are lost in the croak of my voice. Claudio presses the knife harder into my side, and I someho
w manage to sharpen up my tone.

  ‘Hi, sweetie-pie, it’s Mummy! How are you, my darling? I’m so sorry I’ve missed you . . .’ It takes every ounce of self-control in me not to break down. ‘. . . But I just wanted to say hi, and tell you I love you, and Lester and I will see you very soon, in five days’ time! That’s not long, is it? I hope you’re having an amazing holiday with Tilly and Jemima. Don’t call me back because, er, my phone isn’t working properly so I have to take it into the shop to get it fixed. It’s the screen. I need to get the screen fixed. Anyway. I really love you, Megan. So much. Goodbye, angel . . . .’

  Claudio abruptly snatches the phone away and terminates the call. I can’t help hyperventilating. It’s either that or sobbing, and I don’t want to do that.

  I take a big slurp of tea. Very odd experience, drinking tea with a knife sticking into your side.

  ‘Can you take that knife away now, please?’ I ask him, between pants, and he does. As he’s standing up, my phone rings in his hand. We both freeze.

  ‘Who is it?’ I say, in as much of a panic as he is.

  He looks at the screen. ‘It’s your ex-husband. You’re not answering it.’

  ‘But he knows I’m here! Megan probably just missed getting to my call, so now they’re ringing me straight back from his phone! He’ll smell a rat if I don’t!’

  Claudio hesitates, and I focus hard on getting my breathing under control. I hold out my hand for the phone. He doesn’t give it to me, but does press the screen to answer the call and holds it to my ear again.

  This time joy floods through me as I hear Richard’s voice.

  ‘Hi, Jo, sorry, we could hear Megan’s phone ring, but didn’t get to it in time. How’s things?’

  I swallow hard. ‘Fine, thanks, Richard. All fine.’

  The knife is back, pricking me menacingly as though I’m a jacket potato about to go into the oven.

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  I hesitate, and the knife goes in just a little further. I jump. ‘Nothing! Had a bit of a bug, actually. Been in bed a couple of days puking. You know how it is—I always seem to come down with something when I finally get a bit of time to myself. How’s the holiday?’

  ‘Ah, sorry to hear it, Jo, that’s no fun. It’s great here. Sunny. Could do without the horse flies, but other than that, it’s all good.’

  I hear Megan in the background clamouring to speak to me.

  ‘Mummy!’ she squeals, and I manage to smile.

  ‘Hello, my darling!’

  ‘Tilly punched me in the bottom and got sent to bed early! I’ve got a bruise! And today we’re going to have ice cream in a town that’s got lots of hills.’

  ‘Oh dear, that was naughty of Tilly, wasn’t it? But good news about the ice cream. I’ve left you a message on your phone, too.’

  ‘I couldn’t find it. We could hear it but it was hidden underneath a cushion.’

  ‘Ah.’

  I suddenly don’t know what else to say. I can’t bear it any more. ‘I’ve got to go, darling, I . . . need the toilet.’

  ‘OK, Mummy. Well, I’ll see you soon, yeah? Bye!’

  ‘Definitely, sweetheart.’ Please, God.

  She’s gone, and so has Richard.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Day 4

  Read to me, Jo,’ Claudio says when he gets back from putting away the knife and removing my phone. Making sure we’re safely locked in, he flops down on the disgusting bed next to me. ‘Read your diary.’

  I’m too upset after hearing Megan’s and Richard’s voices to speak. I roll onto my side away from him and stare at the boarded-up window, willing myself not to cry.

  ‘READ TO ME!’ he yells in my ear, in case I haven’t heard him.

  ‘In here?’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes of course in here,’ he replies testily. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it stinks in here. It stinks of BO and sick.’ And despair, I think.

  I wonder if I am literally losing the will to live, until I think of Megan, her innocent peachy face and the freckles that the Italian sun will have popped out over the bridge of her nose. I want to see those freckles.

  ‘It’s a mess, yes, but I can’t smell anything. I don’t have a sense of smell, so it doesn’t bother me. If it bothers you, clean it up.’

  Well that’s just great, isn’t it? I’ve gone to all these lengths to make myself revolting and malodorous and he doesn’t even notice.

  He throws the diary down in front of me and I start reading from a random bit, about how surprised everyone was that Donna and Gareth were still going strong, two months after New Year . . .

  ‘No!’ he interrupts.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t want that bit. I want to hear about when you went ice-skating with John, the first time.’

  ‘You must have already read it, then,’ I comment miserably.

  ‘I only glanced at it. I want to hear it properly, from you.’ There is an odd intensity about him—more odd than usual, anyway. I am really afraid of him today. I fumble through the notebook until I find the correct entry, about halfway through, and start reading in a croaky voice.

  14th March 1987

  We went ice-skating as a foursome; me and John, Donna and Gareth. I got to sit in the front seat of John’s bronze Lancia, sneaking sidelong glances at his profile as he drove recklessly along the dual carriageway on the outskirts of Brockhurst, with a cassette of Bat Out of Hell blaring out at top volume. He seemed to be able to smoke, drive, laugh, and gaze lustfully at me—I was torn between feeling impressed at his ability to do it all at the same time, overjoyed at the way he was looking at me and terrified at the speed we were going. I clutched tight onto the handle above the passenger door, wondering if he would take me into his stable room again later that day. I was dying to reach my arm along the back of his seat and stroke the bristly nape of his neck.

  Donna and Gareth were snogging in the back. Over the noise of the engine, and Meat Loaf, I could just make out little smacking, slurping noises, and they made my toes curl in my new tan suede pixie boots, bought with my birthday money.

  ‘Get a room, you two,’ John yelled.

  ‘Huh,’ said Donna, surfacing. ‘I’m not taking instructions from someone who plays flippin’ Meat Loaf in the car. I’m ashamed to call you my brother!’

  ‘Meat’s cool, sis,’ said John laconically. He looked across at me and smiled.

  ‘Can you ice-skate, by the way?’

  ‘Never tried. Can you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said John. ‘I’ve been loads of times. Don’t worry. I’ll hold your hand.’

  ‘And the rest,’ commented Gareth from the back seat.

  ‘Put a sock in it, Gaz,’ said Donna, slapping him affectionately across the side of the head. ‘I think it’s sweet, Jo. Can’t imagine what you see in my stinky brother, but if he’s going to go out with anyone, I’d much rather it was you than that narky old Gill.’

  I don’t even like to hear Gill’s name mentioned in front of John. I’m permanently convinced she’s going to persuade him to dump me and go out with her again. Apparently she’s been telling everyone John’s the love of her life and that it’s just a matter of time. I hate her.

  I twisted my head and glared at Donna, mouthing ‘Shut up’.

  ‘What?’ said Donna, as Gareth grabbed her roughly round the neck and pulled her towards him again.

  All in all, I was glad when we arrived at the car park of the ice rink. John had been driving so fast that, even though I was in the front seat, I was starting to feel very queasy, and the thudding music hadn’t helped either. I was also quite nervous about the skating. What if I kept falling on my bum, and made a leg-scissoring, windmilling-armed fool of myself? Or what if someone skated over my fingers and chopped them off? I had a lurid image of the ice stained crimson
in sweeping petal shapes around me, and my unattached fingers rolling across the rink, as embarrassing as tampons spilling out of a handbag.

  Gareth and Donna piled out of the back seat and I took off my seatbelt, leaning forward to pull open my door handle.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said John. He leaned sideways towards me and kissed me softly on the lips, gazing at me with his flecked amber eyes. ‘You’ve got multi-coloured eye-tops.’

  ‘Eyelids, John; they’re called eyelids. And it’s eye shadow,’ I murmured back, feeling so grown up, and so turned on.

  ‘It’s pretty,’ he said, his lips millimetres from mine.

  Donna and Gareth banged on the passenger window, making us both jump.

  ‘Now who needs to get a room?’ Donna shouted.

  ‘By the way,’ John whispered in my ear before we got out of the car, ‘don’t worry about Gill. She is narky, and now I’ve got you, I don’t ever want to get back with her again. OK?’

  I love that boy sooooo much.

  We all queued for skates, joking about smelly socks as we handed over our boots and shoes to the girl behind the counter (who, I noticed, stared openly at John, pairing up his battered black lace-ups on the counter with something approaching tenderness). John helped me get my feet into the hard blue plastic clodhoppers by pushing down on my shoulders and lacing them up for me. I gazed down at the top of his head before allowing him to escort me, both of us clumping awkwardly, to the side of the rink. John was holding my cold hand in his warm one and he led me onto the ice with such grace and confidence that it was easy to slide along next to him.

  ‘Hey, you’re a natural at this,’ he said, as we swept past a dad with a dangerously wobbling toddler in tow.

  I was frowning with concentration. It was difficult, but not as difficult as I had expected. The ice was desperately—and somehow surprisingly—slippery, but once you got into a rhythm, it was OK. It was the other skaters who were more of a problem, veering and lunging towards us. Curiosity Killed the Cat blared tinnily over the speakers as we dodged and weaved around, our blades churning the ice into vapour trails of slush.