When I Know Your Name

by Gemma M. Lawrence

  ‘Lena, hi, how’re you doing?’ Adam replied. ‘All the better for speaking to the love of your life?’

  ‘Well, obviously,’ she said playfully. ‘Glad you’re back safely. Good journey?’

  ‘Great, apart from the delays and the people.’

  She chuckled.

  ‘I’m serious, Leens,’ he continued. ‘I think there must be some unwritten rule that allows people to become complete morons the minute they step into an airport terminal.’

  ‘Adam,’ she chided. ‘They can’t all travel business class like you. Be kind.’

  ‘I’m killing them with kindness,’ he said. ‘Best thing for them.’

  ‘You’re a nightmare. What time are you going to get here?’

  ‘Thank you, and my driver is negotiating us through the traffic as we speak,’ he said. ‘London is even more chaotic tonight.’

  She heard the tap, tap, tap of a keyboard. He was working as he talked, but it didn’t surprise her. He rarely gave her one hundred per cent of his attention and she was used to discussing whatever she needed over a laptop or in between phone calls.

  He continued. ‘I guess I’ll be thirty minutes, maybe forty, max, so unlatch the door and I’ll run in and freshen up before we go.’

  She hadn’t wanted to mention the man across the street because she knew the reaction she’d get, but it was unavoidable now. ‘No, use your key please. I’d rather keep the door locked.’

  ‘Really, Lena,’ he sighed. ‘Tell me you’re not worrying about that man again,’ he said, the humour gone from his voice.

  ‘Well, if you must know, yes I am,’ she replied. ‘He was out there just now, actually. He’s only just gone.’

  ‘For God’s sake, we’ve spoken about this. Not everyone is out to do you harm, remember?’

  ‘That was five years ago, Adam,’ she retorted. ‘And he was a total weirdo.’ She tutted. ‘I wish I’d never told you about it now.’

  He sighed. ‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’ve been travelling and I’m tired, that’s all. I’ll use my key. We can talk about it when I get there.’ His voice sounded kinder now, more patient, but she wasn’t sure how genuine it was.

  She wound up their call and decided that a quick shower would help to clear her mind and get her ready for the night ahead.

  It had been a long day, but she loved her work. After finishing university, she had floundered, but it had been three years since she had secured a job as a conservator at the British Museum. It was history that she loved, not her father’s beloved law, and building a picture of how civilisations lived from the fragments that were left behind. It was rewarding and paid well enough to mollify her parents, even though they did little to hide their disappointment when she told them she wouldn’t be pursuing a career in law too.

  She didn’t let it concern her though. She was happy where she was in her life, living in her top-floor apartment in a row of converted Georgian townhouses with heavy black front doors and iron railings that spoke of grander times gone by. Burton Street was close to the Museum and a stone’s throw from Tavistock Square Gardens, a haven of outside space. It had everything she needed. It was home.

  Once showered, she dressed in a smart black dress – the expectation to dress for dinner was always a given at her parents’ house – and attempted to tame her hair. This was a constant struggle, mainly because she had no patience for it, and because it was happiest trailing down her back, in long, dark waves. But for tonight, she styled it into a bun at the nape of her neck and teased out sections to frame her face.

  She was ready and covering her lips in gloss when the key turned in the lock. Adam pushed open the door, dropped his case and came to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. He smothered her ‘hello’ with a kiss.

  ‘Well, I do believe you missed me this time,’ she said when he pulled back.

  ‘Yes, actually, I did,’ he said with a smile.

  He kissed her again, just as his phone rang, breaking the moment.

  ‘Sorry, darling, I have to take this,’ he said with a sheepish smile. Elena nodded, used to these interruptions and she rectified her smudged lips while he dealt with business. When he was finished, he disappeared to shower and change and returned with a small gift bag.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘I wasn’t going to come back from New York empty-handed, now, was I? Go on then, open it,’ he said, watching with interest.

  His reaction could have meant that he wanted to see her joy, but she understood him well enough to know that if it was like any other gift he’d given before, it was because he didn't know what was in the bag either. She knew he lived by the notion that there was nothing wrong in getting his PA to organise little things like gifts, because he was always too busy earning the money to buy them.

  She reached into the bag and pulled out the recognisable blue Tiffany box. Inside was a double chain bracelet, held together with the iconic ‘Return to Tiffany’ heart tag. It was delicate and pretty – and absolutely not what Adam would have chosen.

  Her suspicion was confirmed when he murmured, ‘Hmm, not bad,’ as she held it up.

  ‘Adam it’s lovely. Thank you,’ she said, ignoring the sinking feeling within her. She planted a kiss on his cheek and reminded herself that a gift was a gift, by whatever means.

  ‘You’re welcome darling,’ he said as he gathered up his things ready to leave for her parents’. ‘Now let’s not be late.’

  ***

  The next morning, she woke to a silent room and a note from Adam saying that he had headed straight to the office, to get his report in.

  She relaxed for a while and enjoyed the peace, not wanting to drag herself from her bed and start the day.

  The visit to her parents had been like any other and, as predicted, her father was in top-level schmoose mode, with him and Adam sharing enough affectionate back slaps to emphasise just how highly regarded he was by her parents. And that meant that, in their eyes, it was only a matter of time before ‘boyfriend’ became ‘husband’. The only problem with that idea was that she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Her mother had been her usual graceful self, not a hair out of place, and had given them both two-cheeked kisses with an extra hug for Elena. Never too close though – Elena knew the drill. Big displays of affection were for gameshow contestants, as her mother put it, and not the family.

  Words like ‘bonds’ and 'hedge-fund’ had littered the conversation with Adam in his element and very soon Elena was bored and on the outside once more, looking in. She hadn’t managed to discuss her concerns with her parents either, because every time she tried, the conversation had been steered back to Adam and his rousing anecdotes. Although it left her more than a little frustrated, she allowed him his moment, knowing that discussing her concerns on ‘his night’ was likely to lead to arguments on their journey home and she had no appetite for that. The chat with her parents could wait.

  She sighed and hauled herself out of bed. Today was a day for coffee. Lots of it, and for starters she’d go for the best. She’d stop off at the coffee shop at the top of her road – her local and her favourite.

  She checked the window again. No sign of the man.

  It’s nothing to do with me. Why would it be? So just stop worrying. She showered, dressed and applied a little make-up, all the while letting the thought of fresh coffee hurry her along.

  As she opened the door of Marco’s, delicious, warm, coffee-infused air wafted into her face and filled her with a sense of cosy familiarity. She loosened the pashmina wrapped around her neck and shuffled her way through the empty tables that would soon be busy with a throng of people. But now, still early, there was only a queue of workers requiring their daily hit of caffeine before they braved their commute.

  Marco was a stout Italian man in his fifties. He was kind and funny and loved to share wild, heavily embellished stories with his customers, especially the regulars. His eyes lit up when he saw that she was next in the queue.

/>   ‘Elena, my beautiful princess. How are you today?’

  ‘I’m good Marco, thanks. You?’

  ‘Better for seeing you, my darling,’ he said with a wink. ‘Is your man back from America?’ he asked, with particular emphasis on the A in America, a play on his embellished accent.

  ‘Yup,’ she said, wriggling the bracelet on her wrist. ‘More presents.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Marco nodded, thoughtful for a moment. ‘More trinkets. But I wonder if he realises his greatest gift is you, Elena.’

  She laughed. ‘I doubt it.’

  Marco didn’t laugh, but smiled kindly. ‘I would make sure any man who came near such a beautiful flower as you, would be made aware of what a precious gift you are.’

  It was a paternal role Marco played with Elena, and his words touched her. Within five minutes of arriving, he’d spoken with more affection than her father had managed in an entire evening.

  ‘Marco, you’re so sweet, thank you.’

  ‘Here’s my little piece of advice for today: make sure you have people in your life who appreciate you, my darling.’

  She nodded. ‘Well, I’ll try,’ she said, reaching for her purse.

  He held up his hand. ‘No, no. Consider this one ‘on the house’, and you have a good day.’

  ‘Thanks, Marco. You’re the best,’ she said as she turned, too close to the person standing behind. As she bumped against the unknown commuter, a trickle of hot coffee spilled through the plastic cover of her cup, burning her fingers. She flicked it away as she looked up to apologise.

  The man, dressed in an open-collared shirt under a thick navy cashmere coat was miraculously free of spilt coffee. He was calm, assured, and had the looks to back it up. Standing so close, she caught the warmth from him and the sweet, musky notes of his aftershave, which only served to fluster her more.

  ‘I’m sorry, are you okay?’ he asked as he reached out and placed a steadying hand on her elbow. He smiled, in complete control and clearly poles apart from how she was feeling. He studied her for a moment, waiting for her response, his head slightly tilted to one side as he watched the embarrassment flush over her face. It was clear he was enjoying the moment.

  ‘Oh, no, I’m fine. I’m sorry. It was my mistake,’ she stammered, trying to feign calm.

  ‘Well, as long as you’re sure,’ he said, holding her gaze before pointing to the messy cup in her hand. ‘Can I get you another?’

  She had lost her thirst for the coffee in her hand as even breathing became an effort. ‘No, but thank you, it’s fine,’ she said, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear, feeling the weight of his scrutiny of her.

  He held her there for a little while longer before nodding, deciding the moment was over. He moved his hand from her elbow and stepped aside, gesturing for her to walk by, still smiling but with eyes fixed on her.

  One foot in front of the other, Elena.

  As she left the coffee shop, she glanced back, fully expecting those eyes to be watching her leave, but she was disappointed to find he wasn’t doing that at all. He was at the counter, completely at ease, giving his order, their encounter nothing but a blip in his day. She chuckled to herself that she’d dared a sneak peek at him, like the silly schoolgirl she’d reverted to. She shook her head and made her way to work. It would serve to provide some light relief with Charlotte later if nothing else.

  Chapter 3

  Her mind drifted in and out of consciousness like the ebb and flow of the tide. She couldn’t open her eyes. They were too heavy and it would take too much effort, so she avoided the task. She could be hovering on the edge of life or death. She didn’t know or care. She was only here, lost in a surreal dream.

  Blackness.

  She woke in a haze to voices, which spoke in low muffled tones. Male voices. Someone used her name. ‘They’ seemed to know exactly who she was but she was in the dark still, in every sense.

  She was unsteady, her head spinning as if she was drunk. But whatever coursed through her system had blocked the fear and panic for a moment, had saved her from its vice-like grip, and she lingered in a strange calm.

  Blackness.

  Waking again, as if floating to the surface of an ocean, she became aware of her surroundings once more. Now there was more clarity, as the drug loosened its hold on her. She tensed and held her breath, ready for attack. Opening her eyes, she squinted, letting them adjust. She was alone and relief washed over her. Her body was heavy, a lead weight, and she lay on a thin blanket. She was fully clothed with nothing torn or exposed and was in no pain. Small mercies. Carefully, she ran her fingers over the rough floorboards, the edges catching on her skin, and she remained there, unable to move.

  She was no longer in the shack. Now she was in the middle of a room with faded, discoloured floral wallpaper on the walls. It had begun to peel away and exposed crumbling plasterwork beneath, blackened with damp. The room was empty of furniture, except for a small wooden chair in the far corner, eerie in its uselessness. Wherever she was, the long-since-abandoned building was rank with dereliction and decay.

  To her left was a door and to her right was a window with long wooden boards laid across it, and this was where her attention focused. These lengths of timber were not to protect from intruders, they were a barrier; to keep someone contained. The first fluttering of panic began to take root within her as a fog of claustrophobia inched into her consciousness. Don’t think about it. Focus on something else, anything else. She kept her eyes on the window behind the wood, staring at the fragments of glass that gave a glimpse of the outside world, where life was continuing as normal. The glass was covered in thick dust and grime and was cracked in places, but even so, she could just make out some blurry sky. The pink clouds against the dark blue could have signified dawn or dusk, she couldn’t be sure, the sands of time lost in her black oblivion.

  It was very cold.

  She lay there for a moment, letting her body adjust, to come to. In time, she became more alert, but if the drug that ran through her system had anaesthetised her sense of fear, it had not dulled her sense of pain. The nagging jab of discomfort soon escalated into a deep, aching pain. Every muscle in her body hurt, but the main centre of her pain was in her legs. Lactic acid trapped inside strained muscle, which if she had the will, would have had her squirming to find comfort and ease.

  Her ankle smarted too, throbbing and sickly warm. Tentatively, she wiggled it but knew the only way to assess the damage properly was to get her weight onto it – if she ever got the energy to stand.

  Her hands were still bound with the plastic cable tie. Two pink circles ran over her wrists, so she moved them as best she could to aid circulation and ease the stiffness that had crept in. The grazes on her palms were sore but superficial, but these became insignificant compared to the bright, zinging pain in her right leg – rips in her skin made by thorns and brambles when she'd tried to escape. Long slithers of dark, blood-red lines ran up the lower half of her leg and nestled in between them was a long, deep wound, the length of her hand at least. Blood glistened in the torn skin and there were smears of dried blood and dirt around it. It was a mess, but in her panic, she hadn’t even felt it snag. Nausea moved through her in waves, so she turned her head away, as pathetic tears threatened. But nothing came, her eyes as dry as her parched mouth.

  Awake now and senses snapped on like a switch, she needed to move. She was too vulnerable on the floor.

  ‘Come on, get up,’ she whispered into the silent room. She rolled over and hoisted herself up onto her right elbow. The room seemed to sway and black dots danced about in front of her eyes. She had moved too fast and needed to grip the floor beneath her to steady her senses. With no improvement, she admitted defeat and lay down again, staring at the peeling ceiling. ‘Take it easy,’ she said, breathing away the urge to vomit.

  Once the nausea had passed, she tried again, the knowledge that they would soon return keeping her motivated. This time she was successful and rose to her fee
t, careful to keep her weight on her left foot. She stood for a while, letting herself adjust, and although the room swam again, she was in control of it, holding her hands out for balance.

  Well done. Good work. Now walk.

  She placed her right foot on the floor, putting a little weight onto it, testing it out. It ached and was sore, but she didn’t have the shooting pain that she imagined she’d feel if it was broken.

  It’s just a sprain. That’s all.

  Putting harder pressure on it now, she shuffled around the empty room careful not to make too much noise, scared to bring attention to the fact that she was awake. A small sob caught in her throat. She needed to take small steps, both physically and mentally, because, in terms of the latter, she was holding on to her sanity by a single thread that might just snap if overloaded with the knowledge of the horrors that lay ahead.

  Sweat trickled down her back as she tried to calm her panicked mind. Was she being held by these men to be raped, killed, or both? Was this a kidnap and ransom demand? Or was this all of the above? She knew the risks of kidnap. Of course she did; her family’s wealth was no secret. Her parents had to face the fact that this scenario might become a reality many years ago and had taken all of the necessary precautions. They had fitted panic alarms, trackers, CCTV equipment, all installed at their home to secure their safety as much as possible. They had all been educated about what might happen if one of them was abducted, and the list was long and not exhaustive; the removal of extremities – fingers or ears, or both – to send to the family, a ploy to keep them focused and away from the police. The knowledge sent a fresh wave of nausea through her.

  She paused, focused her mind and concentrated on the next steps. If this was a ransom demand, she was reasonably safe if no call had yet been made. She just had to figure out how she’d stay that way.

  She blocked that thought from her mind and managed a circuit of the room, shuffling on shaky legs, holding her bound hands against the crumbling wall as best she could. It was pointless, but as she reached the door, she grasped the handle and turned it, careful to be quiet. As predicted, it remained rigid and unmoving, but the desperation still hit her and she began to sob as she rested her head against the flaking paint. She held her hands against her mouth to stifle the noise, hoping that the emotion would soon subside. Thin tears ran down her cheeks as she moved across the room to the blanket, her only source of comfort. She sat with her back to the wall, facing the door, keeping watch. Sleep would make her vulnerable, but with no apparent control of it, her head would drop until she snapped awake again, her eyes focused on the door.