Look Behind You

by Sibel Hodge

  Would anyone really care if I didn’t make it out of here? Would they miss me?

  Yes. I would care. Chloe Benson would care. That’s all I have to cling to.

  In the middle of the next wall, I find what I’ve been looking for. I don’t know how I missed it the first time around. Too much fear pumping through me, perhaps And I didn’t examine it all closely. Maybe being methodical works. I must tell Liam how right he is about that. It will make him happy.

  It’s a patch of texture different from the brick. Wood, rough and solid.

  A doorway.

  I examine every part of it. No keyhole. No handle. The door is maybe a couple of metres high and less than a metre wide. On the outside edges of the door is more crumbly, gritty render before the brick starts again. Where the bottom right hand corner of the door meets the ground, I can just about fit my hand through a small hole. Maybe animals have burrowed it out over the years, or it’s collapsed. I wiggle my hand on the other side of the gap but can’t touch anything except air and the concrete floor. I wonder if another tomb is behind this one, or something else. A corridor. A path to safety.

  I push my hands against the door, crying out with the effort.

  It doesn’t budge. I press my shoulder against it. No, not working. Frustrated, I kick it.

  ‘Let me out! Let me out of here!’ Tears stream down my cheeks.

  Drip. Drip. Drip. That’s the only answer I get, and maybe it’s a good thing. At least no one has come back to kill me yet. Panting, I slump to the floor. My hand connects with something cold and hard. I recoil instantly, remembering the rat. But this isn’t an animal. This isn’t something alive.

  I pick it up and feel along its length. It’s about half a metre long. One end is rounded, and the other is sharp, jagged. No, this is definitely not something alive.

  It’s something very, very dead.

  3

  I’m rigid with fear. A sob rises in my throat, lungs struggling for oxygen. It’s a bone. It must be animal. Can’t be human. Can’t, can’t, can’t. Don’t think about that.

  I try to remember my biology lessons at school. Dissecting a rat. Studying a cow’s knee joint. Yes, this must be a cow bone. A femur, probably. I don’t know why a cow bone would be here, or how it could wander underground. Maybe not a cow then. A dog. A big dog.

  I pick it up, pushing the thoughts away. No time to think where it came from or what it really is. To me it’s a weapon. No, not a weapon. A tool. That’s all. I scrape at the render between the doorframe and the brick with the sharp end of bone, starting where the hole is. Dig, scrape. Dig, scrape, gouge. Cold, silent tears stream down my face. In the blackness, I hear the sound of falling grit. It’s working.

  Wiggle. Swallow. Bitter saliva in my mouth. Gouge. Scrape. Drip, drip, drip. The sound could drive you mad. Or was I already mad?

  A hint of memory struggles to work its way to the surface. A hospital again. Me and… something. I don’t know. It’s gone. What’s wrong with my brain? Why can’t I remember how I got here? Is it the lump on my head? Do I have some kind of brain damage?

  Who am I? What do I really know?

  I’m Chloe Benson. I’m twenty-seven. That’s what I know. That has to be enough for now.

  My arms shake. Everything shakes. I’m one big shaking vessel.

  Am I really here? Am I dreaming, fast asleep in my bed? I want to wake up. I want to wake up!

  ‘Stop it!’ I say. ‘Mind, stop wandering. Concentrate.’ So I do, because I don’t want to die down here. Don’t want to be poor Chloe Benson who died in a hole underground.

  I work down one side of the door. Scraping, gouging, digging at it with my nails and the bone as I go. Something sticky on me now. Blood on my fingertips and knuckles, mixing with the render. Pain. Sweat cooling on my already freezing body.

  Ignore it!

  I try to visualize something that calms me. A hummingbird hovering in the air as it sucks in nectar from a bright purple flower. Sunset over mountains, the sky streaked with gold, red, and orange. What is it they say, red sky at night, shepherd’s delight? There, see, I’m relaxed. Not a care in the world. Dolphins gliding through the ocean in perfect time with each other. A beach in the Caribbean, white sand, turquoise water. I’m back to water again!

  How long have I been here? No clue.

  How long will it take?

  There’s now a gap along one side of the doorway where the render has crumbled away. OK, good. You can rest now. I slump to the floor. Cold. So cold. I wrap my arms round me.

  I must fall asleep again, because the next thing I know someone wakes me up, screaming. It’s me.

  How long have I slept? How can I sleep when I’m trying to survive?

  Slapping myself on my cheeks, I stand up again. I must try. Must do this.

  I work my way down the other side of the door. Render falls out between the frame and the brick wall. Slowly. Painfully slowly. I think about icy cold bottles of water. I picture opening the top and swallowing. Swallowing and swallowing. I can’t stop. Can’t get enough. Diving into a swimming pool and drinking the whole thing. I wiggle my tongue again and wonder how much saliva a human can produce. Is it infinite?

  I’m halfway down the door now. The muscles in my arms burn. Fingers numb, hope sliding away.

  Maybe I’m in hell. I’ve done something really bad, and I’m in hell. No, surely hell would be warmer than this. What have I done? How did I get here?

  Don’t know. Don’t know. Can’t think.

  I imagine being in front of a roaring log fire. The wood crackles and spits. I know it’s not real, though. I can tell by my teeth chattering.

  A waft of my stale sweat and rancid breath hits me.

  Jump into a bath. A scorching hot bath. Those winter days when you’re so cold to the bone that only a bath will do. Not a shower. A bath. With jasmine essential oil. Fluffy towels heated on the radiator. Mmm, lovely, and...

  I stop mid-thought as I reach the bottom of the doorway. Most of the render along the sides and top is gone now, apart from some small bits. I breathe deeply in and out, trying to regain some energy.

  OK, this is it. Push.

  I brace my feet firmly on the floor, one in front of the other. I bend my front knee for stability and push as hard as I can. The door creaks and groans.

  Push. Come on, Chloe Benson who wants to stay alive.

  It shifts slightly. Then it’s falling through inky black and landing somewhere on the other side with a thud. The momentum propels me forward with it, and I’m flying until my outstretched hands hit another wall.

  I spin around, fingers skimming more brick. I’m in a corridor or tunnel, but I still can’t see a thing.

  OK, this is good. This is very good. Go. Run. Escape!

  Left or right? Which way?

  Who cares? Just go!

  I hurry along the corridor, arms out in front of me, hoping to seek out another doorway somewhere.

  Smack! My hands hit the end of the corridor, which shoots me backwards, and I land awkwardly on my right leg. I stand up. I’m sore, but nothing’s broken.

  There’s a doorway here, too. Not wood. It’s smooth. Metal. I search for a handle and find one. I lift it up and pull. It groans as it opens, like a wounded animal screeching.

  And I’m through into another corridor. Steps going up.

  Hazy light in the distance, a million miles away.

  I’m running towards it, legs like rubber.

  When I get to the end there’s another doorway. Metal again. I heave it open.

  Darkness, but not complete. Stars shimmer between shapes of trees. I smell air. Not stale dampness but fresh air. Forest. Leaves. Owls screeching, out hunting for the night.

  Then most things are a blur. Heart thumping. Legs pumping. Running, running, running. Puffs of breath. Blood surging in my head. Woods. Bushes. Slipping on a fallen, slimy log. Pain in my ankle. Up and running. Stumbling. A bat’s wings flapping nearby. Pulse hammering in my ears. Animals sn
uffling, scratching. Rabbits scattering. Branches scraping my face, my arms, pulling hair. Lungs burning. Twigs cracking under my heavy feet. An owl hooting. Muscles screaming. The moon high up.

  Then a tarmac road.

  I jerk to a stop and lean forward, resting my hands on my thighs, trying to breathe. My chest rises and falls with the exertion, exhaustion. I can’t afford to stop.

  And I’m running again, along the side of the road. Headlights in the distance. Running towards them.

  I wave my hands in the air wildly and move into the middle of the road. The lights get closer, slowing down.

  I sink to the asphalt on my knees and slip into more blackness.

  PART TWO

  SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET

  4

  Voices filter into my unconsciousness. Echoes of voices.

  No. Not voices. Beeping. Slow and steady. Beep, beep, beep, beep.

  Pain everywhere.

  For a moment, everything is blank. Then I remember the tomb. I’m still there.

  My eyelids fly open and I gasp for air, sucking in more than I can breathe. I cough and splutter. The beeping accelerates.

  A nurse appears in front of my eyes as my vision returns. ‘Nice to see you awake,’ she says, a pleased smile on her face.

  ‘What happened?’ I look down at my hands, bandaged with gauze.

  ‘We’re hoping you can tell us. A motorist found you collapsed in the road.’ She examines the machines monitoring me. ‘Your vitals are stable. You’ve been unconscious since they brought you in.’ After scribbling something in a folder of notes at the end of my bed, she stands at the side of me, looking down. ‘How are you feeling, pet?’

  ‘My head hurts. My throat. Hands.’ I notice a drip attached to a vein in the front of my elbow via a big needle taped down.

  ‘You’re mildly dehydrated, with some kind of bump to your head. You’ve had a CT scan and an MRI, but the doctors couldn’t find any damage to your brain, which is good.’

  ‘What…’ I lick my lips. Try to swallow past the lump in my throat. ‘What…date is it?’

  ‘It’s Thursday.’

  ‘No.’ My voice is a hoarse whisper. ‘What date?’

  ‘Ninth of May.’

  Ninth of May? What? No, it can’t be.

  ‘Did you say the ninth of May?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  But if the last thing I remember is Liam’s birthday party on the twenty-third of March, I’ve lost about seven weeks of memory.

  I lift a hand to the side of my head, touching the lump there. The pain brings nausea bubbling to the surface. ‘I’m going to be sick.’

  The nurse grabs a cardboard kidney-shaped bowl from on top of a cabinet beside my bed, thrusting it under my face just before I vomit. After the final spasms wrack my body, she wipes my face with a wad of tissues, also from the cabinet.

  ‘You’re OK, don’t worry. I’m going to page the doctor, and he’ll come and see you.’ She wheels a bedside table next to me and places a jug of water from the top of the cabinet on it, along with a glass that she fills. ‘You can have some water, but don’t drink too much at once. Slow sips, OK?’

  I nod. ‘My husband. Does my husband know I’m here?’

  ‘I’m afraid we haven’t been able to tell anyone where you are. You had no ID when you were brought in, you see, so we didn’t know who you were.’ She takes a pen and pad from her top pocket. ‘Give me your name, address, and phone number, and I’ll get in touch with him.’

  ‘I’m Chloe Benson. My husband’s name is Liam.’ Instinctively, I reach my sore hands to my raspy throat as I tell her our address, home phone number, his mobile number.

  She pats my shoulder so gently I can’t actually feel it. ‘I’ll contact him. And the doctor will be with you soon.’

  ‘I was kidnapped.’ My eyes water as the full realization of everything that’s happened sinks in.

  Her mouth falls open. ‘Kidnapped?’

  I can only nod, tears streaming down my face. Even to my ears, I know how it sounds. Crazy. Ridiculous. Who would want to kidnap a suburban wife and teacher?

  ‘Right. Well, I’d better add calling the police to my list then, too. Don’t worry; you’re safe now, pet.’ Her shoes squeak on the lino as she marches off out of the room, carrying the sick bowl with purposeful strides.

  I pick up the plastic cup of water in my bandaged hand, wincing at the throbbing pain in my fingertips. I intend to take a few sips, but I can’t stop myself. I gulp the whole thing down in one then pour some more. A wave of nausea rises inside, but I swallow it down and sip the next cup slowly, looking around my private room off the main ward.

  From my bed, I can see out to the nurses’ station. The nurse who just came in is on the phone, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. She frowns, looks up at me, and says something else into the phone, shaking her head. My gaze wanders past her, out into the rest of the ward. Someone wails in pain. Someone snores loudly. Chairs scrape against the floor. Footsteps echo.

  I wipe my damp cheeks with the back of my hand and lean my head against the pillow, closing my eyes.

  The next time I open them again, a man is standing at the end of my bed, reading my notes. He’s wearing a white coat over a suit. A doctor, then. He’s got wavy ginger hair and a smattering of freckles across his face. Another folder about four centimetres thick is tucked under his arm.

  ‘Who are you?’ I lift my head slightly from the pillow and feel dizzy. I rest it back again, eyelids fluttering as I try to keep them open.

  ‘Ah, glad to see you’re awake.’ He smiles, puts the notes he’s reading into a slot at the end of my bed, and sits down in the plastic chair next to me. He places the folder from under his arm onto his lap. ‘I’m Doctor Traynor. I’m a neurologist. And you are Chloe Benson, is that right?’

  ‘Yes. Did you get hold of my husband? The police?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently, your husband is in Scotland, but he’s making his way back now. The police are also on their way.’ He takes a slim-line torch from his top pocket and shines it into my eyes. The sudden brightness makes me blink and lean further back into the pillow. ‘It’s OK; I just want to examine you.’ He holds my eyelids open until he’s finished. Clicking off the torch, he says, ‘Good. Can you follow my finger with your eyes?’ He holds up his finger, moving up, down, side to side. ‘Yes, very good. Do you know what happened?’

  ‘I was kidnapped,’ I say in a shaky voice. ‘I woke up underground somewhere and managed to escape. Then I just kept running and running. I don’t know how I got there. I don’t—’ I break off to take a calming breath. ‘I don’t remember what happened.’

  He frowns, nods, and looks at his folder. ‘Can you confirm your date of birth for me, please, Chloe?’

  I tell him.

  ‘And your address?’

  I tell him that, too.

  ‘Before you were…er…kidnapped, what’s the last thing you remember?’

  ‘A party. My husband’s birthday party.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘The twenty-third of March.’

  He narrows his eyes slightly. ‘You can’t remember anything since the twenty-third of March?’

  That’s what I just said, isn’t it? ‘No,’ I say calmly, fighting the frustration.

  ‘Do you know what date it is today?’

  ‘The nurse told me it’s the ninth of May. Which means I’ve lost seven weeks of my life somewhere. Have I got brain damage? Is that why I can’t remember?’ I touch the lump above my ear.

  ‘When you were brought in unconscious, we carried out some scans. Apart from the bump to your head and a few abrasions on your wrists and hands and face, we couldn’t find anything significantly wrong with you, which is good. There’s no brain injury or damage. You are a little dehydrated, but the drip will sort that out now, and there should be no lasting effects. But…’ His smile erodes as he studies me for a moment before tapping the file in his lap. ‘These are your me
dical notes.’

  I frown, confused. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you remember being hospitalized in April?’

  ‘What? No? I just told you. I remember my husband’s party, and then…’ I stop, wondering what the hell he’s talking about. ‘Did I have an operation or something?’

  ‘No.’ He flicks open the folder and reads to me. ‘You suffered a miscarriage on March the twenty-fourth. You were apparently very depressed afterwards, and your GP prescribed Zolafaxine. It’s an antidepressant.’

  His words trigger a memory to hit me with the force of a wrecking ball. Of course! It’s what I was trying to remember when I was held captive. The important thing I was going to tell Liam about after his party. I was pregnant. I don’t know how I could’ve possibly forgotten that.

  I tune him out as my hands instinctively touch my stomach. An empty stomach, devoid of any life that was in there. I gasp. Tears sting my eyes. But I have no time to reflect on what I’ve lost, because he carries on talking and I have to concentrate on what he’s saying. This is important.

  ‘…a bad reaction to the antidepressants, apparently. It can happen occasionally.’

  ‘What do you mean a bad reaction? What kind of reaction?’

  ‘You were suffering from psychosis-like side effects.’

  My blood turns to ice in my veins. ‘Wh…what does that mean?’

  ‘You were having hallucinations. You were confused, agitated, and paranoid. Your husband and the hospital thought it best for you to be admitted to hospital for your own safety until the drugs wore off.’