With one hand around my throat he squeezed until I felt all my weight leave my body and white floating spots crossed my vision. I wanted to die. I wished he would lose control and continue to squeeze until every breath left my body. He would then have done what I never had the courage to do.
Instead, as I slid to the floor, he let go and knelt in front of me. I coughed and spluttered for air. When I finally controlled my breathing he grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, exposing my throat. His eyes almost black and his mouth a thin line. He held his knife. I smiled. He didn’t expect that and, as the blade touched my skin, I sighed and he stilled. I willed him to continue, I dared him, my gaze burning into his dead eyes, but instead of releasing me from hell, he simply, savagely and efficiently cut my hair. All of it. Chopping away at thick, matted and filthy strands until it curled just below my chin. My husband had always loved my long hair and I hadn’t cut it since the wars had started, but now it was all gone. I didn’t have time to mourn my loss, for he then hauled me over his lap and pulled up my top. I kicked and thrashed and wriggled like an eel, sliding onto my back and hitting out at him, finally doing what I should have done when he caught me – but he was too strong. One punch, that’s all it took. One blow to my abdomen and I was winded, immobile. He flipped me onto my stomach and took the knife to the skin of my lower back. I didn’t want to be branded, but he had other plans. He sliced, I cried, I begged and sobbed for him to stop. I made all sorts of promises that I’m now ashamed of, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t say a word as he carved deep into my flesh.
In the days that followed he took me out of the town, wandering with him through the Unlands. No animal escaped his traps and the first day he caught a stoat and a squirrel, then each day after that we returned with at least two rabbits. He would sit for hours watching the same rabbit, waiting for it to approach. I wondered if he had watched me the same way and tracked me like a rabbit. We walked miles. My feet ached and blisters covered them, but I didn’t complain because it was nothing compared to the pain, and shame, of my back.
He traded most of the food in the town. I never looked into the faces of his acquaintances. I did listen though, and his soft firm voice commanded respect. One man tried to touch me and my captor beat him. That was painful for both of us. As he kicked and savaged the would-be suitor he pulled and contorted me around on the cuff. He was silent as he delivered his blows. The man cried and promised not to touch me, crying out like a child, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Even though I knew the unwritten laws, it didn’t stop me from pitying him. My captor kicked him to the ground and I jumped at the desperate pull on my jeans. The man had curled himself around me, gripping my legs together. I stumbled and fell on top of him; he stank, but this was a smell I recognised only too well. He was filthy and the slightest touch of him was like a film of oil on my skin. My back was bleeding now, the tacky warmth sticking my top to my skin.
My captor dragged me to my feet; he never lost his footing, and continued to kick the man. He was angrier than ever and grunted in satisfaction each time his kicks connected and the man wailed. I begged him to stop, I didn’t want to see anyone die, I’d seen enough death.
He stopped, but I don’t know if it was because of my words or if he had proven his point. Instead he watched in silence as the man crawled away sobbing. There were onlookers who didn’t move, no one came to the aid of the injured man, no one came for me, but it was the former I felt for. A sharp gust of wind flayed at my skin and I grunted in pain. As he looked at me I winced, expecting a violent outburst of anger, but none came. Turning me around he lifted my top and exposed the bloodied and bruised skin of my brand. Hot, angry, throbbing. Every cell of my body ached and I wanted nothing but sleep.
With those cruel and yet now gentle hands he guided me back through the town, even carrying me a short distance like a child cradled in his arms. My arms hurt as I pulled them close to me. He wanted me to wrap them around him as a display of affection, but I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
As we passed the remains of the secondary school I asked to be put down and to walk. There were thin and beaten prisoners clearing the rubble away. Men with guns and Kevlar vests surrounded the perimeter, barking orders and directing their work. When one prisoner dropped to his knees and collapsed, he was dragged away and replaced with a woman who sobbed. My captor stopped and watched me, watching them.
The woman: her hair had been cut off, all of it, not just below her ears but crudely shaved to the scalp. She wore the same yellow tracksuit bottoms and a white tee shirt as the others, and within moments of being thrown to the floor she started to work, scooping up armfuls of rubble and throwing them into the wheelbarrow at her side. Taking my hand in his, he guided me away. I looked back and connected with her. Her large brown eyes full of defiance, scorn and disgust.
He took me back to his room where he continued the daily ritual of applying cream to my back. I didn’t cry or sob again; no tears fell. He’d had his pound of soul and I wouldn’t give him any more. I sat listlessly as he massaged the brand. I hadn’t seen it. I didn’t want to see it. It was sign that I was property, an emblem which stripped the last of my liberties.
At the same time every day he asked me a question about my life. If I refused to answer, he refused to feed me and refused me water. With the pain in my back, the constant hunting and my general apathy, I’d given in after two days. I told him the name of my husband, the name of our cat, my favourite colour. He laid me across his lap every day like a child and rubbed my back, touching my tattoo and tracing the lines of the butterfly. I couldn’t stop shaking, no matter how hard I tried. His touch made me feel sick, I hated him more than ever when he asked the question:
“Do you miss him?”
What a question. The sharp flare of pain in my back as he touched me was nothing compared to the tight agony in my chest. Did I miss him?
“Yes.”
I’d answered my question. He didn’t ask anymore and after applying a fresh bandage he opened a tin and fed me the canned fruit with his fingers. Good little doggy! I’d performed my master’s command and now I received my treat.
“Are you awake?”
I looked up from between my knees; I still refused to sleep on the bed, even though the tightness and scabbing on my back made it painful to sit against the wall. As I glowered, he smiled and reached down. I didn’t know what to do but, remembering who I was, I accepted his hand and he pulled me to my feet. A sharp pull on my back made me grimace. He turned me around and pulled up my top. I didn’t resist.
“How does it feel?”
Why, suddenly, did he care? I didn’t have the strength to play games. I was tired, hungry, in pain and I wanted this fucking game to end.
“It hurts.” My reply. Truth is easier than a lie. I am Anna.
He ran a hand through my hair and stepped closer. I froze. Grabbing my chin he lowered his face to mine. That smell, again that smell. I tried to twist away and involuntarily balled my hands into fists, but he tightened his grip and I stilled.
“Anna,” he murmured. I closed my eyes. Better that I didn’t see him, that way I could imagine I was somewhere else, with someone else. That I was someone else. His hot breath was on my face and the shaking started again. He noticed that too and stroked my arms in a seemingly calming gesture. It made it worse. As his lips touched my cheek and his stubble grazed my skin, I retched. Another win for him. He stopped and let go of my arms – I hadn’t expected that, and opened my eyes in fear and interest. I couldn’t sense any anger in him.
He left the room with a dull click of the lock. I was alone. Alone. I stood there aimlessly, finally taking a proper inventory of my surroundings. There was one chest of drawers, no boxes nor cupboards, only three chairs, a bucket, the small table and the bed. I sat on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Was this my life now? A prisoner with no chance of freedom and a master with no name?
Looking up, white and grey sky spread across the glass of the wind
ow. I stretched the chain and stood on tip-toes, pulling myself up. The tops of the ruined buildings cut into the sky, scarring the clean lines with their jagged edges. Piling up the bedding I stood higher and watched the streets below; people, they seemed full of people, milling and weaving through the narrow walkways. Women like me, grouped together and ushered by armed men, heads bowed and hands clasped together: no chains though, lucky bitches. The men laughed and joked, and there were boys playing football against the wall of the church. Two more women passed, alone, un-chaperoned and giggling with linked arms. One held up their hand and the glint of a diamond winked up at me. They were young, younger than me and seemed so… happy… and free. I stared and watched the world pass by until the emptiness was too much. Lying on the bed I closed my eyes. The mattress was soft and caressed my back. It was blissful.
I was lost in the first real sleep I’d had in months. In the wilderness deep sleep was an unwanted indulgence.
It was the weight on the bed that woke me and I scrambled up, sitting with my back to the wall and my knees tucked under my chin. My brand throbbed. I wouldn’t lie down near him.
He carried a designer bag in pristine condition. I remember seeing it in a magazine once. I coveted it then. Now, not so much.
“For you.” He handed me the bag and I nodded. The words stuck in my throat, but I said them anyway.
“Thank you.”
He watched as I held it at arm’s length. Did he want me to open it? Part of me was curious while the defiant side of me wanted to throw it back at him. But that hadn’t turned out well for me in the past.
It was full of toiletries and clothes. I blinked in case they disappeared and I was in fact still asleep. They didn’t, and I was awake. I don’t know which was worse. I pulled out the first top, a blue tee-shirt, immaculate like his own clothes. As I went through the bag he sat next to me, just staring, watching me. He had brought shampoo and toothpaste, a small tub of face cream and make-up. Make-up? I looked at him with the lipstick and mascara in my hand. Smiling, he left again, locking the door.
I hadn’t used shampoo in over a year. I unscrewed the bottle and sniffed: coconut, sweet and inviting. I remembered drinking coconut water with Stephen once, on our honeymoon.
He returned with a bucket of warm water. Beckoning me he sat on a chair and waited. I hesitated; did he mean to wash me? I walked robotically to him and knelt down, my chain snaking along the floor, and he knelt beside me as though we were both about to pray. Removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, he bent me over the bucket and, scooping up water in his cupped hands, he gently rinsed my hair. The angle at which he forced me pulled at my back, but the sensation of warm water trickling across my skin and down my face soothed the aches and I closed my eyes in pleasure.
I sensed him leave my side and then return. There was the smell of coconut again. His fingers massaged my scalp and my skin crawled. I still pictured striking out at him, clawing his face, digging my fingers into his eyes, but I didn’t. I needed strength for that.
“Do you like the clothes?”
I had to answer, I couldn’t nod, and there was only one answer I could give; truth shouldn’t come into my consideration, only pragmatism. Leaning over a bucket of water with my captor washing my hair, there was only one answer.
“Yes.” I paused and remembered. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He rinsed my hair and wrung the water from it. “How long were you alone?”
The question of the day; he had changed the rules. I was trapped. I couldn’t ignore it and he knew that. Clever, I’d forgotten the first rule of combat; never underestimate your enemy.
“Two years.”
“Were you lonely?”
Cheat! That was two questions. I remained quiet as he used a towel to rub my head. He expected an answer, and I had to give him one, but the truth was that I didn’t know if I was lonely. I missed certain people, certain things, but lonely?
He waited.
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you not talk to me?”
“You hurt me,” I replied, quicker than I meant to. Did he expect us to be friends? The man without a name, without compassion and, to judge from his eyes, without a soul? I crawled out of his grasp. The towel slipped to the floor and my coconut scented hair fell around my face.
“I protect you.” He still knelt and I stared at him in confusion, unsure if he truly believed the lie that came from his lips.
“You hurt me!” I spat. Gracious, gracious, the words bounced around my mind but I angrily pushed them to one side. Damn Anna, damn being gracious! The rage was back: it had been quelled by my brand but now it returned and I stood up in fury and lunged towards him. I would scratch his eyes to stop him staring at me if I must.
He expected that, I think, for he grabbed both my wrists. I howled like an alley-cat, but he didn’t try to silence me, not this time. Beat me! I wanted him to do it; the anger needed sating once more. But he didn’t and that made me angrier.
His grip tightened as he tripped me. I landed heavily on my back and cried out in pain. He straddled me and I continued to growl and fight back – maybe I should have done this at the start, maybe I should never have given up. He pinned my arms above my head, knocking over the bucket of water.
“Enough.” He took my wrists in one of his hands and placed the other over my mouth. I tried to bite but he pressed down firmly. “I protect you, you need taking care of.”
I stilled again, frozen by incredulity and my eyes widened. He removed his hand and I spat at him. His patience snapped and he backhanded my face. That’s more like it!
“That’s more like it,” I repeated aloud, kicking and bucking. “Beat me, you coward.” He raised a hand again and hit my face once more. Harder this time. I tasted blood and my teeth rattled. Then, suddenly everything drained from me again. The pain, the anger, my resistance, it seeped away like the water slipping between the floorboards and I stopped fighting. I waited for the next blow, but instead he leant over and kissed my cheek again and stood up.
“Get changed.”
I did. I was weak. I was tired. I was Anna.
He took me hunting again. We didn’t speak. My lip and eye had swollen but he paid me no attention and when we returned that night he didn’t feed me or give me water. From experience I could last at least two days. I would win this round. He left me again that night, and when he returned I sat on the floor with my head between my knees and pretended to sleep while he stared at me.
Then, from outside, I heard a new voice call up to him.
“We need you, Daniel.”
Daniel. His name was Daniel.
Chapter Three
The following day Daniel allowed me a few sips of water, and two days after that he fed me.
By the end of the second day I didn’t care if I’d won or not, my lip was so swollen it seemed as though it would burst, and I could barely open my left eye. Every day he came to the room and watched me, sometimes for hours at a time, without moving and without speaking. I stayed on the floor and refused to look at him, I didn’t want him to see the state of my face or the desperation in my eyes.
When alone, I took the underwire from my bra and tried to pick the lock of my cuff. I spent hours delicately moving the metal around, trying to find any mechanism that might budge or bend but there was nothing. On realising the futility of my attempts I forced the cuff down my wrist and across the base of my thumb, twisting, pulling and pushing it as hard and far as I could. The skin protested, wrinkling and then splitting as the metal anchored itself within my hand. I didn’t care, I needed it off, had to remove it: but it wouldn’t budge. No sooner had one side slipped down than the other slid back up, trapped. The weeping sore grew larger the more I moved, a scab I had to pick, each burn and twist making me gasp, but I had to remove it. All the while I considered why my captor, why Daniel, would have a chain on a wall like this: and then with cruel clarity I understood. He was a hunter, a scavenger,
and I had been right, he’d been hunting for a captive for some time. I had been the stupid, lazy and weak girl he caught. I never used to be weak.
When the wars and troubles started I was blasé and foolish. They played no in my life and I wasn’t interested in politics. I wasn’t the only one to feel that way, but I regret it now. If I, if we, if all of us had paid more attention then maybe, maybe I would still be working in a call centre, married with a cat and a huge mortgaged house in a small nondescript town. Maybe everything would still be all right.
The news built up and up and up: riots in the cities, the looting, the power cutting as the cyber attacks came – some perhaps from a bedroom in my road – the crazy spiralling violence as more violence was used to suppress violence, weapons flourishing like weeds; terrorism, inner city crime, vigilantes. That was when I, and all the other well-informed suburbanites, started to panic. The gangs on the street took more power and grew; fed with the fear of the masses the control they demanded started to rival the authorities. The police were useless and the military preoccupied. In our sleepy town, an air of restlessness threaded through everything and everyone.
And it wasn’t just us. The rest of the world was in turmoil; suppression leading to oppression leading to rebellion, but the rebellion of the splintered. The countries fell one by one, and when we finally realised, it was too late. I don’t even know who attacked first, but I remember watching the aftermath in China, and then their retaliation on India and Russia. It spread from there, like dominoes toppling. Our government reintroduced conscription for both sexes to fight the war abroad while anarchy simmered at home.
Anna Page 2
