by Parks, Adele
I don’t know how to answer. It’s ridiculous. Instead, I pretend he hasn’t asked. ‘The stuff she said about you rowing with her and embarrassing the kids, I don’t believe that for a minute.’
‘Bitch.’ He shoves me hard at both shoulders. I stumble backwards and Mozart barks. A couple in their twenties walking past, laughing that their umbrella is turning inside out, glance our way and then hurry on by. Tom yanks Mozart’s lead out of my hands and pulls sharply. ‘Shut up! Shut up, you stupid fucking dog!’ I reach out and pat Mozart’s head. He responds and settles. I misplayed that, pushed it too far. I realise that Tom is not in love with me, even if he wants to believe he is. He’s still in love with Annabel; he couldn’t be this angry otherwise. I hope I can convince him I’m a good enough substitute. I put my arm through his and pretend the shove never happened, even though my shoulder feels sore. I have to tread carefully, patiently, like you do when you are corralling a drunken friend into a taxi or persuading teenagers to do something they consider uncool.
He looks at my arm, linked with his own, surprised. Then, he sulkily mutters, ‘You’ve really let me down, Alison. You’ve spoilt things.’
‘I can fix that,’ I insist.
‘I want to talk to you, but I don’t think I can trust you any more.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘You know, I could just run away from you now, get back in my car, and we’ll vanish. You’ll never see her again.’ His words are so brutally true I’m trembling.
Cautiously, I say, ‘Come on, now. Why don’t we go and get Katherine and we can all go and find somewhere warm to eat dinner?’ It’s such an ordinary suggestion it’s laughable, but the truth is I don’t know what else to do. I am ordinary. I am a middle-aged mother who goes to Pilate classes and rep theatre. I’m not a trained psychologist, or a martial-arts expert. I’m not in the SAS or even in a political party. No one ordinary really expects ever to have to deal with anything like this, do they? No matter how much they might fear or imagine it. Yet it happens. Horror happens to ordinary people and, when it does, we do our best. We fight back with what little we have; we try to stay calm; we draw on our limited experiences and offer warmth and dinner.
I’ll offer anything and everything I have.
‘You must be hungry.’ He looks at me, confused. ‘I’ve hardly eaten these past few days; I bet you’re the same, aren’t you? Too much to worry—’ I stop myself. ‘Too much to think about.’
‘I’ve eaten.’
‘And Katherine?’ He looks shifty.
‘We can’t eat in a restaurant, Alison, don’t be idiotic. We’re all fugitives.’
I want to punch the air. He’s put us on the same side. It’s warped and incredible but it is good news. ‘Yes, that’s right, of course.’ I squeeze his arm. ‘Come on, then, let’s go and see Katherine, get warm and dry, hey?’
He doesn’t move. ‘Have you brought your passports?’ I haven’t, it never crossed my mind, but I realise saying so will be incendiary. I teeter on a knife edge, not knowing how to answer.
‘Yes.’ I hold my breath, hoping he won’t demand to see them, hoping he won’t realise that, if I did have them, they’d be in my bag or my pockets, which he’s already searched.
‘Where are they?’
‘I brought a suitcase. It’s in my car. I couldn’t carry it.’
It’s the right answer. He beams. ‘Good, because we need to get abroad. We can’t start up as a family here now that you’ve told the police I kidnapped her.’
‘I’m sorry. I panicked.’
He throws out a glare conveying that he thinks I’m a bit dense, he couldn’t have expected any better from me. ‘You are such a worrier, Alison, that’s your problem.’
‘I didn’t see the bigger picture. I didn’t see what you were trying to do for us.’
He nods. ‘If only you hadn’t run off on Friday.’ His voice sounds genuinely regretful. I understand regret, although he’s regretting different things than I am, no doubt.
‘I know, I know, I’m sorry. But I’m here now.’
He looks slyly content. ‘Yes, you did always say you’d do absolutely anything for her. I admire that. I’ve depended on that.’
I try to smile. ‘Let’s go and see Katherine now.’
‘We should go to your car. Get your case.’
‘Can’t we go and see Katherine first?’
He looks like he’s considering it. He straightens, glances about him. I’m aware of his full height but I’m no longer admiring of it, I’m alarmed by it. ‘Pick up your stuff.’ He points to the sodden contents of my bag, which are lying on the pier.
I bend down to retrieve my belongings. I throw them all into my bag, not daring to leave anything behind. I can’t risk attempting a Hansel and Gretel trail, as I had briefly considered. We walk back along the pier, arms linked; to anyone passing by we must look exactly like any other couple out on a wet evening walking their dog. Once we reach the sea front, Tom turns to me. ‘You have to ditch Mozart.’
‘Ditch him?’
‘We can’t take him abroad and, besides, the holiday let I have here doesn’t allow animals.’ This is so bizarre, and a further indication how unhinged Tom is. He has a holiday let, apparently, where he’s illegally holding my daughter, but he’s worrying about breaking the rules on pets staying there. ‘He’ll draw too much attention, he’s always barking,’ snaps Tom. ‘It’s up to you. We can either go back to the car, pick up your suitcase and passports and leave him in the car, or, if you want to go and see Katherine first, you have to tie him up here and leave him.’
‘I brought him because I always thought he was your gift to Katherine. She loves him.’
He shrugs. ‘Your choice. You said you’d do anything for her, Alison. This isn’t too much, is it?’
I don’t want to leave Mozart. ‘You said you would, too.’
‘Oh, and I will. I’m ready to prove it.’ I hear the menace. His words choke the breath out of me. I tie Mozart’s lead to a lamp post and walk away, grateful when his whines and barks are drowned out by the sound of the sea thrashing over the railings.
42
He uses his scarf to blindfold me. I don’t object at all. ‘Like that, do you?’ he leers. ‘Is this something I’m going to find out about you, Alison? We’ve so much to learn about one another.’ Seemingly without a trace of irony, he adds, ‘It’s going to be fun.’
We don’t drive for long, in Tom’s newly acquired, battered Ford Fiesta. I manage to count to sixty twenty-five times, so I assume we are about twenty-five minutes from the pier, but I can’t be sure because I’m keeping time by counting along to the pulse of the windscreen wipers and Tom keeps turning them on and off, agitated. I try to keep track of when we turn left and right but, as though he expects this, he seems to make two or three turns that go back on themselves; unfortunately, I quickly become disorientated and confused. I concentrate on the road surface, noticing when we pull off tarmac, when the tyres crunch through gravel and then when the car sinks into a mud track or, possibly, a grassy field. I wonder how far he’ll get on the soft terrain; the surge of rainfall these past few days might mean the ground is boggy. I can’t bear the idea of us getting stuck, not because I’m out in the middle of nowhere with this madman but because I’m so close to Katherine. It would be torture to be this close but not be able to reach her because of a waterlogged field. I just have to get to her. That is all that matters. My need to see her, hold her, stops me being afraid. After just a few more minutes he slows the car to a stop. My hands are not tied but I don’t remove the blindfold. I’m not going to do so until he tells me to. I’m not going to put a foot out of line.
Tom comes around to my side of the car and opens the door; the cold air and drizzle blow into the car. Roughly, he grasps my upper arm and starts to march me across the field. Without sight, I have to depend on sound to give me any clue as to my whereabouts. I can’t hear any traffic. I strain my ears but all I hear is rain: rain falli
ng on tree leaves, rain falling on soft ground. Was that a fox barking? Could that possibly be the sea, waves rushing on to the shore? Or is it just the wind rustling through the trees? I keep moving until I stumble when my foot catches on a flagstone. He lets go of my arm.
‘Steps,’ he warns. ‘Stand still.’ I hear him jangle keys. A door creaks open.
‘Can I take off the blindfold?’
‘No, I’ll carry you.’ And he picks me up with ease. One arm around my back and shoulders, the other tucked under my knees. Jolt, jolt, jolt. He leaps up three steps and then lifts me across the threshold as though I am a new bride. I try to disassociate myself from my body, which has so much contact with his. I don’t want to put my arm around his neck, but I do because, if I didn’t, he’d be sure to notice. It crosses my mind that, since he lifted me so effortlessly and I am significantly heavier than Katherine, if he wanted to move her from one place to another, I suppose he’d be able to manage it easily enough.
‘You can take off the blindfold now.’ I pull off his scarf as he turns on a bright overhead light. I blink at the glare, whipping my head around the room. We’re in an ordinary cottage kitchen. Quite small and dated, probably last modernised circa 1980, the ideal time to strip the charm and replace it with a look that’s now universally agreed to be ugly. It’s a compact rectangular room only a couple of metres wide and maybe three long. A wooden table with four sturdy faux-leather chairs around it takes up most of the space. To the left there are stairs going up to the bedrooms; in the right-hand corner there are two doors at a right angle to one another. I take all of this in because I know I need to know the lie of the land. ‘Katherine! Katherine!’ I yell.
‘Not so much noise,’ he barks. He points towards one of the doors in the corner. I immediately understand it leads to the basement. I don’t pause, I don’t hesitate, I run to the door and turn the enormous key, pull open the door and clatter down the stone stairs. It’s dimly lit and smells damp, like most basements. The air is stale. It’s been there for centuries.
It is as bad as I imagined. Worse. She’s lying on a skinny, old-fashioned camp bed that’s pushed up against a wall. There’s a duvet thrown over her but her right arm is sticking out. I see immediately by the way she is positioned and by her horrible stillness that she’s not conscious. For one more agonising moment I am battered by disgusting, all-consuming fear and panic. Please, God, let her be alive! Please, God. Please. I run to her and scoop her up in my arms. She’s cool, chilly but not cold. I check for a pulse, and it’s there. Faint, but real. She smells of vomit, sweat; even wee. I don’t care. I pull her limp body into mine, trying to transfer my warmth and health to her. Her matted hair falls around her face, across my arm.
I scan around and see a plastic water bottle, half full, a tray with a bowl of cold rice pudding, a yogurt carton.
‘What have you done to her?’ I scream at him.
He looks embarrassed but not sorry. He should be whipping himself. Bashing his head against a wall until his brain explodes. How could he do this to anyone, let alone a girl he calls his daughter, a child he professes to love. I kiss her face over and over again, as though she’s Sleeping Beauty and love’s true kiss can work miracles.
‘Mum? Mamma?’ she mumbles.
‘Yes, my angel, it’s me, Mum. It’s OK. I’m here now, everything is going to be OK.’
‘I’ve been so ill,’ she groans. ‘Throwing up all the time.’
‘I know, baby.’ I reach for the water bottle and carefully place it next to her lips. ‘Drink this, darling.’ She sips obediently. Her eyelashes flutter.
‘What did you give her?’ I demand.
‘Rohypnol.’
‘The date-rape drug?’
‘That’s an awful thing to call it.’
‘It’s an awful thing, Tom!’
‘It’s just a sedative. I didn’t touch her. Look, I didn’t do this. You did this. If you’d just come with me on Friday,’ he yells. I glare at him. ‘We just went shopping on Saturday. We walked around the Laines. I didn’t want to drug her, but she kept going on and on about you. Asking when she could go home to you. But I knew I had to have more time to persuade you to join us.’
‘Why is she down here?’ I demand.
‘There was a nosy neighbour, some busybody; she popped round on Sunday morning with two kids. You know the sort, always wanting to offload their offspring. Asked if I had kids, someone for her brood to play with. Katherine was on the sofa in the sitting room at that point, but the nosy old cow almost pushed her way through into there. I couldn’t risk it. That’s when I moved her down here.’
‘Pick her up, now!’ Surprisingly, Tom does as I ask. He lifts Katherine over his right shoulder and carries her up the steep stone steps. I hold her hand as we walk.
‘I feel sick again,’ mumbles Katherine; her speech slurred.
‘That’s the effect of the drugs, not a real illness,’ he assures me brightly.
‘Thought you were here. Then not.’ She starts to cry.
‘She was hallucinating a bit.’ Tom shrugs. I take the key out of the basement door and slip it into my pocket. ‘Unfortunately, there’s a gamut of symptoms, and she’s had most of them. But I’ve told her she has a bug. Now you’re here, she’ll believe that. She’s unlikely to remember anything at all about the basement.’
We are in the kitchen, Tom turns to me, pathetically awaiting instructions, and I wonder how it has come to this: my daughter stained with urine and vomit, flung across a madman’s shoulder.
A father crazed with loss and so unhinged he thinks he has the right to drug and kidnap a child.
‘Put her in the sitting room. I’ll make us a cup of tea and then we can decide what to do next.’
‘Right. You’re the boss,’ he says sunnily, playing the hen-pecked husband to a T. It’s surreal. How can this be happening? My hands shake as I turn on the tap. The water crashes against the tin kettle and I try to think. Swiftly, I move to the basement door and pull it wide open. I have to pray he doesn’t notice.
I only just manage to get back around the other side of the table when he returns to the kitchen, leaving Katherine alone in the sitting room. I can hear that he’s put the TV on for her. ‘Can I do anything?’ he asks helpfully.
‘Have you any biscuits?’
‘We do.’ Proudly, he opens a cupboard and reaches for a packet of Hobnobs. The packet is half finished. It is obvious that Katherine won’t have been in a fit state to eat biscuits, as he’s been drugging her for two days. Fury erupts like lava through my veins; he’s been munching on biscuits while she’s been lying alone in the basement. I add this sick behaviour to his list of crimes. Maybe to some it might seem insignificant compared to everything else; to me, it is a glaring affirmation that he is a monster, a shameless, lost, depraved soul.
I open and close cupboards, looking for what I need. Sometimes he anticipates what I’m searching for and reaches to pull a jug from a shelf before I get there; he opens the fridge, gets out the milk, sniffs it. I put three mugs, the tea pot, sugar, milk and biscuits on a tray. I delve into the cutlery drawer, because I can’t risk him seeing my face. ‘Teaspoons – ah, there they are! Please can you carry through the tray?’ I ask him.
‘No problem. But first give me back the key to the basement.’ He smirks, reading my mind. Knowing, I’m sure, that I was planning on shoving him in the back as he passed the door. Hoping that, with his hands full, he might topple, lose his footing and fall down the stone stairs. At the very least I could buy a moment to slam the door behind him and lock him in there.
He holds out his hand. I retrieve the key from my jeans pocket and pass it over. Leisurely, deliberately, he walks to the back door and locks that, too. He puts both keys in his pocket. ‘The front is locked, and all the windows are, too, so don’t get any more silly thoughts, Alison.’
‘I just didn’t want you locking anyone down there any more,’ I say.
‘Didn’t you?’ He picks up the
tray and heads off to the sitting room. ‘Coming?’
43
I have my arms around Katherine. The soft, silky skin, the weight of her, the fact I can caress her hair and kiss her head – all are miracles. It is enough, for now. He can’t hurt her any more, because I am here and I will fling my body between them if I have to. I make all the food and drink, not that she is yet up to eating much, but I carry the warmed tomato soup in from the kitchen, keep it on my lap and then feed her. I watch his every move. He watches mine. I have no idea what he is thinking. Any trust I built up on the pier was obviously dissipated when he saw me filch the basement key, yet as we three sit watching the TV in a tortuous silence he behaves as though we are a happy family simply on holiday together, avoiding the poor weather.
‘I’d suggest Scrabble, but I don’t think Katherine will be up to it.’ He smiles at her sympathetically. ‘Feeling better?’ Then, in a conspiratorial pantomime whisper, he says to me, ‘One of the side effects is difficulty in concentrating or speaking. Won’t last too much longer, but Scrabble’s not the ideal game for her at the moment. It would hardly be fair.’
Katherine flinches. ‘It’s OK, darling,’ I murmur. It clearly isn’t. She’s barely said a word since I arrived, an hour and a half ago. Despite his assurances that being drugged means she won’t remember anything very clearly since shopping with him on Saturday, I’m pretty certain she does know he kidnapped her, drugged her, locked her in the basement. Tom keeps dropping hints that we are all having a little jaunt, but his story has a complicating overlying layer that he and I are absconding, planning on setting up home together. When he alludes to this scenario he glances theatrically at Katherine, as though saying, ‘When are we going to tell her?’ Clearly, she has not bought into his invention, as tears continually slip down her face and she cowers from him, clings to me. I can only imagine her terror. I don’t know how much the drugs have affected her reasoning and logic, how much of this she is following. We haven’t been left alone for one second, so I can’t talk to her. All I can do is hold her tight, rock her back and forth and hope she is piecing it together. I have whispered to her to stay as quiet as possible. I think it’s safest.
