by Palmer, Dee
“Love . . . what Daniel is like when he loves.” But my words have no visible impact she just fixes her impassive face with another fake smile and continues to torture me with her speech.
“The file was mostly about Kit but it did have some background information regarding Ethan and your father which has proved a useful added incentive for Kit and her insatiable greed.” With disconcerting hubris she smiles at Kit. Kit is a statue seemingly unaffected by the insult or maybe she took it as a complement, either way I couldn’t tell. Angel turns back to face me with a deep set frown. “You dared to question me, interfere with my relationship with Daniel . . . threaten my plans and my future! But you under estimated our history, Daniel is so very loyal. He will never forgive himself for killing our baby. It haunts him so much that I knew you couldn’t possibly win. Besides I am his first love, he will love me again. I can see he wants to and now he can.”
“Your husband said you knew Daniel never loved you . . . that he was the one that got away. That’s not first love . . . thats a narrow escape.” I brace myself for another lunge and strike to my face but she remains standing in the doorway with Kit.
She taps her fingernails on her lip and looks to the sky as if she is trying to get answers to questions she has long since answered. “Even so,” She muses like she hasn’t heard a word I said. “That still wouldn’t get me what I want and then you got pregnant.” She huffs out her revelation with mock pleasure but I can see the envy and hurt flash in her eyes. “He doesn’t know of course but he does talk and every little detail he threw my way I stored. I guess if one wasn’t so sensitive to such a topic one might not pick it up but I. . well, let’s just say I have a vested interest. But I do have to thank you for making this so fu—” She slaps her hand over her mouth and shakes her head with a wry smile. “You’ve just made this so very easy for me and even easier, because of your sorry excuse of a social life, to make you disappear.” She sniffs, her expression a mix of pity and distain.
I struggle to hold the staggered breaths and my voice is so shaky I know I won’t be able to hold the tears back much longer. “But they’ll still know . . . they will still look for me. Marco, Sofia even Daniel might—” My voice breaks and I let out my first broken sob.
“Oh Bethany, now this is heart breaking, really it is. Marco I believe is traveling and Sofia is loved up and off on an extended honeymoon so I don’t think you will be featuring on their radar for some time. So no, they won’t. When they do return the answer is still no, they won’t come looking because they will know exactly where you are, having the best holiday and falling in love. I will keep them updated with Twitter and Facebook, photos and snippets enough to stop anyone coming looking or suspecting anything for at least, mmmm, seven months?” She raises her brow as a question and I instantly wrap my hand across my tummy. “Yes around seven months should do and then you will . . . Oh, I don’t want to spoil the surprise. I just hate it when people give the ending away don’t you?” She giggles again but then her face falls and her expression is ice cold. I feel the temperature drop. “Daniel is broken. You broke him and when he sees how quickly you got over him he is going to be devastated. But you don’t need to worry because I will be right there comforting him as he comforts me when my own marriage disintegrates and my tummy expands with his child.” She backs out of the door closely followed by Kit and all of my hope.
I double up, my head in my lap with the enormity of what I’ve just heard. Pain slices deep inside and I swear if I pull up straight there will be an open wound the width of my abdomen. I rock and shake to ease the agony; but the unprecedented pain consuming me is overshadowed by the fear for my baby. What am I going to do? I can’t think straight as her words slice away at my wafer thin courage and dwindling hope. She’s right my best friends are away, at least for a month and maybe they won’t question my absence if I’m not really absent. I don’t know how she is going to show I’m sunning myself on a beach when I am pallid, fearful and held captive in a basement. This room is hardly a tour brochure photo opportunity and I am far from looking the picture of a happy traveller. I cry out loud and forget trying to remain stoic as I let the tears fall when I think of Daniel and how I wish I was fucking wrong now. I can’t stop the images flash behind my closed lids of the sadness in his face when he told me Angel was pregnant. He knew then that it changed everything but he didn’t know how much. He would’ve taken my tears at the time as resignation, confirmation that I believed we were finally over. Why would he come looking for me when we are over.
I don’t know how long I cry for but my sobs are now dry, steady and constant. I clearly have no more liquid to spare. My head still throbs from the blow I took from Clive but the fuzziness and jumble of thoughts is crowding and making it really difficult to think. All I seem to generate is more confusing questions but it’s when I start to figure out solutions I realise I might be slipping into some sort of post traumatic psychosis. I mean, I ask how she is going to pass off being pregnant. Well, Bethany, she could just use a bit of padding and not let anyone get too close as long as no one sees her naked. I get a sickly taste and retch in my mouth at the thought but she has a few more weeks before she will start to really show. So there is actually plenty of time to get naked now and just cover up later. What the fuck am I thinking? She isn’t going to start to show at all! And what about the scan, how is she going to fake a scan? How is she going to give birth without anyone there? Wait, how am I going to give birth without anyone there? Fuck I need to get out of here. Kit and Angel, Angel and Kit . . . my rock and a hard place. My chances of getting either one on my side are laughable. I hate to acknowledge how utterly desperate my choices have become that I am even contemplating Kit as a viable collaborator in my escape plan. But after hours of futile internal dialogue that is what I am left with. Kit is the lesser of two evils. I know her, she may hate me but she knows me and we have history. We were family once. I need to start praying that blood really is thicker . . . I am just not so sure it’s blood that courses through her veins because up to now it’s always been poison.
I TWIST MY neck to try and relieve the tension. I roll my shoulders because my right one has set like concrete supporting my suspended arm. I am going to look like one of those crabs with the one huge claw if I have to hang like this for seven more months. Oh God! My heart just plummets like a dead weight through the dusty threadbare carpet on the floor, at the thought of the next seven months. I let out a scream of undiluted anguish mixed with anger, frustration and hatred. The sound bounces off the cold walls with no soft furnishings to soften the edges it sounds raw and acrid. It scrapes my sore throat and leaves me breathless; it accomplishes nothing and makes me feel more helpless and alone. I jump at the sound of the locks on the door and wonder if loud noises, along with harsh language are not acceptable and would constitute breaking the rules. Kit steps inside and pushes the door closed with her backside; her hands are balancing a tray with a covered plate and a fresh jug of water. She narrows her eyes and approaches me slowly trying to gauge whether I have any fight in me but she needn’t worry I have nothing, for now.
She carefully places the tray and steps back just far enough, her hip jutting with one side dropped, her arms crossed making a balcony of her perfectly pert and paid for breasts. Her lips form a thin line and I can see her jaw twitch as she grinds her teeth silently. I make a show of how difficult it is to move when I am fixed to the wall. Eventually I sit back and with my left arm lift the lid on the plate revealing what has to be the blandest selection of food known to man. One small portion of lightly grilled chicken breast, ridged barely warmed broccoli and brown rice but I must be hungry because my mouth actually waters at this depressing dish. No cutlery to speak of, just one chubby plastic child’s spoon which I hold up with a raised brow toward Kit in query. She shrugs like I should be surprised that I am not given implements that could be used to attack or maim. I shake my head and laugh as I roll the smooth chunky spoon in my hand, yep not going
to be able to use this to escape. I doubt I will be able to use it to cut mashed potato. After several unsuccessful attempts at trying to spoon the chicken into smaller pieces I give up and pick the rest of the meat with my fingers, tearing it in to smaller pieces with my teeth.
As small as the portion was I still couldn’t finish it all but I idly move the remaining food around my plate because I understand Kit will stand there as long as I do. My head is racing with how to get Kit on my side and I puff out a loud breath when I come up with absolutely nada. She has been an impenetrable ice queen bitch for as long as I can remember but maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I have to look back further, was she really always like this? Did she really have the capacity for such cruelty at the age of five when I was born? I don’t know. I seriously can’t remember any good times. But I am going to need to remember because I need to get some real connection established between us, something more than what Angel is offering. I shake my cuffed wrist to get her attention. “Do you think this could be loosened? At least when I’m on my own? It’s fu. .it’s . . . It is hurting my shoulder.” I stutter and notice her smirk as I censor my own language.
“I’ll check.” Her clipped tone is edged with something and I see the irritation in her face. So she isn’t in charge and judging by that non-verbal disclosure she’s not happy about it. Well that’s a start but I need more information I just wonder if she will be as forthcoming as Angel.
“Why are you doing this Kit?” I try to keep my voice neutral, not judgemental or patronising just casually curious.
She walks forward and snatches the tray even though I have been pushing the leftover rice into a small heap that I might still eat. “I think Angel gave you all the information you need, a little too much if you ask me.” She grumbles but hasn’t turned away.
“She did and I know why she’s doing this but I don’t understand, what has she promised you? Why would you trust her, you don’t trust anyone.” I snort and she smiles in agreement.
“I don’t trust. I don’t need to. You are going to give me what I want.” She blinks her eyes slowly and the snide smile spreads slowly curling the thin line of her lips.
I can feel my brow furrow as I try to think, what it is she wants, what is the only thing she has ever wanted. It takes a little longer than it should but I think I might still have concussion, it can be the only excuse for not seeing the bleeding obvious sooner. She isn’t complicated at all. It really is exactly like Angel said . . . money. She is insatiable for money. “But I don’t have any money and Daniel . . . we’re not together so—” I don’t get to finish because her bitter laugh cuts me off.
“And I don’t need Daniel either which is why my new partnership with Angel works so well, for now.” She places her hand over her mouth like she is trying to hold back uncontrollable laughter at my stupidity. “You don’t even know do you. I should be so fucking angry at how easy all this is for you but it’s just so pathetic it makes me laugh. No Bethany you don’t have any money but you will. In six weeks’ time you will have a lot of money and lucky for me we will have reconciled long enough for you to bequeath it all to me.” She pauses for these words to sink in. “Oh no. Now I’ve gone a ruined the surprise ending.” She lightly reprimands herself with a tap on her wrist because it’s all so fucking funny.
The door closes and I sniffle back a whimper. The bolts slide across and the keys turn but this time the motor starts to release my chain and I curl up with my hands tucked under my chin, hands clasped together almost like I’m praying. She didn’t have to do that. I have to take comfort from that small act of kindness, I have to. The light goes out and I start to think of my impossible task of changing a leopard’s spots because I just know it will take forever and I only have seven months; it’s not going to be long enough. I close my eyes and feel the water pool and trickle across the bridge of my nose into the other closed eye and tap tap tap as the tears fall onto the slim lumpy excuse of a pillow.
The first week was a nightmare almost on par with the ones that break my sleep each night leaving me exhausted, drenched in sweat and hoarse from screaming but the end of the second week the music started and I truly believed I had died in my sleep and was in Hell. My routine is just that, routine; dull, frustrating and surreal. I mean who does this to someone and just how sick do you have to be to actually go through with it? I am served three of the blandest meals from the school dinners book of cooking. Each day they are the same but at least I am fed and enough that I am not hungry. After four days of being half dressed as I was unable to thread any clothes over my secured arm, Kit releases the chain from the wall once she leaves the room on the condition I secure it again when they bang on the door. On my third day Angel wasted no time in making me change into a variety of outfits from my apartment because with no Marco and my front door key to hand she pretty much has the free run of the place. I would mind if it wasn’t for the hope that she might get caught by Marco’s family popping round to water the plants and pick up the post.
I spent an uncomfortable hour playing dress up in a depressing montage of my travel wardrobe. I had to pose in front of the green screen with arms placed over imaginary friends, laughing and pulling faces because I am just having the fucking time of my life. I know if either Sofia or Marco saw whatever she does with these images they would know. My face may look carefree and full of joy but the sheer horror I feel must show in my eyes. If I was a normal twenty year old with a normal social media presence I would be optimistic that this ordeal would soon be over because my friends would know. But I have no social media presence so my friends wouldn’t even think to look there for up-dates, they would call or text. Something they are not likely to do when they are themselves on holiday. She is perched on my bed, chatting like we are the best of friends, what she’s done today, what she’s going to do tomorrow, lunch with Daniel and his mother and it’s so nice to be welcomed into the family once again. I think she is going to have to put photo-shop through its paces to get rid of the green colour she induces, not jealous, just nauseous. She throws in the odd remark about my hideous chunky curves and how vile to have such large breast and it takes everything I have not to shout that they’re big because I’m fucking pregnant.
I don’t because it may have only been nearly two full weeks in this prison but it really only took a second or two with Angel to understand she is crazy. She is not a little bit crazy, she is clinically insane, unpredictable, a little slap happy with my face, and yes, this one is new . . . she has a gun. She has a fucking gun, in England! She always has it with her and she waves it like it’s an extension of her bony fingers using it to emphasise an elaborate a tale, never treating it like the dangerous firearm it is, often pointing directly at me. So I do as I am told. I eat my three meals, I wash in the bucket of lukewarm water that is brought with my porridge each morning and I do my exercises. I do a lot more exercise than she knows about because I want to make sure if that door ever opens long enough that I am fit and able to make the most of it and at the moment I could run a fucking marathon. Unfortunately, even with the press-ups, sit-ups, yoga and the treadmill I am feeling more like a hamster on a wheel than a captive ready to break free and I am behaving like a well-trained house cat only my litter tray is a portable camping toilet.
Angel came in the next day and sat excitedly beside me, she still had the gun pointing at my side as her hand was across her own tummy and she balanced her laptop on her knees. She motions for me to sit beside her, patting the bed impatiently but it is difficult to get that close because I am attached to the wall. The stretch is uncomfortable but with a tight, fake smile I shuffle next to her, closer than I’d like but exactly where I’m told. She opens up ‘my’ Facebook page and I can see she has been busy. She has a selection of pictures that I have to lean in closer to double check what I am seeing. Crowded party scenes, dimly lit, colourful lights, smiling people, drinks and cigarettes in hand. There I am, right in the middle with my arm draped over the shoulder of a half-nak
ed Abercrombie model look alike; like I would be that lucky. I can’t help the snort that escapes my mouth and immediately regret it when she lashes out her backhand, the one with the gun, across my cheek. The extra weight and surprise of the strike catches me of guard and I fall forward and hit my other cheek on the corner of the bedside table. I quickly steady myself and press the sting on one side and then the other; I can feel the heat and swell instantly. My fingers are tipped with blood, it’s not much and on instinct I just suck them clean. Angel throws the laptop to the floor and hurls herself headfirst into the stubby portable toilet in the corner and proceeds to heave and curse. I want to remind her about her ‘not in front of the baby rule’ but given the throbbing of my cheek I choose to keep that smart remark to myself.
She sits back on her heels and wipes her mouth before she turns her demonic gaze toward me. God! She looks deranged, and I don’t know if it was my snort or the blood or well, she’s insane it could be anything. I hold myself still, having tucked my legs up to my chest so I am now a sturdy impenetrable ball. Her face changes expression and she laughs lightly, the speed and transition from fury to placid is unnerving. She slowly picks up the lap top and snaps it shut. She snarls at me through a tightly lipped grin.
