‘I wouldn’t –’
‘– and there’s a pair of them there right now, isn’t there, the work ethic of a three-toed sloth between them –’
‘Miss –’
‘– slurping on milky tea and stuffing oversize muffins down their throats while they scratch their balls –’
‘Miss!’
‘– and read the form guide, refusing to get off their arses till they’ve had their “break” from doing nothing all morning anyway!’
‘Lady!’ Joe raised his voice above hers this time. He finally got her attention. ‘I think you’ve made your point.’
‘Not until they guarantee they’ll get out here ASAP.’
‘Well, they hung up back at “scratching their balls”, so I think the only guarantee we have is that we’ll be waiting a lot longer now.’
Jo blinked. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Oh, maybe because of the way you just spoke to them,’ he suggested. ‘Why do you think they’d hurry out here now to release a caged lion? They’re more likely to forget to come at all.’
‘What are you saying?’ Her eyes grew wide. ‘They won’t just leave us here all day? They can’t do that.’
‘No, but they might wait till another call comes in.’
‘So we’ll call again!’ She lurched at the Help button, but he beat her to it, covering it over with his rather sizeable mitt.
‘It’s not going to help matters you calling again,’ he pointed out. ‘In fact it’d probably only make things worse.’
‘Well who else is going to call?’ she cried shrilly. ‘No one even knows we’re here, no one’s going to call, no one’s going to come!’ Her voice rose hysterically with each phrase.
‘Someone from building maintenance will report it as soon as they realise.’
Jo wanted to ask him how long that was likely to take, but she couldn’t find her voice or catch her breath. Her chest felt as though it was caving in and she had to gasp for air. ‘I can’t do an hour and a half, not an hour and a half,’ she muttered. ‘I can’t do it, it’s too long.’
‘What’s wrong?’ he was asking. ‘Are you claustrophobic or something?’
‘No, of course not,’ Jo retorted, recovering her voice. ‘I just get nervous in confined spaces and I have trouble . . . breathing.’
‘I think that makes you claustrophobic.’
‘Look, I’m not crazy.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’
‘I just feel . . .’ but she couldn’t finish what she was going to say. Her head had gone cloudy, and dizzy, and she could feel the panic rising in her chest . . . along with her breakfast. But worse than that, she had a dreadful sensation that she might possibly burst into tears. There was a tightness in her throat, a lump pushing upwards. She’d never burst into tears in her whole life, not even as a child. She used to dare Bradley Peters down the street to pinch her harder and harder, and she bet him he couldn’t make her cry. He never won the bet.
But right now her body was out of her control, and there was nothing that made Jo more anxious than being out of control.
‘Hey, hey, look at me,’ the scruffy man was saying. He had his hands on her shoulders but his voice felt as though it was a long way away, like he was calling her from the other end of a tunnel. Jo focused on his eyes, because everything around them seemed to be spinning. But his eyes were very steady and blue and unblinking.
‘You have to slow down and breathe,’ he was saying. ‘Not so fast, there’s plenty of air in here. Look, there are vents, we’re not going to run out of air.’ He steered her into a corner of the elevator as he spoke, gently easing her down to sit on the floor.
‘What are you doing?’ she said breathlessly.
‘If you sit in a corner it gives you the greatest perspective, see?’ he said, straightening up again. ‘Everything seems bigger.’ He certainly did, looming above her even taller as he reached up to the ceiling, feeling around.
‘Now what are you doing?’ Jo asked, watching him nervously.
‘I’m just going to try to open up your perspective even more,’ he said as his fingers traced the edges of the panels that made up the ceiling, till he finally pushed against one and it dislodged.
Jo gasped. ‘I don’t think you should be doing that.’
He slid the panel out of the way and glanced back down at her. ‘It’s okay, see, now you’re not closed in.’
‘It’s not being closed in that’s the problem.’
‘Then what is the problem?’
‘It’s . . .’ She had no idea, this had never happened to her before. But it wasn’t being closed in, she didn’t see how it could be that. She and Belle had always felt safe being closed in, shut away in their room together, out of the way. The problem was what was going on outside, the voices getting louder, the first few thumps as fists hit walls, doors slammed, the sound of glass smashing. Jo remembered the fear, and unfortunately so did her body.
Joe crouched down in front of her. She had drawn herself up into a tight little ball, shrinking back into the corner, still panting for breath. Her eyes were filled with fear. He’d seen that look often enough, usually on the faces of small children huddled alone behind a mound of rubble that used to be their home. She was right on the edge, and he did not want to have to deal with a full-blown panic attack with rescue more than an hour away.
‘I’ve got something that might help,’ he said, leaning on one knee so that he could reach into the pocket of his jeans. He drew out his wallet and opened it, slipping out two small square yellow tablets in blister packing.
‘Oh no, I don’t think so . . .’ She shook her head. She wasn’t good with drugs.
‘They’re very mild, just a relaxant,’ he persisted.
Jo was suspicious. ‘Why do you carry them with you?’
‘I don’t usually. Only on long-haul flights.’
‘Are you afraid of flying?’
‘No, they help if I can’t sleep –’
‘I’m not taking something that’s going to knock me out!’
‘They won’t knock you out. They just relax you enough so you can get to sleep.’
She looked at him warily. ‘Do you think I’m crazy? I’m not accepting drugs from a stranger. I don’t even know you . . .’ Her heart was pounding painfully in her chest. She wished she could just take one full breath. ‘How do I know . . . you didn’t plan this . . .’ Jo realised how ridiculous that sounded the second the words left her lips.
From the look on his face, so did he. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I lie in wait in elevators during daylight hours, till a woman happens to walk in, alone, and then I make sure it breaks down – I can’t reveal how I manage that, it’s a trade secret – and then I wait for her to panic – don’t ask me how I know she will, I just do, years of experience – and I drug her and have my way with her. That’s why I knocked out the roof panel, so I can make a quick getaway afterwards.’
Jo had stopped listening; she was staring at the pills in his hand, her heart still racing sickeningly in her chest as the air seemed to become thinner and harder to breathe. ‘Are they like Valium or something?’
‘Yeah, except they’re so mild they sell them over the counter in the US. They’ve never knocked me out, I promise you, but they just might get you through this.’
Her head was throbbing and her eyes were stinging. She wasn’t going to make an hour and a half. She snatched the pills from his hand and popped them out of the blister pack onto her tongue.
As soon as Jo swallowed them she began to feel calmer simply from the knowledge that she wouldn’t have a complete breakdown trapped in this steel box with a total stranger. That was the problem with anxiety: the more anxious you felt, the more anxious you became. Now that she didn’t feel anxious about being anxious, she was feeling less anxious. So now she had to regain full control. She began to focus on her breathing, closing her eyes as she consciously slowed it down.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked a
fter a while.
‘I’ll be fine. I’m feeling better already.’ Jo took a deep breath, finally, all the way into her lungs. There, much better. She opened her eyes again.
He’d settled himself back against the opposite wall to her, stretching his long legs out in front of him. It occurred to Jo that she should take a mental note of his description in case she had to give details to police later. Perhaps a little paranoid, but she felt it prudent nonetheless. He was late thirties, maybe forty, a hundred and ninety-five centimetres and ninety kilograms. She’d developed estimating skills from her time doing the police rounds at one of the regional papers out west; it was quite a handy party trick. He had blue eyes; light brown, unkempt hair growing over his collar; unshaven appearance. He was wearing faded jeans, which incidentally looked like he’d slept in them, and a loose short-sleeved blue-checked shirt over a long-sleeved off-white T-shirt. And a pair of shabby Volley sandshoes that had seen better days, quite some time ago now. He looked like an overgrown uni student.
‘So I suppose we should introduce ourselves,’ he proposed, breaking her reverie.
She held up her hand, stopping him. ‘No names, no pack drill, okay?’ she said.
He looked a little stunned. ‘You mean we’re going to be stuck in this elevator for an hour and a half and not speak to each other?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she returned. ‘It’s just that you and I don’t know each other from Adam. We never would have laid eyes on each other again if the elevator hadn’t broken down, so let’s not do the whole thing and swap email addresses and vow to keep in touch out of some sense of . . . I don’t know . . . what do they call it? Siege mentality? Like we have some special connection because of this. We’re not fighting a war together, we’re just ships pausing in the night, okay? Let’s leave it at that.’
Joe listened dumbfounded to her spiel. She was a real piece of work, this one. He wondered what had made her so narky. Broken heart? Broken family? More likely she was just a spoilt little princess who did not tolerate even the slightest inconvenience because of an expectation that the world should pretty much revolve around her.
Jo was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He was just staring at her, and he had this look on his face . . . knowing . . . judging . . . whatever it was, she didn’t like it.
‘I’m going to be late for a meeting,’ she said to break the impasse. ‘What am I saying,’ she sighed. ‘I’m not going to make it at all, am I?’
‘I wouldn’t count on it. But I reckon you’ve got a good excuse.’
Jo shook her head. ‘You don’t know my boss. I could be trapped in a mineshaft and he’d still want to know why I didn’t call in – oh jeez, why didn’t I think!’ She grabbed her bag and started digging around in it. But as she finally retrieved her mobile phone she remembered that it wasn’t charged. ‘Fucking worthless piece of shit!’ She glanced over at him. ‘Sorry.’
He shrugged.
‘My phone’s dead,’ said Jo. ‘Do you mind if I use yours?’
‘Can’t help you, sorry. Mine’s not working either.’
‘You’re kidding me. How did you let that happen?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe the same way you did?’ Princess.
‘I doubt that,’ she said airily. ‘I moved house yesterday, the battery ran down and the recharger’s still packed away.’
‘I flew in from the States this morning,’ Joe informed her. ‘My phone won’t operate locally until I get a new SIM card.’ He paused. ‘Do I win?’
‘Let’s call it a draw,’ she said drolly. So he’d been on a plane overnight. At least that explained the drugs, and the rumpled getup.
‘So, was it a business trip?’ she asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘Were you away on business?’ Jo repeated, like it was any of hers.
Joe wondered what had happened to the ‘no names, no pack drill’ policy. Apparently she had appointed herself chief presiding judge of the territory and would decide what was on or off limits.
‘I’ve been working overseas for a few years,’ he said finally. ‘I had to come back for family reasons. My father’s ill.’
She didn’t want to know that. Why was he telling her that? Did he expect her to ask him all about his father now? Well, she wasn’t going to. Next thing he’d be asking her about her family and she wasn’t going there with a complete stranger.
‘So do you work here, in the building?’ Joe prompted after a while.
Good, back on track. Work was a much safer subject. ‘I’m with the Sunday Tribune.’
Jo noticed the slight surprised raise of his eyebrow.
‘In what capacity?’ he asked.
Of course he would never imagine she was a journalist. Not a print journalist anyway, though the term itself was tautological. Only real journalists worked in print, the others were just performers, show ponies. And real female journalists were brunette, medium to tall, preferably with those black-rimmed serious specs perched on the end of serious noses that could sniff out a story anywhere. Serious stories. Real journalists weren’t short and blonde and, groan, cute. Unless they were newsreaders, and thus back to her original point, not real journalists. Jo hated being cute. No one took her seriously.
She squared her shoulders and cleared her throat. ‘I’m a journalist,’ she said, attempting an authoritative tone.
Joe hadn’t expected that, he wasn’t sure why, she was just too . . . cute, really. Had he known she was in the industry, he’d have picked her for a newsreader, maybe.
Okay, so he was stereotyping big-time and his sisters would slap him on the wrist and have every right to . . . but by definition stereotypes had to have some truth to them.
‘Well, what do you know?’ he remarked in an attempt to sound interested but not surprised.
‘Don’t say it with that tone,’ Jo returned curtly. She’d seen right through him. ‘Just because I’m blonde –’
‘Hey, wait on,’ he interrupted. ‘I didn’t mean that, it’s only –’
‘– a stereotype, is what it is. You shouldn’t judge people on appearances, you know.’
‘You’re absolutely right.’ Joe decided it wasn’t worth going fifteen rounds with her when he didn’t have a leg to stand on anyway. ‘So what do you write about? Do you have a specialty?’
‘I’m a staff writer,’ said Jo. ‘I graduated with first-class honours from Charles Sturt University, which is considered the best school of journalism in the country, and then I did my time around the regional papers, till I was offered a position with the Trib.’
He looked a little taken aback. ‘Well, congratulations.’
What the hell was she doing? She sounded like an idiot. She didn’t have to prove her credentials to him. Though for some reason Jo always felt she had to prove herself. Maybe it was the cute thing. She cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, I was saying, I’m a staff writer, so I’ve written for just about every section of the newspaper.’
‘And you won’t tell me your name?’
‘Nope,’ she shook her head.
‘But I might recognise it.’
There was every chance, and that was another reason to keep it to herself. She had mixed feelings about having her own column. Serious journalists didn’t have columns called ‘Bitch’. Though why she should give a rat’s what he thought, she had no idea. He was a stranger. At least as soon as their incarceration was over, he’d go back to being a stranger, as long as she didn’t tell him anything else about herself. It had probably been a bit of a slip revealing she was a journalist with the Trib. If she was completely honest she’d have to admit she was probably trying to impress him, prove there was a brain under this blonde pelt. But no matter. It wasn’t too late, he couldn’t trace her without a name. And Jo had flatly refused to have her picture at the top of her column, no matter how hard Leo had pushed for it. That had been a deal-breaker. She was not about to have her face labelled Bitch and then have to put up with any crazy on a train or a bus or in
a nightclub calling out ‘Hey bitch’ across the crowd. No amount of column space was worth that.
‘Hello, is anyone in there? Is there someone in the elevator?’ a voice came over the intercom.
Joe sprang up to crouch in front of the speaker. ‘Hi, yeah, hello. There’s two of us in here.’
‘Are you both okay – not hurt or crook or anything?’
He glanced at his cell mate and she just shrugged, yawning. The pills must have started to kick in. ‘No, we’re good.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘So how long is it going to take you to get us out?’ Joe asked hopefully.
‘I can’t actually get you out, mate,’ said the voice. ‘I’m Mick, the building maintenance supervisor. We’ve just reported the breakdown. They said it could be up to an hour and a half before they can get a technician out.’
‘But we already called . . . a while ago now.’
‘They didn’t say anything about that.’
Joe raised a vaguely accusing eyebrow at her, but she just shrugged again. ‘Bastards.’
‘So d’you reckon you’re gunna be all right in there?’ Mick continued. ‘Do you need me to get a message to anyone?’
A message? Contact with the outside world? Jo went to speak up but she stopped herself in time. Bugger, she’d painted herself into a corner now. She didn’t want to lose her anonymity in front of Scruffy. How would she handle this? She was trying to think of some kind of anonymous coded message that would make sense at the other end, when it occurred to her that no one knew where she was, and more than that, no one could reach her. Leo couldn’t rouse on her for being late, Lachlan couldn’t lecture her about keeping her phone charged. This wasn’t her fault, she wasn’t responsible, and she couldn’t do a thing about it. There was something quite liberating about that.
He was watching her expectantly, waiting for an answer. She shook her head. ‘No, no message.’
Crossing Paths Page 4
